The Soot of the Sweep

By Scott Bloemendaal

“Timothy. Don’t. Not this place.” Lucian whispered. His eyes, a stark contrast of white against his soot-smudged face, darted around the living room of opulence set in shadow. The last aromatic wisps of baked bread followed the two boys, carried in from Baker Street. Mr. Ellswort quickly snuffed out the aroma by closing the front door behind them. A beam of morning light scratched its way into the gloom through dirty windows, casting itself over the click-clack of hobnailed boots worn by the lanky man who led the boys through the foyer. Lucian continued his whispering, “Not here, feels…weird. It just doesn’t feel…right”

“Oh don’t worry your gigglemug,” Timothy replied, “and o’course it isn’t right.” Timothy replied with a wink, his voice just above a whisper. His face, too, was a streak of inky soot. His white teeth, a smile, cut through the black.

“You know what I mean.”

The white marble floors gleamed despite the shadow. The foyer, bedecked with the colors plucked from tails of peacocks, begged travelers to adorn ornate hooks with their hats and coats. Just past the foyer, within the large room meant for capturing guests, this is where Ellswort and Company plied their chimney sweep trade, amid a treasure trove of mantles bedecked with sets of silver candlesticks, each sputtering their flame into the dim room. A silver tea set, arranged on a small table, reflected the fiery landscape.

“I know that. I’m not stupid. But…not here. This ain’t right. Let’s do the next house.”

“But, I have the key…the key to the basement door. Tonight, tonight is our night, Lucian!”

Lucian’s eyes widened.

“What are you two whispering about?” Mr. Ellswort called from the hearth. “Lucian, it’s your turn. You’ve watched enough. Timothy taught ya what he knows. Time you stop being a no good lay about. You goin’ be a sweep or not? ” The tone of his voice offered little choice, despite that greasy smile. Mr. Ellswort thrust his thin thumbs through the lapels of his black suit coat, his crisp white shirt gleamed in the gloom. Rocking back and forth from heel to toe, he towered; he swayed; he spied a speck of soot clinging to the hem of his suit jacket, which he gingerly flicked off. Then, he brought his sneering eyes back to the boys, “Spit spot now, lads. There are other houses, other chimneys. I’m not a’waitin’ all day.”

The smaller boy, Lucian, snapped to attention, but shirked as he glanced at the gaping hearth that would soon swallow him. He turned to Timothy, “I’m giving this to you, for safe keeping, ya know?” Grabbing Timothy’s hand, he pushed a corner of fabric--a blanket--into the boy’s hands.

“I’ll hold it for you. Be careful.” Timothy said, shoving the memento into his pocket. “Keep your knees below you, like I showed you. Don’t bring them up past your waist. If they get to your chest, you get stuck, like a sausage in a casing. Then only the rats will be bringing you out.”

“I know, I know.” Lucian tried a crumbling smile.

Mr. Ellswort’s fingers slipped from his lapels and slowly curled over his belt.

“Don’t make me ask twice, boys. Now where is the mistress of the house…”

“Remember, breathe in through your nose. And time it, don’t move and then breathe, you’ll catch a breath full of ash. Coughing gets you killed. You’ll fall for sure.”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Ellswort?” A woman’s voice soared over the purple curtains that the devoured the remains of the sunlight. All faces turned.

Smooth, black hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her face: her face seemed of porcelain, for it betrayed nothing—not a freckle, not a mole, and most certainly not her age. Instead, it held the otherworldly-cold gleam of her blue eyes, which fluttered over Mr. Ellswort, then jumped to Lucian, then fixed on Timothy. Her gaze seemed to turn the boy over, emptying the contents of his mind upon the tufted rugs that covered the floor. Rosebud lips parted to reveal the teeth of a smile.

“Oh, Mistress Kaylock! You gave me a start. No, no problem, we were about to get started, Mistress Kaylock,” Mr. Ellswort replied, snatching the cap off his bald head. Then, quietly added, “speak of the devil and he will appear, am I right, me boy?” He elbowed Lucian, who was suddenly standing next to him, nearly knocking him over. Off went the boy’s cap, sending a fine cloud of soot into the air.

Mistress Kaylock watched Timothy, not even acknowledging the soot that settled into the floor as thick as the silence that gathered between them. Timothy shuffled back and worth beneath her cold gaze.

“Mistress, I did not mean—”

“Nonsense, this house isn’t devoid of humor, Mr. Ellswort.” Her eyes moved away from Timothy, and she approached the duo. Timothy, who didn’t know he was holding his breath, finally sighed. Then, like a shadow, slipped further away from the hearth. Grabbing his sack, which held his chimney sweep brush, he edged closer to the wall, and closer to an unlit silver candlestick that rested on an end table.

Mistress Kaylock’s house dress swished while she approached Mr. Ellswort and Lucian, the sound covering Timothy’s quiet fingertips. He picked up the candlestick and placed into his sack, never taking his eyes off her while she passed. She seemingly floated as she walked between ornate parlor chairs, past a large potted plant, and a tastefully green couch. She stopped, just shy of the ring of soot that surrounded Lucian. Even though she was a head shorter than Mr. Ellswort, she seemed to be the tallest person in the room.

“Right! Let’s get underway, come on, Lucian, up you go.”

Lucian pulled his brush from his sack, walked into the hearth, then turned. Timothy gave him a reassuring smile from across the room, but was met by Lucian’s furrowed brow. Then, he pulled his cap over his face, and up he went; Lucian’s bare feet, scrambled at the sides of the hearth before disappearing.

“You see, not a problem. And, may I just compliment you, the lady of the house, on your cleanliness and…unique taste in décor.” Mr. Ellswort said, turning to address Mistress Kaylock.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Ellswort.”

“Cleaniness, is next to godliness, so they say.”

“Then I will just have to do something about that,” she said with a lilting laugh.

“Yes…” he said, after a pause, finally chuckling along.

Behind the conversation and pleasantries, Timothy sauntered, his bright eyes looking for another prize. He stopped. The glint of crystal caught his eyes. Pushing back the fronds of the large, potted plant, Timothy spied a small group of porcelain figures. Boys, girls, men, and women: all were depicted, all belonging to different classes and stations of life, all of various shapes and sizes. They looked almost alive. He peered closer, marveling at the intricate detail. Even eyebrows, and wrinkles were etched. But one thing was common with these little portraits of life—they all shared the same silent scream, every mouth open and agape, their eyes missing. The artist evidently had failed to paint their eyes. He reached out to touch one.

A cold hand clamped down on his wrist like a serpent strike, fastening the young boy to the spot. Being caught was enough to give him a start, but the fact that the mistress had dared to touch him, grasping his soot soaked clothes that would dirty her lily white palms, caused his chest to tighten. He was caught, a little mouse in a trap. And she stood above him, a quicksilver smile stretching her lips.

“The plant, it was about to fall, mistress,” Timothy stammered, glancing at Mr. Ellswort. He had become so engrossed in those figures that he completely missed the lull in the conversation. “I-I was…”

“I know exactly what you’re up to.” She said between her smiling teeth. Her eyes flicked to Mr. Ellswort, who stood just 20 feet away, his large hands hooked over his lapels, inspecting the soot that fell down the chimney and settled on the stone hearth. He then started yelling something into the chimney flue.

“I’d hate to think what would happen to you. With just a word…” Her eyes fell back upon Timothy’s wincing face and her smile seemed to grow even wider. “You, coming into my house, robbing me of my silver. You carry a small fortune there,” She nodded at the sack. “They hang thieves, no matter their age. But you aren’t a dullard. I can tell that. You already know the consequences. And yet, here you are, among my treasures. While…shouldn’t you be by your friend’s side? He could probably use your help about now. His first time up the flue—you remember that, don’t you, the first time going up? The suffocating, the darkness that seems to swallow you.”

She released his hand. Timothy rubbed his wrist, staring up into her face.

“Do you fancy a game?”

“A game, mistress?”

“Yes,” she opened her hands. Nestled in the palm was a large seed.

“How did you do that, mum?”

“Magic. But you probably aren’t interested in pumpkin seeds. How about…the matching candlestick, the one that matches what you have in your sack of treasures.”

She snatched another silver candlestick from a shelf and blew out the candle. Then, she hid it behind her back.

“Guess which hand holds the candlestick. Guess right, you win the candlestick. Guess wrong, well, it might be a march to the scaffold. They’ll teach you to dance at the end of a rope. Too bad for you.” Her ruby lips tipped into a playful frown. There was an ageless beauty on that face, but something else, something else lurked behind that flawless, porcelain-white skin, an iciness that seemed to want to push free. Behind them, Mr. Ellswort grumbled something, grumbled something about it taking too long, but Timothy couldn’t hear. He was lost, lost within her gaze and the unsettling feeling that curled his stomach.

“Well, choose, you silly Billy. But remember, even if you win, it may cost you. And if you lose, you may win.”

“How do I know you won’t change hands?”

“Cross my heart. A deal is a deal, Timothy. Choose right, you get the candlestick. Choose wrong, and you take the short drop. But remember, to every winner, there is a loser. Just how much are you willing to gamble away…?”

“Will you hurry up, what’s keeping you, Lucian? Do you need some inspiration?”

Timothy glanced backward. Mr. Ellswort was gathering wood, as if to make a fire—a fire in the fireplace with Lucian still inside. His eyes widened. He wanted to help; he wanted to leave, to help his friend. He nearly turned.

“Well? Are you going to play…or not? That silver—that precious, precious silver—could be yours. You will never make as much in your entire life, Timothy.”

“But, but, Lucian…”

“I’m not forcing you, Timothy. Play the game, or help your friend.”

Timothy glanced back at Mistress Kaylock, whose smile seemed to widen, showing nearly all her teeth. Something behind those eyes seemed to crack, and he could see the flicker of flames behind them, a hellfire that sent a cold chill over his skin.

He pointed to her left arm.

The lady produced the candlestick.

“Well, look at that, you won.”

“Damnation!” Mr. Ellswort bellowed, “This’ll put the dickens back in ya. You stuck? Let me inspire ya. Nothing a little hot foot won’t cure.” Without even looking, Timothy knew what was happening. That sudden elation he had felt when he saw that candlestick that promised silver disappeared as his mind’s eyes conjured the small fire that was going to be placed into the fireplace flue. He heard the striking of a match. He heard the muffled cries. He heard the sudden blaze of newspaper and kindling. He wanted to scream, to beg for help, to rush to Mr. Ellswort and swat away the fire. But, it was too late.

***

Beneath the darkling evening, beneath the smog-choked skies of the city, beneath the creaking, worm-wood worn boards of the teetering Ellswort manor, beneath floorboards, deep in the cold, dark cellar, upon the dirt floor laid Lucian. Timothy sat beside him, watching the young boy twitch as he slept. The rest of the morning seemed like a dream, but there he was—Lucian, tucked in his potato sack that served as his bed, lying on the floor. A new, dark stain had appeared on that worn potato sack, right where his legs rested.

Timothy placed a light hand on Lucian’s arm. Lucian stopped his twitching, fighting whatever nightmare invaded his dreams, and eased into sleep. The images of the morning’s events flashed through Timothy’s mind—Mr. Ellswort, that scarecrow of a man, bundling up Lucian, bowing his head, apologizing to Mistress Kaylock before carrying Lucian, who cried in pain, flailed and fought the man’s skeletal grip. All the while, Mistress Kaylock didn’t move, but stood frozen, with that same half-kilter smile. She didn’t watch Lucian; she didn’t watch Mr. Ellswort. She watched Timothy. And those broken-glass blue eyes devoured him. The two candlesticks in his sack felt heavy. His hand patted the key in his lapel pocket.

“What are we going to do with the boy? Medicines are expensive, my dear. Then, there are the additional costs: time, food. It’s not a simple broken bone. He’ll be off the job for quite some time.” From above, Mr. Ellswort’s voice filtered through the cracks, like the dust and dirt that constantly rained down to the boy’s cellar with every shuffling foot. The floorboards creaked.

“Can Timothy still do the job? Or has he outgrown the flue?” Mrs. Ellwort asked.

“For a brief time, yes, yes he could.”

“Do you think, husband, do you think it’s cheaper to pay for medicines, time off the job, food and care? Compare that to a brand new boy, plucked from the orphanage.”

Only the sighing of the floorboards, bowing beneath a great weight, interrupted the pause between them, and the unspoken decision.

“I see what you mean, missus. You have a mind for the bottom line. What is to become of the boy, my dear?” Mr. Ellswort had asked.

“Tonight, after dinner, before they fall asleep. Give’m a little treat. A little drop will do ya.”

The rest of the words drifted down through the cracks of the floorboard, words of the weather, of the roast they dined upon, or the crunch of carrots. But, Timothy heard none of it. He felt chilled, like the blood had drained from him completely. He glanced at Lucian—he still slept, his small chest peacefully rising and falling. The flickering firelight cast through the floorboards bisected the boy’s body in ribbons of shadow and light. Tonight. This was supposed to be their night. He had the key. They could’ve waited. Timothy reached out to shake him, to wake him. They needed to escape. It was part of the plan; they were going to escape..tonight. They could’ve waited; but, not now.

Timothy’s soot-stained fingers, halted, then lightly touched the key, feeling the shape of it through his threadbare pants. How such a small key could be so heavy. Mr. Ellswort had never known he had swiped the copy, that the location had been revealed by a clever deduction, and filched with careful fingers. Timothy’s gaze drifted up the twenty-four stairs, towards that thick door, towards freedom. Then his eyes slid back to Lucian—could he even walk? And if he could, could he be quiet? Lucian whimpered while he watched.

Finally, Timothy looked away.

As quietly as a shadow, he crept to the wall and removed one of the loose bricks. Tucked into the hole twinkled the silver candlestick, a pocket watch, a small ring with a glittering stone, and an embroidered handkerchief that covered other little treasures. He watched them a moment, letting the glittering prizes sparkle through the darkness. He pushed a hand through his hair, glanced back at Lucian. One by one, the pilfered treasures dropped into his burlap sack.

Not a creak, not a sound did that first footboard make when he slowly set his foot upon it. He paused. Lucian, cradled within dreams, did not stir. The next twenty-three stairs came slowly, his nimble feet slowly creeping up to the thick door as if they were plodding through liquid cement. With a quiet click, the key snapped open the lock. Timothy pushed open the door. The door slowly, quietly closed behind him.

To the right, the hearth-fire snapped, popped beneath a log shifting beneath the flames. Long, skeletal shadows danced over the wooden floorboards, tendriling out to lap at Timothy’s feet as he moved from the sounds of clinking china and murmurs of conversation. Not a floorboard squeaked beneath his careful footsteps, each footfall measured, practiced in his mind a million times for this moment. Except, there was something, someone, lacking—Lucian was supposed to be right behind him. Timothy puffed a breath through his gritted teeth, then flinched, thinking the sound too loud. Even his heart, how it beat, seemed louder. His nerves prickled, ready for when his world comes crashing in the thunderous beating of his heart. Every footfall he was closer to his freedom. He could even feel the night air place a cool hand on his cheek, blown in from a crack in the window. Silently, he swung his sack of treasures over his shoulder. He reached for the door, letting his fingers touch the cold, brass knob. Just a click of the lock and he’d be out, away from the horrors of the flue, living just to see another black-soot stained day. And yet, even as he—they—had dreamt of this moment, it was wrong. He turned, slowly, looking behind him. Only the lonely darkness greeted him—quiet, still as the crypt. He shifted beneath the weight of the sack, the silver candlesticks clinked together.

He turned back to the front door. From the center of the door, through a grime-covered piece of glass, slipped a silver ray of moonlight, which spilled over Timothy’s fingertips. He stood there, caught, his heartbeat slowing. His released the doorknob, and his fingertips absently felt in his pocket, past the key, and felt that little scrap of cloth. Pulling it out, he examined it in the moonlight, letting his fingertips smooth over the soft cloth—Lucian’s baby blanket, the only piece he had left of his parents. He had promised to return it to him

Timothy stuffed the cloth back into his pocket. With one last look out the window, he turned his back to the front door and crept down the hallway. Gone were the murmurs of conversation, having been replaced by the clinking of dishes, and the pop of the dying fire. Wood scraped across wood, the echo of a chair scooting back from the table. Timothy knew that sound: Mr. Ellswort was getting up. Dinner was done. Another chair scraped over the floor, a heavy groan. The Missus. Timothy stepped quickly, trying to stay quiet. Moments mattered, seconds counted. He had to get Lucian; he had to get him out of the basement, somehow. He reached the door, swung it open, his body leaning away to heave the weight.

Within the sack, the candlesticks clattered together. From the other room, the dishes stopped clinking, the soft, feathery sound of movement stopped. Silence swept into the room as if the entire household was holding its breath. Timothy froze, poised, hanging onto the open door, his bag of various treasures sliding over his shoulder. If either one turned the corner to investigate, they would see him there in the hallway, door open. And he wouldn’t just get a whipping for that; he’d be next on the chopping block. He kept his eyes focused on the other room. With every muscle tense, he begged; he silently prayed for the sack to stop sliding, for the door not to creak as he slowly, slowly shifted his weight. One more noise, and it would be over. There was no place to hide, and rushing down the stairs would cause too much of a stir. A giant minute passed.

Once again, the dishes resumed their clinking.

Timothy was down the stairs. The door closed behind him, his treasures secure. He was met by the sleepy stare of Lucian, who, still within his sack, lying on the dirt floor, peeped around the corner and up the stairs.

Timothy froze.

“You…you left?”

“Lucian, I…I,” his eyes darted about, and he turned, trying to hide the sack in the shadows behind him.

“What’s…were you going to leave without me?”

“I—“

From above, a floorboard sagged, squeaked. Footsteps, the hobnailed boots of Mr. Ellswort echoed through their little world. Both their heads shot up and silently watched the light disappear, stamped at by every heavy boot as he wound around the room above, heading towards the hallway. Behind, the floorboard sagged, groaned piteously beneath the weight of the Missus.

“Lucian. They’re coming; he’s coming. He’s coming to kill you.”

Lucian’s eyes widened even further. “What? How do you…”

“I heard them. They’re going to poison you…we have to think, we need to—”

The footfalls stopped at the door.

“They’re…what?!” Lucian blurted out. Timothy leapt down the remaining stairs, bounding until he dropped to the floor, tossed the sack of treasures behind the staircase with a clatter, and wriggled into his sack next to Lucian. The door opened, sending a knife-edge of flickering light down the stairs.

“Boys, wakey wakey. I have a bit of a surprise for you.” The scratchy voice crawled down the stairs, coaxing the attention of the boys. The door closed behind him with a thud. Footfall after footfall brought him nearer, shaking the dust from the wooden planks to the floor below. With each footfall, the boys looked at each other, around the room. Lucian pointed to behind the stairs. Timothy shook his head, trying to read the panicked motions.

“Hide” Lucian finally whispered.

The footfalls stopped. “You boys are being very quiet. Don’t you want to know what I’ve got?”

Timothy mouthed the word, “where?” His eyes the size of saucers darted around for options.

Lucian pointed, thrusting his arm out like a spear—behind the stairs. Timothy shook his head. Another footfall marked the eventual arrival of Mr. Ellswort. The room itself was sparse—red bricks lined the walls, a pile of burlap sacks, the dust-covered iron stove. High above, cupboards lined the ceiling. The iron-stove—that could work, Lucian was small enough to fit inside. Timothy pointed at the stove. Lucian glanced at it. His eyes looked even more frantic. He shook his head. Another footfall.

“Boys…”

Timothy pointed again, his finger jabbing into the corner. “Get. In.” He mouthed. Lucian’s eyes showed white. Shaking his head, he half-limped, half-crawled through the dirt, wriggling out of his potato sack, until he huddled beneath the staircase. Timothy stood, leaning forward as if to pursue him. But, the footfalls of Mr. Ellswort stopped him. His long legs spidered out, the small hallow of candlight showing as he leaned down to and peered into the darkness. His dark eyes focused on Timothy.

“Timmy,” he said, smiling through crooked teeth, “just the lad.” He sat down on the stairs, just above the quaking Lucian. His skeletal fingers placed the candle on the board, shining a light on the face of Lucian, who peered at Timothy like a trapped rabbit. “Where is Lucian, I have something for him.” Mr. Ellswort strained his eyes, trying to pierce the shadows of the cellar. Timothy tried not to glance at Lucian. Instead, he paused. He nonchalantly leaned against the large, cast iron stove.

“He’s over there, in that pile of old bags, sleepin’. He’s lucky to be alive.”

“Lucian. Oh, Lucian…” Mr. Ellswort called out, leaning forward. In his other hand, he held out a delicate, chipped tea cup. “I have a spot of hot cocoa for you. It’ll do you good, lad. You’ve had such a hard day. Like your friend said, you’re lucky to be alive.” The pile of sacks didn’t move. Mr. Ellswort started to rise and move towards the sack. Timothy, too, leaned forward, ready. Mr. Ellswort’s joints popped, and in the silence Timothy could even hear the man’s bones creak as he stood up. Timothy inched further, poised, ready to launch himself from the large stove.

“Lucian?” He called. The large seconds passed. He stood, unmoving, as still as a scarecrow. The candle set on the stairs flickered, casting its halo over the wide eyes of Lucian below. “He’s not there.”

“No, he’s asleep. Lucian…” Timothy called towards the pile of sacks. Silence. “Maybe you should go check, Mr. Ellswort? Maybe he’s…you know…. He was pretty hurt.”

Mr. Ellswort narrowed his eyes, squinting through the darkness, his clawed fingers reaching. He shifted a foot forward. In his other hand, he carefully balanced the cup, never spilling a drop.

“Lucian,” he called, his dry voice like shifting leaves over the sidewalk. He took a step forward. Timothy’s muscles tensed; he slipped a foot away from the stove, and towards the door. “No. No, something isn’t right here. I can smell it. You are up to something. Things just aren’t addin’ up, me boy.”

He resettled himself back on the stairs. His squinting, black eyes fell fully on Timothy.

“He ain’t there.”

Timothy blinked. He felt the blood run from his face. “He is there.”

“No, I don’t think so, that ain’t his spot. Funny thing, he always slept next to you, and you don’t sleep on the sacks. And I didn’t stick him there when I brought him in. Another funny thing, Timmy, see, when I was coming down these stairs, I swore, I said, ‘this doesn’t feel quite right.’ You ever have that feeling that you’re forgettin’ somethin’? That little nagging feeling just outside your brain? That’s what I had. And it dawned on me—‘Silas! You forgot to unlock the door.’ But, how could I unlock the door when…it wasn’t even locked in the first place? It opened right up. Did I…forget to lock it? Never. Never once have did I forget to lock the door. The Missus would have me skinned alive. How’d you do it, lad? How did you do that.”

Timothy slunk away. The words hit him like a punch in the stomach, stealing his breath. His hands clutched to the dusty frame of the old stove, holding onto it for support while his mind reeled.

“Then I thought, ‘Silas, you know who has deft little fingers? You know who you’ve seen just…scroungin’ around the parlors of all those houses? Timmy. And you seemed awfully chummy with that last one. And you know who’d been scroungin’ around where I hide the spare?” Those coal eyes pierced Timothy, fixing him in place. “You and I, we need to come to an understanding. And there ain’t many places to hide down here. Here’s what I think, nod if I’m close. I think you lifted me key.”

Timothy felt his head nod in agreement.

“I think you been upstairs.”

Timothy nodded.

“I think you heard me and the Missues talkin’.”

Timothy slowly nodded. Mr. Ellswort leaned into the darkness.

“We can do this the easy way,” he said, lifting the saucer, “or, there is another way. A more painful way. You don’t want him to suffer, do you? And I need to know that you’re on my side. This could go very badly for you. Or…you could benefit. You’re still on my side, aren’t you Timmy? We spent a lot of time together. Remember, remember the trifle we shared out there on the lawn before we brought him home? Oh, after that job, and what a job that was. Remember all those flues? Oh, and you took to it, like an eel in a drain pipe. You’re still my number one, aren’t ya? I could scrounge around here in the basement and find him. Or…you could point him out, and you move up in the world. Maybe get you out of the cellar, into a proper room. Would you like that? ”

Timothy felt his head nod, averting his eyes from Lucian, who peered out from beneath the stairs.

“That’s me lad. Point him out.”

Timothy never looked up as he shuffled across the dirt floor. His gaze never dared to look at Lucian, who watched in panicked bewilderment. Timothy’s eyes did linger on the sack of treasures, which peeped out from around the staircase, before looking at that saucer of steaming cocoa, and that face of leathered skin that peered at him from the gasping candle. He raised a finger and pointed; he pointed to the potbelly stove.

Mr. Ellswort’s smile crept over his skin, casting long wrinkles around his black eyes. “Lucian,” his grey-gravel voice called, “I know you’re in there. Come out. Take your medicine.”

“He’s stuck, Mr. Ellswort.”

“Stuck?” His eyes narrowed, darting to Timothy.

“I helped him in there, and he thought he could wriggle through that flue. I told him the stove-pipe was too narrow, but he said he could do it. It’s even broken at the top,” Timothy pointed to the broken shaft hanging cockeyed away from the small hole in the ceiling.

“You sellin’ me a dog now, Timothy?”

“No, sir. No, Mr. Ellswort.”

Mr. Ellswort quietly watched Timothy shuffle from foot to foot, and those eyes swallowed up the flickering candlelight.

“Very well. It’ll be done quick.” His long legs spindled out as he stood. The dirt crunched beneath him as he took a long stride forward. Timothy’s eyes shifted from Lucian to the candle, back to Lucian, then the candle, trying to point with a stare. Lucian furrowed his brow, then, as understanding crept over him, nodded. Another long stride, and Mr. Ellswort’s lean fingers touched the stove handle. He pulled it open.

“Timmy…” he whispered, “this is going to go badly for you.”

“Now.” Timothy mouthed.

Timothy blew out the candle. The cellar plunged into darkness. Mr. Ellswort’s hand shot out, reaching, but only finding the ghost of Timothy, the figment of where he used to be. Already, he was darting to the stairs. Lucian scrabbled over the dirt floor, wincing and panting through the pain. Timothy, already used to the cellar, caught hold of the boy’s jacket and half dragged him up the stairs. Upward they climbed, hand over hand, scrambling while Mr. Ellswort flailed in the darkness, thumping against the wooden frame of the staircase. But, upward through the darkness, up towards that unlocked door, the boys climbed towards their freedom—just mere footsteps away.

“My bag…no, my treasures!” Timothy cried. He stopped. Lucian collided into him.

“No, Timothy, keep going!”

“I..I can’t just leave it.” Down he went, back down the stairs, leaving Lucian behind. He saw the lanky Mr. Ellswort, that scarecrow of a man, shifting, his eyes growing accustomed. Timothy snatched the bag, heaved it over his shoulder, turned and…saw the door swing open. A blade of flickering firelight cut through the darkness, down the stairs, bisecting both the boys, and ending at the feet of Mr. Ellswort. A large, round shape blotted out that light. The Missus had opened the door. One thunderous footstep down and she snatched Lucian by the scruff of his coat.

“This one giving you the slip, husband?”

“No, no let me go!” Lucian cried out, wriggling to break the grip. But, she held fast. Timothy peered up, caught between Mr. Ellswort below and the Missus above.

“Yes, yes, my dear,” he said, peering up the stairs, “but you’ve caught him, haven’t you? I nearly got him myself, but I—”

“You aren’t even worth my spit, husband. Problem solved,” she said, her voice like sweet like curdled cream. She shook the Lucian for emphasis. “I knew I shouldn’t have left this to you. Boy, you should’ve taken the drink. Now, I’m going to just wring your neck.”

The Missus pulled him upward, his small body blotted out by her massive form. He disappeared into her shadow, and his sobbing suddenly caught, stifled into silence.

“Wait, wait, no!”

“You’ll get your turn, Timmy. I never trusted you, but my simpering husband did.”

“What if…what if I offered you this?” From his sack, Timothy pulled a silver candlestick, showing like the full moon against the twilight.

The Missus paused. Mr. Ellswort stopped fumbling with his coat. Lucian coughed and spluttered while she eased her grip.

“That’s worth a small…where did you get that?” Her eyes glittered, caught in the reflecting light; they looking almost reptilian.

“I..I have another. In this sack. And more. If I give them to you, will you let us go?”

“I don’t make bargains with urchins, sweetie. You’re trapped. There’s nowhere for you to go.”

A voice called from below. “Timmy, if you were to just hand me that sack, and that candlestick, I could see…” Mr. Ellswort said.

“Silas,” she hissed, “Silas Ellswort, you miserable little piss-ant. It all belongs to me. Everything. Even you, you simpering idiot. No deals.”

Silas wrinkled his face, coal-eyes glaring.

“I could…give them to you, Mr. Ellswort.”

His attention snapped back to Timothy, to the candlestick.

“That’s right, Mr. Ellswort,” Timothy continued.

“I have looked after you, haven’t I, Timmy? It’d be only fair, my dear…”

“Silas Ellswort, I have no idea how this is playing out in your head.”

“Maybe, maybe my dear, I deserve a little bit more than what you give me. After all, I’m that one out there earnin’ it.”

“But on my name. You think these people would trust a reprobate like you inside their houses? My reputation, my name. And you, you would waste it, piss it away in the wind.”

Silas’s fingers crawled over the cuffs of his coat, tugging as if trying to remove a second skin. He glanced back to the floor.

“You can have both candlesticks, Mr. Ellswort. Both and we get away.”

“You forget who has your friend.” The Missus said. Lucian gurgled as she shook him.

“If I have nothing to lose,” Timothy said, lifting the sack off of his shoulder, “then I’d like you to have it, Mr. Ellswort, have it all.”

“No,” the Missus growled. She took a step forward, and the board sagged and groaned beneath her. Mr. Ellswort looked up, fingers grabbing greedily. Timothy held the silver candlestick high. All eyes followed the gleaming treasure, and watched it still as it left his fingers, hurling it into the darkness of the cellar. The sack followed next, disappearing into the shadows and clattering against the dirt floor as it disgorged its contents.

Mr. Ellswort turned, stepping deeper into the shadows, trying to trace the location. The Missus bellowed and surged forward. Down the steps she went, each board groaning until, finally, she met one that couldn’t handle her weight. The board gave way with a crack, sending her plummeting down, her momentum enough to splinter the following boards, and she disappeared through the chasm. As her clawed hands scrambled, she let Lucian go, sending him down the stairs and into Timothy. But, Timothy was ready. He caught his friend; he held him tight.

“Follow me. Step where I step. Run, Lucian, run!’ Timothy darted up the remains of the stairs, dragging Lucian up behind him. Below, they could hear the roar of the Missus and Mr. Ellswort. The cellar door swung open, and Timothy and Lucian heaved their bodies against it, slamming it closed, silencing the roar of the Missus and the shouts of Mr. Ellswort. Timothy slipped the key into the lock and, with a click, the door was sealed, trapping their nightmare below. Turning, they saw the moonlight that peeped through the grime-colored glass of the front door, and they followed it, followed it towards their freedom.

THE END