She currently laid her head in Wandsworth, a rough area of London south of Thames. She worked what odd jobs she could find. None of it would make her wealthy, that was for sure and certain. But she weren’t starving, and she’d not needed to crawl back to her horrid father for a roof over her head. She couldn’t have anyway. The man was dead, and good riddance.

Upon returning from a long day selling flowers on street corners, Gemma was met by her landlady, who tossed her a neatly folded letter addressed to Gemma. She recognized the handwriting and nearly dropped at the shock of it.

“Can’t remember you ever getting a letter,” Mrs. Woods said, watching her with all-consuming curiosity. “Hope it ain’t bad news.” On the contrary, the woman seemed to hope it were exactly that.

“Ain’t got the first idea what it is.” Gemma dropped it in her coat pocket. “I’d twig it’s some job coming my way. Been hoping to leave off the flower selling.”

On that Banbury tale, Gemma trudged up the tenement stairs toward the tiny, single-room flat she’d called her own for nearly half a year, which was a fair-sight longer than she usually kept to any one place. Her family’s reputation had, miraculously, not caught up with her here. Yet.

She unlocked her door and stepped into the darkness that awaited her. The hour weren’t overly late, but dusk came early in the winter. She hung her coat on the nail on the wall next to the door. With a flick of a Lucifer match, she lit a stump of a candle. She carried it and her letter to the kerosene lantern on the table and lit it. That was as bright as the space ever grew.

Gemma dropped her weary body onto her only chair. She broke the seal on her bit of mail and unfolded it under the spill of lantern light.

Gemma,

I am in particular need of seeing you. I realize Wandsworth is not an easy distance from Finsbury, but I hope you will be able to make the journey sooner rather than later. I am still at the same house and can be found there most of the time. If you choose to come—and I do hope you will—and I am out, the keys have not been changed. Let yourself in. Make yourself at home.

Yours, etc.

Barnabus

It was not precisely a declaration of love and devotion, but considering the agreement between them, it was nearly that. She’d waited years to hear anything from him other than “Received your letter. Hope all is well.” He’d written so much more this time. He wished her to come home and not at a shambling pace. It was what she’d waited three years to hear from him. Three long and lonely years.

Make yourself at home.

Home.