You are three years old, and the world has been kind to you so far.

You live in the early 1830s, in London, though you do not know the name of the decade or the weight it carries. You only know the rhythms of your days: the sound of carriage wheels outside the gate, the soft rustle of dresses, the steady voice of your ayah calling you back when you wander too far ahead.

Your house is large and red-bricked, standing proudly among others like it in one of the richest parts of the city. The windows are tall, the doors polished, the garden trimmed into something neat and obedient. Inside, there are rooms you are not meant to enter and furniture you are not meant to climb, though you try anyway. Fires are always lit when it is cold. Food arrives regularly, warm and plentiful, as if by magic.

Your parents are important people. Others lower their voices around them. They are often busy—visiting, hosting, planning, being noble—and so much of your small world belongs instead to your ayah. She dresses you, feeds you, scolds you gently, and watches with quiet alarm as you greet the world with no sense of caution at all.

You are not spoiled, though you are indulged. You cry when you fall. You laugh loudly when something amuses you. You ask the same questions over and over again. You are, in every way that matters, simply a child.

When you are taken into the city, you wave at everyone.

You wave at finely dressed ladies and at men with tired eyes. You wave at children who stare at your shoes and at vendors who grin back despite themselves. You do not yet understand why some people smile wider than others, or why your ayah’s hand tightens when you stray too close to certain streets.

At the market, you slip pieces of your sweet bread to stray dogs, crouching low to pat their heads while your ayah pretends not to notice. In the garden, when rats appear bold enough to dart between hedges, you leave crumbs for them as if they are guests who arrived unannounced. To you, hunger looks the same on every face.

Everyone is human. That is the rule as you understand it. No one has taught you otherwise.

And you do notice the boys.

You see them lingering too neatly at the edges of crowds, moving like they belong everywhere and nowhere at once. You watch small hands slip rings from fingers, watches from chains, purses from pockets. To you, it looks like a game—quiet, clever, almost impressive. Sometimes one of them catches you staring and presses a finger to his lips, eyes bright with warning.

You nod solemnly.

You are not a snitch. Games have rules, and one of them is silence.

From a distance, you are just another noble child in a big red house, safe and untouched by the harsher truths of London. But you are more observant than anyone realizes, and far less interested in telling tales than adults would like to believe.

One afternoon, the city brings those two worlds closer than usual.

Your ayah leaves a tart cooling on the small table in the garden—golden crust, sweet and fragrant, entirely unattended. You are nearby, sitting on the grass, occupied with something important and small. The air is quiet. Comfortable.

Then there is a soft sound at the fence.

A boy vaults over it with practice ease, landing lightly as if he has done this a hundred times before. He is quick, wiry, and far too confident for his size. His eyes go immediately to the tart. Hunger makes decisions faster than caution ever could.