8. The Little Thief #2
There was something in his tone, a depth of understanding that spoke of personal experience with such desperation.
Mary studied his face, her anger gradually yielding to a different kind of understanding.
She had known Mr. Moore well and long enough to recognize when his compassion stemmed from memories he rarely spoke about. And which she very well knew.
“You’re too soft-hearted for your own good,” she said finally, though her voice had lost most of its earlier heat.
“Perhaps.” Mr. Moore settled into the leather chair behind his desk, pulling out the papers he would need for his morning appointment. “Though it seems I’m still naive enough to be surprised by predictable human behavior.”
The admission carried a note of self-mockery that wasn’t entirely comfortable.
He had prided himself on his ability to read people, to understand their motivations and predict their actions.
Yet a half-starved boy had managed to surprise him—not by stealing, which any reasonable person might have expected, but by the way he had done it.
Taking only what he needed, leaving behind items of greater value, disappearing without a trace.
It spoke of intelligence and planning that went beyond mere opportunistic theft.
“I have an appointment with the Sullivans at ten,” Mr. Moore continued, arranging his papers. “Life continues, as it always does.”
Mary nodded, accepting his decision though her disapproval was still evident in the set of her shoulders. “Very well. I’ll fetch your coat then.”
As Mary departed, her footsteps echoing in the hallway, Mr. Moore’s eyes drifted toward the window.
Beyond the glass, London was fully awakening—merchants opening their shops, children running through the streets, the great machine of commerce and survival grinding into motion for another day.
Somewhere in that vast tapestry of humanity, a boy with his silver watch was running, searching for his own place in the world.
Mr. Moore found himself wondering what Vikram would do with the watch.
Sell it for food and shelter, most likely.
It was valuable enough to keep him fed for weeks if he was careful.
Or perhaps he would trade it for passage to another city, another chance at invisibility in the crowd.
The boy had shown remarkable intelligence in his brief stay; whatever he chose to do, it would likely be the right choice for survival.
There was, Mr. Moore realized, something almost admirable about the theft.
Vikram had assessed his situation, identified his opportunity, and acted upon it.
He had taken what he needed without taking more than necessary, and he had done it all while maintaining the facade of grateful innocence.
It was, in its way, a masterful performance.
The sound of the hall clock chiming the half-hour brought Mr. Moore back to the present.
He gathered his papers, adjusted his tie one last time, and prepared to face the day.
Whatever challenges awaited him at the Sullivan estate, they would have to be met with the same composure he brought to every aspect of his life.
Mary was waiting in the hallway with Mr. Moore’s coat and walking stick, her earlier anger already giving way to the fondness she couldn’t help but feel for the person she had taken under her care so many years ago.
“I’ve already sent for the carriage, sir. It’s waiting outside,” she said to him when he appeared.
“Thank you, Mary.” Mr. Moore allowed her to help him into his coat. “Any sign of the boy?”
“None, sir. Nothing.”
Mr. Moore nodded, accepting this final confirmation. “Let’s hope he finds better fortune with the watch than I did.”
Mary frowned but said nothing further. She had learned, over the years of their association, when to press a point and when to let matters rest. This was clearly one of those times when Mr. Moore’s mind was made up, and no amount of argument would change it.
The carriage ride through London’s bustling streets provided Mr. Moore with the opportunity to observe the city in its morning glory.
The streets were alive with activity—merchants hawking their wares, ladies of fashion making their way to morning appointments, children dodging between the wheels of carriages and wagons.
It was a world of endless possibility and constant danger, where a quick wit and quicker hands could mean the difference between survival and starvation.
From his comfortable seat in the well-appointed carriage, Mr. Moore searched the faces in the crowd, though he knew the chances of spotting Vikram among the dozens of people beginning their daily routines was virtually nonexistent.
The boy was clever enough to have put significant distance between himself and his benefactor’s house, and experienced enough in the art of remaining unseen to avoid the main thoroughfares where he might be recognized.
Still, Mr. Moore’s eyes continued to scan the passing scene, drawn particularly to the smaller figures that darted between the adults—street children, apprentices, the various human flotsam that gathered around the edges of London’s prosperity.
Any one of them could be Vikram, transformed once again by necessity and survival instinct.
The carriage turned into the tree-lined avenue that led to the Sullivan estate, and Mr. Moore’s attention shifted from the boy’s likely fate to the business that awaited him.
The Sullivan account was one of his most important, and Kate Sullivan was not a woman who tolerated distraction or unprofessional behavior.
Whatever personal concerns he might have about wayward strays, they would have to be set aside in favor of the attention that maintaining his position required.
But as the carriage drew closer to the imposing Georgian facade of the Sullivan house, Mr. Moore became aware that something was amiss.
The normally stately home had an air of unusual activity that seemed somehow frantic rather than purposeful.
Servants were moving about with uncommon urgency, some of them carrying bundles or packages as if preparing for a journey.
The usual order that typically characterized the Sullivan household appeared to have been replaced by chaos and urgency.
As his carriage pulled up to the front entrance, Mr. Moore noticed several servants with reddened eyes, their faces bearing the unmistakable signs of recent weeping.
A cold feeling began to settle in his stomach as he realized that whatever had disrupted the Sullivan household was far more serious than a mere change in routine.
The carriage door opened, and Mr. Moore descended to the gravel drive with growing concern.
As he approached the front door, which today remained wide opened, the butler looked up with tears streaming down his weathered cheeks.
The man’s usual formal demeanor had cracked entirely, leaving behind only raw human emotion.
“Mr. Moore,” the butler managed, his voice breaking. “Thank God you’ve come. There’s been… there’s been terrible news.”
“What’s happened?” he asked, though part of him already dreaded the answer.
“It’s Master Sullivan, sir. He’s… he’s gone.”