(no subject)
It wasn’t until Dodger had tumbled out of bed, hopped to the front door tugging his trousers on, stumbled outside with his hat in hand, shirt, waistcoat, cravat, and coat loose, rumpled, and untucked, and staggered out to Millbank street, with Westminster Abbey to his left, and the Thames in from him, that he realized something wasn’t right. It wasn’t his London.
Between him and the river, there was a garden, where there should have been wharves. He’d gone with the boys to watch as the Palace of Westminster, used for parliament and such, had burned to the ground a few years ago, and it wasn’t yet rebuilt. Yet, there to his left, he could see the towers of a new building through the falling snow.
But it was London, just the same - familiar as the back of his hand to a boy who’d spent all the days of his formative years wondering the streets. He turned, dull boots slipping on the ice, and looked back at where he’d come from. He’d known the Homestead was different the moment he woke, but it struck him now that the school at Westminster hadn’t looked like the current building, either. He shoved a hand into his messy hair, and reflexively tucked his hat on his head.
“Blimey.” He turned and saw a couple of women walking away from him, their faces hidden by their bonnets and scarves, cloaks pulled tight against the weather and hands hidden in muffs. He threw himself into action, drawing up in front of the ladies with a charming grin, loose baggy clothes swinging, and fingers on the brim of his hat. “Beg yer pardon, misses, but - ”
Then they were melting away into the background, intangible and most definitely not right.
He dragged a wrist over his eyes, blinking out through the snow at the women walking away from him again. He whirled on the street's other occupants, but when he took a closer look they, too, were not quite right.
“Cor.” He said, feeling almost more lost than he had when he’d appeared on a tropical island.
((Find him on Millbank, near the Homestead. ST/LT lovely. He's discombobulated now, and a few decades behind the times, but can help your pup with most Victorian-type things.))
Between him and the river, there was a garden, where there should have been wharves. He’d gone with the boys to watch as the Palace of Westminster, used for parliament and such, had burned to the ground a few years ago, and it wasn’t yet rebuilt. Yet, there to his left, he could see the towers of a new building through the falling snow.
But it was London, just the same - familiar as the back of his hand to a boy who’d spent all the days of his formative years wondering the streets. He turned, dull boots slipping on the ice, and looked back at where he’d come from. He’d known the Homestead was different the moment he woke, but it struck him now that the school at Westminster hadn’t looked like the current building, either. He shoved a hand into his messy hair, and reflexively tucked his hat on his head.
“Blimey.” He turned and saw a couple of women walking away from him, their faces hidden by their bonnets and scarves, cloaks pulled tight against the weather and hands hidden in muffs. He threw himself into action, drawing up in front of the ladies with a charming grin, loose baggy clothes swinging, and fingers on the brim of his hat. “Beg yer pardon, misses, but - ”
Then they were melting away into the background, intangible and most definitely not right.
He dragged a wrist over his eyes, blinking out through the snow at the women walking away from him again. He whirled on the street's other occupants, but when he took a closer look they, too, were not quite right.
“Cor.” He said, feeling almost more lost than he had when he’d appeared on a tropical island.
((Find him on Millbank, near the Homestead. ST/LT lovely. He's discombobulated now, and a few decades behind the times, but can help your pup with most Victorian-type things.))