Hugo had lived a rather difficult life. Born in an orphanage; neglected and underfed led him to look a rather skinny, frail boy at the age of fourteen, locks of tangled blonde hair and sunken in cheeks. A ‘saviour’ came in the form of Mr Stock, a portly, quick-to-anger man, who had bought him for a guinea as an assistant to his horology business. As a result, the boy had learnt quite a lot about clockwork, aesthetics, and how to dodge a blow.

It was a monotonous sort of life, only disrupted by Hugo’s errant thoughts, completely alien and utterly Unchristian. Somehow, no amount of praying or Sunday Mass would rid him of that accursed desire, the ache in him when a particularly handsome gentleman came to visit Mr Stock’s shop.

He had managed to hit the age of eighteen, slightly less frail and uncommonly pretty, something that Mr Stock would often scorn, not so kindly informing Hugo that he may be better off working in a brothel. His ability to make fine art had improved in swathes, painting in his spare time and carving during work hours. Mr Stock thought it a useless practice, but would hang up the paintings anyway to give the impression of philanthropy to those who visited the shop.

Hugo had been working most of the day, while Mr Stock had mostly been bad mouthing his every move, when the door bell pealed, and a dignified man entered the store.

Clearly ridiculously well off, judging by the trim of his suit, the well fitting coat. His dark hair neatly styled back, his dark eyes discerning. A potential buyer.

“Ah, welcome Sir! Is there a particular type of clock you may be interested in? My works are expansive of course…” Mr Stock has an irritating way of speaking, and Hugo notices how the gentleman’s brows furrow imperceptibly at the volume.

He also notices how the gentleman’s eyes flick towards him. Start at his face. Flick down… then return up to Hugo’s quickly brightening face.