Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
What had they taken? What had it cost her?
He forced himself to look as she lowered herself into the tub with a soft hiss. Once submerged in the tub, she rested her head on the ledge and shut her eyes, reminding Jack of the churches he and his mother used to visit.
Like statues of the Virgin Mary, there was pained sorrow etched in Myrtle’s tired beauty. But also pure tenderness. A quiet resilience, so perfect and feminine, that neither time nor struggle could ever wash it away. Holy and wounded, somehow, Myrtle was more beautiful because of her past suffering. Sacred.
“I know you’re awake,” she said without opening her eyes.
Jack’s breath caught.
“It’s alright, love. Nothing you haven’t seen before, I expect.”
He didn’t know how to respond, and he didn’t want to lie, so he asked, “Do they hurt you?”
“Who?”
“The person who makes you take it. Whoever…bruised you.”
Myrtle laughed, soft and weary. “Makes me?” She turned to look at him, wet hair clinging to her neck. “No one makes me do anything, love. This is my body. My choice. And that’s my money hidden in the tin…well, let’s just say I keep every pound I earn.”
“But…” He thought of his own experiences and flinched away from the memories. “So you let them hurt you?”
“Some of them get rough. Comes with the territory.” She shrugged, water trickling down her shoulders. “I set my own prices. I choose my own clients. And every pound I earn gets hidden until I need it.”
“Hidden?”
She opened her eyes and met his stare. After a long moment, she said, “Under the floorboard.”
Jack blinked. “What floorboard?”
She grinned, and for a moment, she looked almost young. “Wouldn’t be much of a hiding spot if I told everyone, would it?” She nodded toward his money on the milk crate. “Yours is safe there for now. But if you’re staying, we should find a better place. Whitechapel has a way of redistributing wealth when you’re not looking.”
Staying. The word landed in his chest.
“Figured you’d want to see it was all there.” She studied him with knowing eyes. “Thought—after all you’ve been through—you’d need proof that a good person can touch your things without taking.”
Jack swallowed against the thickness in his throat and nodded his appreciation. No one had ever touched anything of his without taking. Not even his mother. Everything was a trade.
“What do you plan to do with it?” she asked, eyes closed once more. “That’s more money than most people see in a lifetime.”
“I don’t know.” The admission came out raw. “I’ve never had anything. Not really. And who’s to say it’s mine?”
“Possession is nine tenths of the law, Jack.” She was quiet for a long moment. “But time is a luxury in itself, so you take your time deciding what to do next. I’m not rushing you out.” She rose from the tub, water streaming down her body as if freshly baptized. She wrapped herself in a threadbare towel and then turned to face him. “Having something of your own takes getting used to, especially when you grew up having nothin’ at all.”
In the weeks that followed, Jack continued to rest but gradually needed less. Myrtle sometimes rested on the edge of the small bed. Jack didn’t object because it was the only bed, and it wasn’t fair for her to sleep on the chair when she had to leave for work every night.
She slept during the day. Sometimes Jack slept too. Other times, he watched the people outside or simply watched Myrtle. He spent hours staring at her, wondering what her life outside of this flat looked like.
At night, she disappeared, but there were a few hours before dark, when the sky turned gold and stew warmed on the stove, when they would both be awake and talk. Myrtle had stories about all the neighborhood, the other girls she worked with, and the strange requests her wealthy clients sometimes made.
She never asked about Jack’s past, and he never felt pressured to offer. He came to expect certain things from her, gentleness and patience being among the highest values in his eyes.
Then one night, she reached out a hand and brushed the hair from his forehead.
Jack went rigid.
She withdrew her touch immediately and looked away, as if ashamed of such an action. “Sorry, love. Should have asked.”
Jack stared unblinking at the way she used one hand to grip the other, as if imprisoning her fingers after a crime. He didn’t trust his voice to speak. Nor did he understand how some part of him wanted her to touch him. That was the terrifying part. He wanted it so badly his chest ached.
Several days later, Myrtle touched a gentle hand on his shoulder, offering the softest squeeze as she smiled over something he’d said. When she pulled away, he looked at her, but couldn’t find the words to say what he wanted to say.