As I hear myself say it—really say it—I mean it. This place had potential. Not in the obvious way, mind. No gold veins under the floor or sacred relics behind the walls. Just space. Quiet. A forgotten kind of charm. In my head, I’m already moving furniture that doesn’t exist, dusting off corners that ain’t been touched in years. The back rooms, well, they’d do for a bed and a bolt-hole. The surprisingly large lobby and that old counter up front? No clue yet. Could be anything. Shopfront. Gaming den. Fortune-telling parlour if I’m desperate. One thing I did know—I could grift from here. No doubt about it. The bones of the place whispered opportunity.

  It’s then that Charlie pipes up again, squinting through the dusk. “So what’s the plan, then?” I pause. Look at him—all cheekbones and fidgety fingers—and sigh.

  “Charlie…” I start slow, the way you do when you’re winding someone in, real gentle. “Here’s the thing. My mother was a baker. Bless her. Worked every hour the gods ever made. Harder than anyone I knew. Up before dawn, dusted in flour, back aching but still smiling. She died with nowt to her name. Not a bloody thing. Just a cracked rolling pin and a few tired memories.”

  I let that sit a moment. Let him feel it.

  “I remember standin’ there, watchin’ ‘em lower her into the ground, thinkin’ to meself—this ain’t the way. This ain’t the end of the story. She played by the rules, Charlie. Straight and narrow, bless her. And look what it got her. Dirt in the teeth and a plot no bigger than a broom cupboard. Me? I saw the game for what it was. I knew the rules. But I also knew how to bend ‘em. Twist ‘em. Make ‘em work for me.” Another pause. This one longer. Then I flash him a grin, just crooked enough.

  “So I made a choice. Right there. Rewrite the story. Play a different game. So I did.”

  Charlie’s watching me like a hound with a scent—half curious, half cautious. Good. That’s how you want ‘em. Of course, the whole tale’s a load of cobblers. My mum was a baker but not exactly a saint, she dabbled in the life, had no choice being married to my old man. But Charlie don’t need to know that. Not yet. I watch him bite, and just as I reel him in, I feel it—a faint pulse in my system. A flicker of heat down my spine. And then Jennifer, smug as always, speaks from the ether:

  “+2 points to FLARE.”

  I shove the notification to the side of my mind. Later. Right now, I’m spinning a yarn.

  “So I set my sights on something different. Not the nine-bells grind or the noble cause nonsense. Nah. I found the art. The craft. Learned from the best, the worst, and everyone in between. I listened. Really listened. Took in the tricks, the slips of tongue, the flash of a coin here, a glimmer of steel there. It’s all angles, Charlie. Angles and timing.”

  I step through the room as I talk, hands flicking in the air like I’m painting the past.

  “I got good. Real good. Sleight of hand. Voice of silk. Lies dressed in lace. Didn’t take long before I was pulling strings of my own. It’s all about knowing who to trust, and who to trick. And trust me, sometimes they’re the same person.”

  I turn back to face him.

  “I’ve had wins, sure. Close calls, too. Wounds that still ache when the rain comes in. But here I am. In this gods-forsaken town—Applewood. Can you believe it? Small enough to disappear, big enough to make a dent. And I’m ready to turn the page, Charlie. I can feel it.”

  He’s staring now. The wheels in his head spinning faster than a tavern coin toss. Then it hits. His eyes go wide.

  “Bugger me, Harry… you’re a crook.”

  I smirk.

  “No,” I say, calm as you like. “I’m a grifter. And I’m tellin’ you this ’cause I need someone I can trust…someone with connections. Someone who knows how to keep things quiet when quiet matters. Someone like you. What do you say? You in?”

  He doesn’t answer straight off. Just looks off into the middle distance like he’s trying to read the sky. Then, with the most casual pivot I’ve ever seen, he goes, “Honestly, I don’t know…”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  And just when I think I’ve lost him, he nods to the path back to town and adds, “Fancy a drink?” I grin. “Why not?”

  And just like that, we walk. Back into Applewood.

  We cut through Applewood’s shifting skin like two shadows with places to be. The town’s got layers—grit and gold, muck and marble. Charlie struts ahead, boots clicking like they were made for these streets, though you can tell by the way he carries himself—coat too clean, hair too perfect—that he weren’t born here. Nah, he’s posh. Polished. Talks like he went to some academy where they teach you how to drink brandy before breakfast and lose money gracefully. But he’s got that fire behind the eyes—ambition mixed with desperation. Wants to be somebody. Fast.

  He talks too much, but he’s funny with it. Quick-witted. Keeps the conversation bouncing even when he’s got no bloody clue where we’re going. He’s charming, no doubt—women smile at him without knowing why, and men look at him like they half-want to hit him just to wipe that grin off. But there’s something haphazard in his step, like he’s always five seconds from a stumble and three from brilliance.

  Then we hit the Ox and Ember.

  Outside, it’s quaint—timber, ivy, a carved sign swinging gently in the breeze. Looks innocent. A place for tea and tales.

  Inside? Bloody hell.

  It's like a West End nightclub, a strip joint, and an actual inn got drunk together and birthed this place. Chandeliers float. Smoke coils like it’s choreographed. The walls gleam, but the sheen’s only skin deep. Scratch it and you’ll find secrets, blood, and broken dreams. And the crowd? A melting pot of enchantment and ego. Commoners dressed in rented glamour and noble twits dressed down to feel dangerous.

  Charlie glances around like he’s assessing stock. He knows he doesn’t belong here—not really—but that doesn’t stop him from acting like he does. He’s reckless, sure. But also clever. Resourceful in that “don’t ask how I got this, just drink it” sort of way.

  We slide into a plush booth. He barely sits before she arrives.

  Louise.

  “Hello, Charlie dear,” she purrs, gliding up like sin wrapped in silk. “And who’s your friend?”

  Charlie—always one foot ahead, one foot in it—blinks. “Where’s my manners. Miss Louise, this is my… associate. Master Block. The gent I was telling you about.”

  She looks me over, measuring something invisible. “The usual, Charlie?” she says with a smile so smooth it oughta be illegal. He nods. “And one for Master Block.”

  The woman glides away, hips swinging like punctuation marks, and once she’s out of earshot, Charlie leans in across the table, lowering his voice, eyes sharp now—less dazzle, more intent.

  “Let’s assume,” he says, with that spoiled-posh lilt, “I’m thinking about joining your little enterprise.”

  He taps a ringed finger on the table once, twice.

  “What would I have to do… and what’s in it for me?”

  I clock the look in his eye—ambition dressed up as curiosity. Privileged, reckless, just the right amount of desperate. He seemed clever, in that way where you’re never sure if he’s about to talk his way into a deal or out of a grave. And right then, I think to myself: Looks like I’ve got myself a business associate. Or a fall guy. Not sure which yet. But either way, he’s in.

  ***

  Louise poured the drinks with a practiced hand, her gaze fixed on the mirrored shelf but her mind elsewhere. Behind her, a soft knock signalled the return of a staff member she'd quietly tasked with snooping on the new gent sat next to Charlie. The young runner leaned in close, voice low and efficient—recounting the usual roster of connections: Sally the fence over on Vine Street, a brief tangle with the mayor’s office over zoning, Charlie's well-worn reputation for charm and chaos.

  But this other one—Block—nothing. No record, no whispers, not even a note of gossip in a town that feasted on rumour. That silence said more than a dossier ever could. Louise nodded, handed the runner a silver coin that vanished into a pocket with a grateful flick, then picked up a tray with two drinks—and one for herself. She ambled back across the floor, weaving through glamour-draped dancers and perfumed gamblers like a silk thread through velvet. Sliding into the booth beside the two men, she offered a smile and some easy small talk, her voice honeyed as she introduced herself as the hostess of the Ox and Ember.

  As they chatted, laughing over some cheeky comment from Charlie, she saw him—Finbar. The actual owner. Emerging from the back office like a thundercloud in brogues. He clocked her, perched between the pair, laughing, hair gleaming in the warm light. His jaw tensed. Louise caught the flicker of disapproval in his eyes as he stood watching from behind the bar—silent, still, and clearly not pleased.

  Louise carried on with the small talk, her laughter ringing lightly in the air as Charlie leaned in, clearly enjoying the attention, while Block remained the enigma. She was careful—just enough flirtation to keep them interested, but nothing too obvious. It was all a game, and Louise knew how to play it. Still, as the conversation lulled, she excused herself with a practiced smile, slipping out of the booth and gliding towards the bar. Her heels clicked softly against the floor, a rhythmic sound that almost drowned out the undercurrent of tension in the room. She was thankful—thankful that Finbar’s temper hadn’t yet boiled over. His face had tightened, the hint of jealousy clear, but not yet enough to draw blood. Public violence was beneath him, but verbal abuse? That was his true weapon. She knew what was coming. The bar was the last place she wanted to be, but she played her part, slipping behind it with the ease of someone who belonged.

  Finbar’s gaze met hers as he beckoned her closer, his hand a slow, deliberate motion. He didn’t need to say a word; she knew the drill. With one last glance at the table, she made her way over to him, steeling herself for whatever was to come next.