The Shadow of Great Britain

For a respectable gentleman, it might just be a dinner party, a few bottles of good wine, or even just the price of a horse’s leg.

But for Lewis, he might not even be able to earn that much in a month.

He involuntarily gulped, as if finally spitting out a stone stuck in his throat: "I know this amount... looks bad."

He reluctantly explained, unable to hide the embarrassment in his tone: "I originally thought... just have a few drinks, gather some material, it wouldn’t..."

Before he finished speaking, he stopped himself, too ashamed to continue.

The drawing room once again fell into an awkward silence.

Lewis lowered his head, his gaze resting near his shoe tips on the worn, whitened carpet, as if already prepared for rejection. He even silently calculated in his mind everything that might happen next.

Being politely shown out, or worse, handed back to the impatient Miss Ivan.

Just then, a very soft yet exceptionally clear sound broke the silence.

Snap.

The sound was not loud, but it was quite crisp.

Lewis instinctively looked up.

He saw Arthur pull out a dark leather wallet from his inside pocket.

The wallet was clearly frequently used, yet impeccably maintained with no excessive wear.

The sharp pen tip made a slight rustling noise as it landed on the paper.

However, to Lewis, that sound was almost deafening.

He stared blankly as Arthur lowered his head to write, his eyes following that slender and steady hand.

No hesitation, no calculations, not even a furrowed brow.

A few seconds later, Arthur tore out the piece of paper from the check holder with a swift pull.

He lifted his eyes, looking at Lewis.

The check was gently offered forward, caught between Arthur’s two fingers, stopping within Lewis’s reach.

"Ten pounds."

Lewis didn’t react for a moment, staring at the thin piece of paper as if it were something incomprehensible.

"Sir... Sir?" His voice noticeably changed: "This... I can’t..."

"You can." Arthur interrupted him, tucking the wallet back into his pocket: "At least, you can now."

Lewis’s hands trembled slightly, hesitating, but he finally reached out to take the check.

The paper felt cold to the touch, yet his fingertips burned with warmth.

He opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to express gratitude, or to immediately promise something, loyalty, service, silence, anything he could think of.

However, Arthur raised his hand to stop him first: "No need to rush to express yourself. This is not an advance on an article fee, nor is it buying you to write something."

He paused, then spoke with a smile: "This is just, out of friendship between friends."

"Sir..." Lewis’s voice was hoarse, clutching the check tightly, his knuckles slightly whitening from the pressure: "I... I don’t know what to say."

"You owe me nothing." Arthur waved his hand, speaking calmly: "Moreover..."

"I owe you!" Lewis suddenly raised his head, interrupting Arthur, his eyes fiercely red: "Even if you say this is friendship, I can’t just take it. If this ten pounds is a gesture of friendship, then... then I want to do something too. It’s not a transaction, not compensation. It’s just... out of my friendship and respect for you."

After saying this, Lewis instead became quiet, as if he had already put his last offerable thing on the table.

"You, ah..." Arthur leaned back in his chair and laughed softly: "Alright, if you must write something..."

Lewis’s back straightened unconsciously.

"At least, don’t write about me." Arthur said: "Go write about the Poorhouse, write about those sent there by the new English Poor Laws, do the work a journalist is supposed to do. Write about how their days are spent, how they are treated, what those called discipline and efficiency have truly brought about. Honestly, I’m uneasy about the current situation. But as a White Hall official, even if there are problems with the policy, I’m really not in a position to publicly criticize them in a personal capacity."

...

When the door closed behind Lewis, it didn’t make any noise.

The room returned to that lifeless silence, with only the sunlight filtering through the curtain gaps, slowly shifting positions on the carpet.

Arthur stood in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back, standing still.

The light fell just beside his shoulder, yet he deliberately avoided it head-on, casting a long shadow on the floor.

His stance was very relaxed, as if waiting for someone, or simply allowing himself a brief pause.

Footsteps sounded outside the door.

Unlike Lewis’s earlier slightly clumsy and embarrassed movements, this time the footsteps were much more composed.

"You always do this."

The voice appeared before the person, carrying a deliberate laziness, mixed with some latent displeasure.

Arthur did not turn his head, only slightly tilting his face, as if he already knew who was coming.

"I thought at this time, you’d be napping."

"Napping?"

Fiona paused at the door, closing it, locking it behind her to shut off the outside world.

Today, Fiona wore a dark dress, the color between dark green and navy, almost blending into the background in the dim room. The hemline hung to her ankles, the length beyond reproach, yet so narrow it moved almost silently. Her neckline, usually adorned with an emerald pendant, was left bare, a small patch of skin exposed below the collarbones, unaware if intentionally left or forgotten.

"You’ve become quite thoughtful." Fiona leaned against the table: "Why? Did you settle the young journalist’s bill? Since when did you start caring about charity again?"

Arthur turned around, pouring himself a drink: "It’s nothing like charity, just applying what I’ve learned."

Fiona raised an eyebrow, a subtle gesture for her, almost understated: "Applying what you’ve learned? Doesn’t sound like something you’d say under normal circumstances."

"This isn’t my area of expertise," Arthur said, holding his glass: "Which is why I’ve been observing, learning from an expert like you."

"Learning from me?" Fiona squinted: "I wasn’t aware I’d become a White Hall textbook."

"Controlling people with debt. You’re quite adept at this game, aren’t you?"

Fiona blinked.

The next second, she laughed.

"Don’t paint me so negatively, darling, you must know that anyone in this line of work, whether in Paris or London, uses this game."

Fiona’s words were not entirely self-exculpatory, for, as she said, the methods of controlling girls with debt in the world of entertainment have a long history.

Whenever a girl was brought into this world of glitz and glamour, she was always greeted with the same set of phrases.

"You’ve moved beyond the streets now, I’ve cultured you into who you are, you need to start learning to dress yourself."

"You’ve entered circles others can’t, meeting such distinguished guests, how can you wear such clothes?"

"Someone just got a new dress last week, and business is already much better than before."

But for a girl new to the trade, where would she find the money for all this?

No worries, we’ve prepared everything for you.

Wear the clothes, live in the room, use the perfume, jewelry, cosmetics, with prices never transparent, never immediately disclosed, and by the time the girls realize it, the bill has long accumulated to a lengthy list.

And at this point, they would be told: "Don’t worry about the bill, I’ve got you covered, just entertain the guests well."

However, if you want to leave, refuse, or negotiate terms?

Sorry, the account book suddenly becomes all too clear.

"You still owe me XX pounds, want to leave? Sure, just settle the bill first."

Fiona slowly walked to Arthur’s side.

"I used to think..." Her tone light, yet dragging the end slightly: "This trick only worked on girls."

Arthur swirled the liquid in his glass, the amber waves swirling: "Why would it only work on girls? It’s just that what gentlemen care about is often more abstract than what girls do—position, reputation, future, dignity... Sometimes, even just the illusion of ’I am important.’ You make the girls believe they are no longer on the streets. Whereas I make the gentlemen believe they have already stepped inside the threshold. Is there really any difference?"