《In the Heart of the Woods, Lavender's Kill》


 15 June 1794

    Whitechapel, London¡ªa district infamous for its crime. The air was thick with the smell of industry, refuse, and animal waste. The atmosphere lit up with the sounds of people¡ªthe sound of a craftsman''s hammer or the murmur of diverse accents. Tightly packed, decaying buildings housed the many who called Whitechapel home. A hub of bustling trades and crafts, Whitechapel''s constant flow of goods and people linked it to global trade. Amid the grime and chaos, it was the resilience and adaptability of its people that gave Whitechapel its character¡ªeach one a thread in the fabric of its story.


    Among those lives, one family shared a cherished tradition: celebrating a mother''s birthday. In a society where such days were often forgotten, they made it important. This year was no exception.


    A boy tugged at his mother''s hand, urging her toward the edge of the bustling marketplace. "Mama, we have to!" he whined, his small hands pushing against her back with all the strength he could muster.


    "Quite frankly, we don''t have to," Lorelei replied with mock seriousness, placing a delicate hand to her forehead as if about to faint. "Oh, the tragedy of it all!" she cried, feigning a swoon.


    "Mama!" the boy squealed in frustration, his heels sliding on the cobblestones as she leaned into his efforts. Nearby, murmurs rose among the spectators, who couldn''t help but pause and watch the playful spectacle. A low, familiar sigh broke through the crowd as Arthur stepped forward, his broad frame parting the onlookers.


    "You two are causing a scene," Arthur grumbled, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes darted through the crowd, his discomfort evident.


    "Come now, Arthur." Lorelei stepped away, leaving the boy to stumble forward with a gasp before erupting into giggles. She reached for his crossed arms, her touch softening his stern demeanor. "We''re only playing." She pressed a kiss to his cheek, earning an exaggerated roll of his eyes.


    "I''d prefer not to be gawked at in public, Lorelei," Arthur muttered, though a small smile tugged at his lips. Behind him, a smaller boy peeked out shyly, his wide eyes darting between his mother and the crowd.


    "It''s alright, Cleo," the older boy¡ªOakley¡ªsaid brightly, stepping toward him. "Eyes mean nothing when you''re playing!" He threw his arms wide as if to chase the seriousness away, his enthusiasm infectious. Cleo hesitated, clutching his father''s leg for a moment longer before a small smile broke across his face, followed by a quiet giggle.


    Moments like these made the chaos of Whitechapel feel distant¡ªthough some shadows, once cast, cannot be escaped.


    ***


    The scent of sizzling potatoes filled the small home as Lorelei stood at the stove, flipping the mixture of mashed potatoes and cabbage in a heavy pan. "Bubble and Squeak," she announced with a playful flourish, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire. Arthur set the table, his large hands careful as he placed the mismatched plates in a neat row. Oakley leaned over the edge of the table, his nose wrinkling as he sniffed the air. "It smells burnt!" he declared with mock horror, earning a laugh from Cleo, who peeked over the table''s edge with wide eyes. Lorelei shot him a mock glare but couldn''t hide her smile. "If you don''t want any, I''ll be happy to eat your portion," she teased, dishing up the crispy, golden mixture.


    The family gathered around the table, enjoying their meal with contentment¡ªlively banter filling the small room. Lorelei observed her children with a soft expression as Oakley gently teased his younger brother. Her heart swelled with a warmth that made the chaos of Whitechapel feel far away. For all the grime and chaos that defined their lives in Whitechapel, moments like these made everything else seem less important.


    As the last of the food was cleared away, Oakley''s face grew serious. He slipped from his chair and hurried over to the small corner of the room where he''d hidden his gift¡ªa sprig of lavender. The boy''s heart raced, but his determination outweighed any nervousness he felt. He approached his mother, presenting the lavender to her with a shy smile¡ªhis palms were clammy, and his fingers trembled slightly as he held out the lavender, the petals soft against his skin.


    "Happy Birthday, Ma," he spoke softly, his eyes staring up at her with nervous pride. The corners of Lorelei''s mouth curled into an appreciative smile as she reached for the sprig, her fingers brushing his. Lorelei''s gaze softened as she tucked the lavender behind her ear, the soft scent filling the space between them. She kissed Oakley''s forehead gently, her voice thick with emotion as she whispered, "Thank you, my love."


    Oakley sat back down in his seat, his gaze encouraging as he nudged his brother with a quiet smile. Cleo, eyes glued to the floor, slowly slid off his chair. Lorelei''s gentle hand rested on his shoulder, her touch a quiet reassurance as he struggled to pull out the unevenly folded parchment paper from his back pocket. His small hands trembled slightly, but his determination was clear, even if it was hidden behind his bashful demeanor.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Lorelei smiled warmly at him, her words soft and sweet, "Take your time, my little one. It''s perfect, whatever it is." The woman gently scratched near her ear where the lavender was placed. Cleo slipped the parchment paper into his mother''s grasp, his gaze meeting her hands sheepishly as she unfolded it with careful expertise. A quiet moment passed before she looked up, her eyes softened with understanding and love, a smile tugging at her lips.


    Lorelei often hummed a tune while gazing out the window while Cleo''s older brother, Oakley, played with his father. What she held before her was a heartwarming encapsulation of the moment made from charcoal. She must''ve been standing there for a moment to have given Cleo the opportunity.


    Cleo''s gaze shone with quiet joy, his eyes beginning to shimmer with unshed tears as he watched his mother''s expression soften. Lorelei refolded the charcoal drawing, sliding it onto the table before picking up her youngest son, allowing him to wrap his arms around her neck. An unspoken understanding between the two. The pair stayed like this for a moment, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other''s presence. Slowly, Cleo pulled back, his small hands gently slipping from around his mother''s neck. He climbed back into his seat¡ªfor once, the boy''s usually blank expression softened into a rare, gentle smile, his eyes bright with unspoken gratitude.


    ***


    The family shared quiet laughter as they cleaned up after dinner, the sound of Cleo''s gentle giggles and Oakley''s teasing filling the room. Lorelei, always the heart of their home, hummed softly as she tidied the table, the scent of lavender now mingling with the warm smell of the meal. A large comforting hand met her shoulder, causing a smirk to tug at her lips.


    "I couldn''t help but notice," a fake condescending tone could be heard, "You didn''t present your gift at the table." Turning towards Arthur, her mouth opened to speak before a small gasp replaced her train of thought. Her view was taken up by the man standing in front of her, his fingers fidgeting with a small golden ring.


    "Lorelei Benette," Arthur began to lower himself onto one knee, "Will you do me the honor¡ª"


    "Mama!" Oakley met at her hip, giggling excitedly with Cleo by his side¡ªearning a sigh from Arthur, though a small smile tugging at his lips. Lorelei coughed harshly in response, her eyebrows furrowed as she delicately touched the side of her head where the sprig of lavender lay.


    "Ar¡ª" Lorelei''s breath hitched before she could finish, her hand flying to her throat. Her wide eyes darted around the room, a silent plea for help etched in her expression. "I¡ª" she tried again, her voice a broken rasp, before clutching Arthur''s broad shoulder with trembling fingers.


    Oakley stared, confusion rooting him in place as a small hand gripped his own. Cleo clung to his older brother, burying his face into Oakley''s back. His muffled voice quivered, "Mama, you''re scaring Cleo..."


    "Boys, go to your room," Arthur barked, his voice tight with barely restrained panic. His eyes stayed fixed on Lorelei as she staggered.


    But Oakley couldn''t move. His legs felt like lead, his mind spiraling as the scene unfolded.


    "Mama, you''re¡ª" His words dissolved into silence as she dropped to her knees with a sickening thud. Her hands clawed at her throat, her breaths coming in desperate, rasping gasps. Arthur caught her as she fell, lowering her gently to the floor, his voice rising in frantic shouts that seemed to come from a great distance.


    Oakley''s world blurred. His father''s mouth moved, wide and desperate, but the sounds felt muffled, like they were underwater. Only his mother''s gasps cut through the haze¡ªragged, unnatural, and terrifying.


    Angry red blotches spread across her neck and face, her lips swelling grotesquely. Her skin darkened as her breathing grew fainter, each shallow gasp weaker than the last. Oakley''s wide eyes stayed locked on her, unblinking.


    Why can''t I move...?


    Why does Mama sound like that?


    Why is Papa so scared...?


    His thoughts tumbled over each other in frantic confusion. This wasn''t real. It couldn''t be real.


    She''s just playing again... Mama likes to play...


    She was okay this morning... She''s just being silly...


    Even as her chest stilled, even as her unblinking eyes stared at the ceiling, Oakley''s mind clung to his desperate optimism. It was only when Cleo let go of his hand and ran to their mother''s body, wailing incoherently, that the truth began to seep in.


    Oakley''s gaze dropped to the small sprig of lavender lying on the floor near her hand. The petals, delicate and soft, mocked him with their innocence.


    "I didn''t mean to..." His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. His trembling fingers reached toward her, then stopped. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor.


    "Mama..." The word was a broken sob, heavy with guilt and disbelief.


    End of Prologue

 The Aftermath

    The air in Whitechapel remained unchanged in the decade since Lorelei''s death¡ªa mixture of grit and resilience, marked by the ever-present shouts of merchants, the rhythmic clang of blacksmiths at work, and the laughter of children weaving through it all. The boy who once gifted his mother a sprig of lavender had grown into a man, though the weight of that moment lingered with him still. He went by Gale now¡ªa name he chose for reasons even he wasn''t entirely sure of¡ªperhaps as a way to distance himself from the past.


    Gale moved briskly through the crowded marketplace, his jaw tight and his eyes fixed ahead. He had long avoided places where lavender might bloom, the sight or scent enough to send memories flooding back. Yet today, necessity outweighed his aversion. Arthur had sent him out to gather food for supper, and rare though the task was, Gale knew better than to argue.


    The man''s grip tightened on the leather pouch containing Arthur''s meager coins. As he maneuvered through the crowd of shoppers, the air buzzed with haggling voices and the aroma of spiced meats. He approached a stall laden with vegetables, the vendor¡ªa stout woman with kind eyes¡ªgreeting him with a nod.


    "Carrots and potatoes," Gale muttered, his voice gruff. The vendor''s practiced hands swiftly weighed the produce.


    "Three pence, sir," she said, her eyes lingering on his worn cloak.


    Gale counted the counts, his thoughts drifting to Lorelei as he handed them over¡ªthe smell of fresh herbs transporting him to simpler times. He suppressed a sigh, accepting the parcel of vegetables.


    Moving on, he found himself before the butcher''s stand. The butcher, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, raised an eyebrow at Gale''s approach. "What''ll it be, kid?"


    "Half a pound of mutton," Gale replied, his tone devoid of warmth.


    As the butcher wrapped the meat, Gale''s eyes caught sight of a bundle of lavender nearby. He quickly averted his gaze, focusing on the task at hand.


    With his purchases secured, Gale made his way through the bustling market, each step a reminder of the burden he carried.


    Cleo was the first thing Gale saw when he entered the house. The young man sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scattered drawings that looked as chaotic as his state of mind.


    "Cleo," Gale said softly, unwrapping the parcels in his hands. The boy flinched, startled, his charcoal pencil hovering over the paper. "Have you eaten?"


    Cleo blinked at him, then shrugged toward the untouched bowl of bread at his side.


    "Busy," he mumbled, bending back to his work.


    Gale sighed, stepping closer. "You can''t draw on an empty stomach, Cleo."


    "Can," came the sharp reply, Cleo''s head snapping up to meet Gale''s gaze.


    "Can''t," Gale countered, dropping to a crouch and reaching for the scattered sketches. His jaw tightened as his fingers brushed against the smudged charcoal lines of their mother''s face, over and over again. She stared back at him from every page, her eyes too vivid, her smile too real.


    "You know Arthur doesn''t like seeing this," Gale muttered, his voice strained as he began stacking the drawings neatly. "You need to be more mindful."


    Cleo sucked his teeth, jabbing his pencil toward the back door where the clanging of the blacksmith''s hammer echoed faintly.


    Gale exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Okay, fine. I get it. But God forbid he walks in one day and sees you doing this crap."


    Cleo''s face twisted in offense, his hands curling into fists as he stood abruptly. Gale looked up, startled by the sudden motion, but before he could speak, Cleo turned on his heel and stormed off.


    The slam of his door rattled the walls.


    Gale sat back on his heels, staring at the uneven stack of sketches in his hands. "You know what I meant, kid," he muttered to the empty room.


    Arthur barged in as Gale was setting the table¡ªfor two, oddly enough¡ªhis father''s face slick with sweat. He approached Gale, setting down a letter that''s seen better days.


    "What''s that?" Gale questioned.


    "Don''t play coy with me, boy."


    "It''s a letter. What more do you want from me?"


    His father grabbed his son by the collar, pulling Gale towards him. The man was seething with rage as he stared down at him. "Read it," he ordered, shoving Gale away from him.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "No, Arthur," he snapped back


    "And why the hell not?"


    "I''ve read it already."


    ***


    "Eviction notice," Lorelei said, sliding the parchment across the table to Arthur. Her voice was steady, but Gale remembered how her hands trembled when she let go of the paper. He had been no older than eight, tucked into a chair in the corner, the edges of his worn boots not quite reaching the floor. He didn''t understand the words then, but he remembered the silence that followed, as though even the walls were holding their breath.


    "We''ll just ask him¡ª" Arthur began, his tone almost pleading.


    "Absolutely not!" Lorelei whispered harshly, her voice slicing through the stillness. She snatched up the paper again, her hands tightening around its edges. "I said no."


    "We can''t lose this place, Lorelei," Arthur said, his voice soft but desperate. "For Gale. For Cleo."


    "And you think he would help? Don''t be ridiculous." She turned sharply toward the window, as if the shadows beyond might offer an answer. "We''ve made it this far without him. We''ll manage."


    Gale swung his legs beneath the chair, watching the way his mother''s back stiffened as she stood. He didn''t understand what she meant, but the air in the room felt heavy, like the weight of the words they weren''t saying. The faint smell of damp wood mingled with the dying fire''s heat, making his throat feel tight.


    Years later, Gale would still remember that night¡ªthe parchment, the trembling hands, and the name that wasn''t spoken aloud but seemed to echo in the silence nonetheless.


    ***


    "Do you want to lose this house?" Arthur questioned harshly.


    "I just think that¡ª" the man exhaled sharply, "It''s been a decade and we''re still... here and¡ª"


    "You''re tellin'' me..." Arthur spoke through clenched teeth, "You ain''t pay the bill on purpose?"


    Gale''s gaze fixated on the table before him, unresponsive¡ªflinching his father stepped closer.


    "I gave you a responsibility," Arthur reminded, "I said¡ª"


    "Cleo''s needed some things," Gale spoke abruptly, "You know how the boy gets when he can''t draw..."


    Saying this earned a scowl from Arthur as he leaned down to his son''s ear, "You pay the damn bill, boy," a pause, "Your mother gave everything she couldn''t for this house and you''re sure as hell not about to disgrace her..."


    "Yes, sir," Gale responded, shuddering as the man walked away from him¡ªhis father''s heavy steps echoing in his mind. His gaze met the letter of notice on the table.


    All of this over 25 shillings...


    The man sighed as he headed for the front door of his home, grabbing his weathered cloak and clasping it around his neck.


    Gale wandered the streets of Whitechapel for the majority of the evening, stopping into a tavern for an hour or two. He wouldn''t call himself a heavy drinker, but the third pitcher was starting to make the world feel a little less sharp. The woman serving him might have disagreed, but that didn''t matter. A man slid onto the stool beside him, earning a "Cheers, lad" from Gale.


    "Do you, uhm, happen to know any blacksmiths in the area?" the man asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Gale turned towards him, an eyebrow raised.


    "Now why''s someone like you asking for a blacksmith in Whitechapel?" Gale chuckled low, his gaze flicking over the stranger. The man shifted uncomfortably, his freckled cheeks flushed under Gale''s scrutiny. He was tall, even while sitting, his blond hair slicked back neatly¡ªtoo neat for the usual clientele in this part of town.


    "I... owe someone a favor," the man admitted, tucking a stray hair behind his pointed ear.


    "¨²-chebin na-vedui in penniath lin?" Gale inquired in Sindarin¡ªa common tongue between Elven folk.


    The man''s eyes widened, a scoff of disbelief passing his lips. "John," he said simply, offering his hand.


    Gale stared unblinking at John, his expression unreadable. It stayed like this for a moment or two before he firmly grasped the hand being offered to him. "Gale."


    "Pleasure," John replied.


    "Now what exactly is it you want?" Gale''s grip tightened as he spoke.


    "St. James," John said quickly.


    "What of it?" Gale''s tone was sharp, his fingers pressing harder.


    "I¡ª" John winced, his free hand twitching toward Gale''s arm. "I need someone there. For business."


    "What kind?"


    "I can''t say..."


    "Bullshit. What kind, John?" Gale demanded.


    The woman who had served him earlier strode over, her apron swaying with each determined step. "Gale," she barked, hands on her hips. "Don''t start trouble here. Take it outside."


    The pair exited the tavern, Gale muttering curses under his breath as John trailed behind, his steps hesitant.


    "I can''t tell you why, but¡ª"


    "But what?" Gale snapped, whirling to face him. "What could you possibly say that would make me care, John?"


    "You''d be compensated," John said carefully, his voice low. "Generously."


    Gale scoffed, his glare cutting through the Elven''s composure. "And why the hell do you think I''d care¡ª"


    "Eviction notice."


    The words landed like a blow. Gale''s jaw tightened as he slowly met John''s gaze, his glare hardening. John pressed on quickly, his words tumbling out. "Open a shop in St. James. I''ve already arranged housing."


    "My family¡ª" Gale began, his voice rough.


    "Will be taken care of," John interrupted, his tone insistent. "Everything they need. All you have to do is say yes."


    End of Chapter I