The Shadow of Great Britain

As the carriage rolled down the street, entering the Covent Garden Market, the scene before the eyes became even more colorful.

On this side of the stalls, brand new tin frying pans gleamed, and over there, there were blue and yellow pottery and white glassware shimmering.

Then came a row of neatly arranged old shoes and brightly colored tea tray stalls on the sidewalk, with red handkerchiefs and blue checkered shirts fluttering before shops, outside where young boys energetically solicited customers. Hundreds of white spherical lanterns hung before a newly opened tea house, with someone distributing pamphlets, thanking passing customers for their patronage and claiming their store feared no competition.

Five or six headless tailor mannequins stood by the roadside, dressed in Chesterfield coats and coarse fabric jackets, each hanging with advertisements reading ”Check the Price” or ”Meticulously Crafted”. At the butcher shop entrance, red and white slabs of meat piled up to the second-floor window, a broad-shouldered butcher in a blue coat squatted at the storefront, sharpening his gleaming butcher knife with a steel rod.

A few steps forward and there was a family, clothed neatly but living by begging. The father hung his head low as if feeling ashamed, holding a hat used for collecting money, while the boys wore newly washed aprons and the mother dressed neatly, cradling a baby.

This stall was green and white, piled with bunches of radishes, that stall was bright red with apples, the neighboring stall was yellow with onions, and another stall was purple with pickling cabbages.

You just passed a man, holding an umbrella with the inside turned up, filled with various decorative prints. Shortly after, you saw another vendor holding a kaleidoscope, with images of ”Mazepa” and Pirate Paul Jones, describing the scenes to boys peering through the small round window.

Suddenly came a noisy crackling sound, it was a group of boys playing a game of shooting targets and winning nuts at a small stall. Moments later, you either saw a half-covered African man shivering in the cold wind, clutching pamphlets, or heard the music from the circus tent across the street, accompanied by calls at the entrance of a cheap concert: ”Hurry up, it’s about to start!”

The carriage made a small turn around the outskirts of Covent Garden and soon rejoined a quieter street.

”Just ahead.” Arthur said.

Whickriff responded, slowing down.

Light dimmed in the alley, though it was daytime, the lamps shone here, casting warm yellow light on the damp pavement, pulling out long and blurry shadows.

Here was only a few streets away from the market, yet it seemed like a different city. Few pedestrians were about, footsteps deliberately softened; occasionally, pairs of gentlemen passed street corners, cape hems brushing the ground, neither showy nor concealed.

The carriage stopped before a three-story building with a small yet deliberately decorated entrance. The dark wooden door was polished bright, a discreet sign hung on the lintel, its font modest and elegant, nearly melding into the backdrop under the light. The curtains were heavy, thoroughly covering, only leaving a hint of ambiguous warm light at the corners.

Whickriff instinctively glanced.

Having driven for over ten years in London, he didn’t need much thought to know what kind of place this was.

This wasn’t a theater, nor a club, neither an ordinary receiving place, but was still a venue prepared for ”respectable people”.

Only this kind of place required not a card but British Pounds to enter.

”Wait here for me.” Arthur said lightly, ”I’ll be back soon.”

”Yes, Sir.”

Whickriff steadily held the reins, his gaze returning forward, as though the entrance never existed from the start.

Arthur alighted, adjusted his coat lapels, then switched his cane to his preferred right hand.

He raised his hand and knocked on the door.

The tapping was not heavy yet measured perfectly. Some moments later came a faint sound from inside, the sound of the latch being undone nearly drowned by the wind under the street lights.

As the door opened a crack, warmth rushed out first, mixed with spices, alcohol, and a hint of still lingering perfumes.

The one standing behind the door was quite a pretty girl.

She appeared young, her golden brown hair casually bundled at the back, a few unruly strands hanging by her neck. She was only draped in a rather thin casual housecoat, clearly hurried out by the knocking.

One hand holding the door frame, she raised the other impatiently, seeming ready to intercept before the other spoke.

”Sorry, Sir, it’s not yet our business hours...”

Her words halted halfway.

Not out of politeness, but because she finally saw the visitor’s face clearly under the dim yellow lights.

Arthur stood outside, body straight, black coat buttoned meticulously, cane poised by his side.

The girl blinked.

In the next moment, her entire demeanor instantly changed.

The body once leaning on the door frame stood upright, impatience erased as though retrieved right there, replaced by an overly swift respect.

She subconsciously tidied her lapels, even hurriedly swept her hair behind her ears.

”Sir Arthur Hastings?”

Arthur nodded.

”Good afternoon.” Arthur spoke, ”Is Fiona here?”