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Aryn's Story
Chapter 2: A House of Cards
It was Tobias “Toby” Chandler’s tenth consecutive win of the evening at his table at the Rat Trap bar, and the young mouse was about to start collecting IOU slips from his fellow players.
“Care for another go?”
“I’ll go,” a scruffy tan-furred mouse replied, sitting down at Tobias’ table. “The game?”
“Poker good for you, old man?” Tobias asked in turn, shuffling the playing cards.
The man gave a curt nod and adjusted his cap. “Aye.”
Tobias offered the cards to the woman standing beside him, who obligingly cut the deck. The white mouse then dealt the hand.
The older man glanced over his hand with his keen green eyes. Two pair. He then discarded and picked up another card before placing his cards face down on the table, his face expressionless.
Tobias in turn eyed his own hand, feeling his usual impertinent grin slide across his face. A very bad hand. He debated internally, then discarded two cards and drew replacements. Marginally better.
The green-eyed man revealed his hand, still expressionless. A grin would not fool him into folding this round.
Tobias quirked an eyebrow, “Not bad, old man.” He tossed his cards on the table. “It would seem Lady Luck favors you tonight.”
“Hm,” was the man’s response.
They played five more rounds, which were obviously a match between “Toby” and the stranger. Of those rounds, Tobias won only once.
After his third consecutive loss, he laughed. “I’m done. You’re good, old man. I haven’t lost this much since Tholo.”
The man then spoke the most Tobias had heard him say all night, and what the man said, surprised him.
“Ironic you say that. I would think losing your home is a far greater loss than any hand of poker could provide.”
Tobias paused in the act of gathering what remained of his winnings for the night. “Beg your pardon?”
“Ah, I apologize, lad. It was not my place to say. But you were once of a wealthy family, were you not?” Green eyes looked up into the blue ones.
Tobias blinked first. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m out of here.” He pulled on his overcoat and pushed his way out of the pub.
The older man simply stood up and disappeared into the crowd of drunken mice.
Tobias made his way quickly towards the small flat he rented. What business was it of the old man’s where he once lived, anyway? Why bring up his family?
“Going somewhere, Chandler?”
Tobias stopped and turned. “Yeah, s’matter of face,” he snapped. “What do you want?”
A trio of thugs stood behind him. The burliest one stepped forward. “It’s not what I want. It’s what the boss wants.”
“…been hitting the rum a little hard there, friend?” Tobias asked, shifting his weight slightly, preparing to make a run for it.
The thugs did not respond and charged after him.
“Deuce!” Tobias swore, turning and bolting. Unfortunately, the young mouse was not fast enough to escape his pursuers.
A gleam of silver at the smallest of the thugs throat was enough to stop the oncoming attack on Tobias. “Leave him be,” said a voice as cold as ice.
The other two thugs looked shocked. “You’re…”
“Tell me answers, now,” the icy voice demanded.
“The boss would kill us!” exclaimed the thug closest to Tobias.
The man Tobias held the poker match with moved his sword closer to the captive thug’s throat. “Very well then.”
“Wait! The Tower of London and the Cliffs of Dover! That’s all I can say! Let Pete go!”
Tobias’ unexpected rescuer released the thug and the trio ran off into the darkness.
“What on God’s green earth…,” Tobias trailed off, looking to the one who saved him. “Uh…thanks, old man.”
The older man sheathed the sword and then removed his cap. “‘Old man’? Perhaps I am getting too old for this.” His voice sounded different somehow, almost as if he had not been talking in his usual voice until now.
“So are we dropping the act now?” Tobias wanted and had to know, “Who are you, anyway?”
“Basil of Baker Street. Run away from home, haven’t you? Tobias Chandler?” The detective questioned, looking at Tobias.
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” Tobias drew his coat tighter around his body. “So you’re the world-famous detective? No wonder I lost.”
Basil just laughed.
Tobias sighed. “If that’s all, I’ll be headed for home now.”
Tobias’ comment fell on deaf ears however, for Basil had already walked off at this point, not holding any interest for the runaway.
The white mouse snorted, muttered something impolite about old men and nosy detectives, and walked home.
Basil raised an eyebrow at the writing papers scattered everywhere on the dining table amongst the newspapers the detective read frequently. “At it again?”
“Of course! Everyone should know of your work,” Dawson retorted, used to Basil’s questioning of his writing of Basil’s various cases.
Basil looked at one of the pages closely. “Ah. The Flaberham girl.”
“Flaversham.”
“Whatever,” Basil muttered. “‘The Tower of London and the Cliffs of Dover’?”
Dawson looked over at his friend. “Basil?”
“It’s nothing.”
Christian Connelly glared at his keeper. “I’ve done it five time already, old man!” he snapped.
“And you will continue to do the exercise until I say you are done,” replied the taller mouse. “Now.”
“You don’t make Blake—”
“Your twin brother,” interrupted the older mouse, “is a marksman. I do not handle guns. Ever. Stop stalling.”
Christian swore at him and returned to the exercise he had been set. As Christian continued his knife practice, a tall, brown-furred mouse walked past in the direction of his throne room.
The black mouse glanced over at the brown one. “Something up, Jim?”
The blue-eyed mouse looked at him. “‘The Cliffs of Dover,’ Meical.”
“Fun,” commented the coal-eyed one. The pair were of an age with each other, both tempered by a similar sadness. “Any word on Moscow?”
“Sergei? Not a single one,” James Blackwell replied.
“Oh, glory. He’s never around when you need him,” Meical Cadwgwn muttered.
Christian had not slowed down, but he was listening intently to every word his elders spoke.
James looked over at him, “You’ve improved since last we met. Two years already?”
“Just about,” growled the much younger mouse. One paw flicked out, and a knife embedded itself in the nearby wall.
James looked back at Meical. “I’m off. Look after this one.”
“Don’t I always, Jim?”
James then continued on his way to give his latest report of events to Ratigan.
“Stupid bet,” the red-haired mouse whispered. “Stupid necklace, stupid boys, stupid…everything!”
Meanwhile, Skye Blackwell walked down the street towards her flat and spotted the newspaper as well as the shivering girl beneath it. Still dressed in her usual male attire, she maintained her act. “Are you alright, miss?”
Green eyes, startled and wary, glanced up. “Fine!” she snapped. “Go away.”
Blackwell was surprised at the rude response and glared. “To hell with chivalry,” she muttered. “Sheesh, what’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a bloody problem,” Aryn shot back. “I’m fine! I can take care of myself!”
“Sure you can. That’s why you’re shivering under a bloody newspaper.”
The green eyes dropped from view. “Just—just go away!” she shouted, her voice cracking.
Blackwell sighed. “You at least need to come in out of the cold.” She took pity for the redhead. Blackwell had lived on the streets herself for quite some time when she was younger and knew this cold weather was dangerous for the unprepared. Then Blackwell got an idea.
“You’re close by to a friend of mine. Why don’t you follow me? I’m sure his landlady would be happy to help you out.”
The redhead opened her mouth to snap again…and closed it. “Don’t need charity,” she muttered, coming out from under her meager shelter regardless.
Up close, Blackwell could see that her hair was matted, snarled, and in sure need of a wash. Her patched and torn dress wasn’t in much better condition. Her brown fur could do with a combing as well.
“That does it,” Blackwell stated and promptly stole the shining trinket she saw earlier when she first spotted the redhead in the light. Blackwell slipped the locket off of Aryn’s neck so fast the redhead had not had the time to react. “If you want it back, you have to come with me!”
“Hey!” Aryn yelped, lunging for the necklace. “That’s MINE! Give it back!”
Blackwell took off running down Baker Street, locket clutched tightly in her right paw. A quick glance backwards showed that the Irishmouse was in hot pursuit, her skirt hiked up to lengthen her stride.
Blackwell grinned knowing her plan had worked and ran inside lower 221B, not even bothering to knock. Mrs. Judson was startled by the door slamming open. “Miss Blackwell! What in heaven’s name?! I’m sorry but Mr. Basil and Mr. Dawson are not here right now!”
Blackwell ignored Mrs. Judson and simply held the locket out in the opening of the doorframe. “3…2…1…”
A brown-furred paw reached out and snagged the locket. “What in—” Aryn began.
“Oh my goodness! You poor dear!” Mrs. Judson exclaimed upon seeing the redhead.
Blackwell smiled as she removed her jacket, revealing her waistcoat, as well as her feminine figure. “Think you can help out my poor friend, Mrs. Judson?”
The revelation of Blackwell as a girl startled Aryn so much she forgot to protest that she needed nobody’s help. Mrs. Judson promptly led the girl into the kitchen (“Now, dear! You're as skinny as a rail! You poor thing, we’ll get you cleaned up right away!”) while Blackwell glanced over at the papers on the dining table. “‘The Flaversham Case,’ huh?”
The sounds of Aryn’s stuttered protests followed Aryn and Mrs. Judson into the kitchen. An hour later, Aryn was seated in front of the fireplace, wrapped up in an old robe of Mrs. Judson’s, sipping on tea while her long red hair dried after its vigorous washing.
Blackwell sat down on the ottoman in front of Aryn. “Sorry ‘bout earlier. I couldn’t think of how else to get you here.”
Aryn mumbled something that was either “thank you” or “go away”, and held her tea a little tighter. The locket was around her neck again.
After putting down her tea, Aryn slowly drifted off to sleep in the chair. Mrs. Judson and Blackwell found a blanket to put on her and Blackwell said her goodbyes, promising to come back first thing in the morning to check on the girl she did not even know the name of.
Needless to say, a certain mouse detective was quite surprised to come home to see the pickpocket that had run into him and Dawson the other day asleep in his chair.
Unaware of the mouse watching her, Aryn sighed in her sleep and nestled deeper into the chair, her small paws clutching the blanket tightly.
Basil observed the girl briefly. Despite the fact that Aryn’s hair was no longer hidden beneath a cap and the different outfit she wore, Basil knew without a doubt this was indeed the same thief from before. The reason she had been chased was around her neck.
‘Tomorrow,’ Basil thought to himself. ‘I’ll find out more, tomorrow.’
With that thought the detective retired to his chambers for the night.
(Subliminal message: Read and Review, now.)
Author Notes
Skye-chan: Huzzah! Long time no see, peoples!