TO LATE TO BEG, SISTER

CHAPTER 2: A SECOND HOME

"Why are you standing out in this downpour, Julian?"

The voice was warm, and it took him a second to place it through the rain. Beyond the orphanage's iron gate, framed by a dim East End streetlight, stood an elderly woman with a large black umbrella.

"Grandma Margaret." His own voice came back hoarse, half drowned.

"Good heavens, child, you're soaked through." She was at the gate in a hurry, pulling it open and taking his arm without ceremony. "Inside. Why on earth is your suit wet like this?"

Julian wiped the rain from his face. In Mayfair, no one had asked him that in ten years, not once, unless it was an accusation. Here it was only a worry.

The living room received him with the smell of warm wheat soup and cinnamon, and it chased the London chill out of his bones faster than any heater in the Vance estate ever had. Margaret took his wet jacket, or tried to; his hands met hers on it, folding it before she could, because ten years of serving had taught his body to refuse being served. Margaret won the jacket. She pressed a small towel into his hands.

He had just sat down when a deep voice carried over from the dining room.

"Who is it, Margaret?"

George Sterling appeared, pushing his reading glasses up his nose. His face lit the moment it found Julian. "Julian? Is that really you, son?"

"It's me, Grandpa George." Julian smiled, and it was the first genuine one in years.

"Wonderful. Perfect timing—we were just about to eat. Sit."

"There's no need, I don't want to be a bother—"

"Don't you dare refuse."

A young woman stood at the kitchen doorway with a large porcelain bowl in her hands: Aira Sterling, George's granddaughter, freshly graduated from King's College London, and the only person in the East End who scolded Julian like a younger brother.

She looked him up and down, frown firmly in place. "The rules at Saint Jude's haven't changed. Nobody who steps through this door does it hungry. Especially idiots who stand in the rain acting tough."

The bowl landed on the table with a firm thud.

Margaret chuckled. "She's right. Sit, Julian. Eat while it's warm."

Aira turned her face away and busied herself ladling an extra portion. She had scolded him with every word. The fullest bowl still ended up sliding across the table to him.

He sipped the soup slowly. Warmth spread through his empty stomach, washing out the bitterness of the stale bread from hours earlier.

"Trouble at the Vance estate, son?" George asked gently. His eyes were on Julian's pale face, in the absence of a bag, a coat, anything.

Julian set his spoon down. His fingers found the brown envelope in his inside pocket, one sentence wide from the truth. These two people would sit him down, make tea, fight for him the way families do. He left the envelope in his pocket. He waited out the throb behind his temple, then looked up.

"I don't live there anymore. I've left the Vance family."

The quiet that followed sat heavy on the table. Margaret covered her mouth with both hands. George let out a long sigh, fists closing on the wood.

"Those daughters of Lord Vance," he muttered. "They were truly terrible to you, weren't they."

"It's alright, Grandpa. It's all over now."

"Good riddance." Aira crossed her arms and sniffed, though her eyes kept flicking to how pale he was. "Ten years wasted on arrogant people who used you. If that place didn't know your worth, this place will always be your home. So stop acting tough and pretending you don't need anywhere to lean."

Julian looked at her, then reached over and ruffled her hair. "Thank you, Aira."

"Hey! Stop messing up my hair!" She swatted his hand away, cheeks instantly red. She didn't move out of reach. She watched him finish only half the bowl, and said nothing. She would bring it up later, when it mattered. She always did.

BANG!

The front door flew open against the wall. Margaret shrieked. Upstairs, one of the smaller children began crying.

"Where's the rent? Where's the building payment?"

Heavy boots came down the hallway. Thickset men in black leather jackets spilled into the living room uninvited, tattoos climbing their necks. At their head was Garrick—"Boni" on the East End streets—leader of the most feared loan-shark crew in the district. He tapped a baseball bat against his palm, unhurried, like a man checking the weather.

"Garrick." George got up and planted himself between the men and the table. "We paid the £1,000 principal last week. Why are you back?"

Garrick laughed, and his six henchmen laughed with him, spreading around the room.

"That £1,000 covered last month's late f*e, old fossil. As of today, with interest, this land owes me £100,000."

"£100,000?" Aira was on her feet. "That's not interest, that's extortion. You're squeezing this orphanage dry because you want the land for your commercial project."

"Clever girl." Garrick stepped closer, eyes crawling over her until her skin tightened. "We're loan sharks, not a charity. If there's no cash tonight, you come with us instead. A pretty face like yours fetches a good price at a Soho nightclub."

"You bastard!" George shoved hard at Garrick's chest.

A hulking henchman struck the old man in the chest and sent him crashing into the corner of the table.

"Grandpa!" Aira lunged. Garrick's hand closed around her wrist, rough and final. "You're coming with us tonight, sweetheart."

"Let her go."

The voice was low and flat, and it stopped the whole room.

Garrick turned. The young man by the dining table had not raised his voice or moved an inch. Soaked suit, pale face, and black eyes with no fear in them at all.

"Who the hell are you, punk?" Garrick snarled. "Don't interfere unless you want to die in the East End."

"Take your hand off her wrist," Julian said. The calm in it was worse than a shout. "Before you lose the hand."

Garrick squinted. Something in the young man's stare tripped an alarm at the base of his skull—a look he had seen once before, on the worst night of his life.