Chapter 2

A light snow had fallen overnight. In the alleyway of Clark Street—no wider than seven feet—slush mixed with coal ash lay in semi-melted heaps. The runoff threatened to spill directly into the subterranean tavern across the way. From Building B25, a second-story window swung outward. A thin, middle-aged woman wearing a white cotton bonnet thrust an enamel basin outside and splashed out used face water, sending a plume of white steam into the air. With a heavy clack, she shut the window, scaled the ladder up to the attic, and set off to rouse her two daughters. "Penny! Penny! Are you up yet? Penny! Time for school!" Inside the room, Dalie opened her eyes on the single bed. She silently pulled herself up, wrapped her faded petticoat tightly around her shoulders, and shivered in the frigid air as she pulled on her shoes and opened the door. So, none of this was a dream. Mary, the middle-aged woman, pushed through the door. Before she could offer a word to her well-behaved eldest, she marched straight to her younger daughter, Penny, to yank her awake and whip off the blanket. A stray corn candy Penny had hidden under the covers tumbled out into full view. At the sight, Mary's temper flared, and her palm came down hard against Penny's backside. "Stealing sweets again! Get your rear to school this instant!" Penny’s tuition-free school ran six days a week; her day off wouldn't come until tomorrow. Smarting from the stinging slap, Penny woke up in a flash. Realizing her contraband had been exposed, she darted in sheer terror around the tiny room—hiding behind Dalie's bed one moment, fleeing down the stairs the next. Fuming, Mary gave chase, though she paused mid-pursuit to glance back at Dalie. Seeing her eldest standing dazed in the room, she called out: "Hurry up and get ready. You’re heading out with your grandfather later to fetch stock." Dalie offered a stiff, monotone "Mm." Realizing her wooden expression might look suspicious, she covered with a rub of her eyes and a yawn. Mary paid it no mind, hurrying downstairs to finish dealing with Penny. Moments later, the voice of her gentle father, Fred, echoed from below as he came to Penny’s rescue: "...Penny, go wash your face, quick." Dalie, still processing her transmigration, silently observed the chaotic scene. Having weathered her fair share of storms in her past life, a simple transmigration wasn't enough to break her. She could stand by the window with relative calm; this was hardly worse than a warehouse fire, a corporate sabotage attempt by competitors, or a business partner dying intestate. After a brief internal struggle, she accepted her reality and decided her hair was the logical place to start. According to her memories, the restocking trip was already on the schedule. With her grandmother bedridden, the shop was looked after by her mother during the day, while stock was fetched by either her grandfather Hank or her father Fred. All three adults held down separate jobs; none could afford to drop theirs, leaving everyone stretched thin and scrambling. To make matters worse, the recent murder spree in Whitechapel hung like a pall over the neighborhood. Locals were reluctant to step outdoors, and business had plummeted. Only yesterday had Mary finally noticed they were nearly out of soap, reminding the household that a restocking run was long overdue. Dalie sighed, shaking her head as she rummaged through the cramped little room. The narrow surface of the low chest of drawers was crammed with Penny’s rag doll, a small wooden comb, a red plaid ribbon, a half-empty bottle of hair oil, a rust-speckled standing mirror, and secondhand storybooks. There was also an empty paper wrapper that had held the corn candy—the pieces inside had grown sticky with dampness, making her wonder if eating them would trigger a bout of dysentery. Finding the comb and mirror, Dalie set about styling her hair. The original Dalie possessed a thick, unruly mane of auburn hair. As she pulled the comb through it, her gaze caught her reflection, and she froze. Grey-green eyes, deep auburn hair, a narrow face, high cheekbones, and a straight bridge—a textbook expression of ancient Celtic heritage. Even with her face completely void of expression, the reflection in the rusted mirror looked like a carefully rendered Sargent oil painting. No wonder her grandmother was willing to invest in her education—with a face like this, put her in slightly finer clothes, spruce her up a bit, and the potential was staggering... In her past life, she had been moderately attractive and had encountered plenty of stunning faces in high-society circles. But having a striking face on one's own shoulders was an entirely different experience. Dalie pressed her lips together, feeling a complex surge of primal emotion over her newfound identity. She combed through her hair, braided it tightly with a dark green ribbon, and pinned it into a neat coil at the nape of her neck. Next, she began searching the room for something to wear. If she wanted to avoid drawing unwanted attention, dressing like a local was essential. She stood up and scanned the attic bedroom. The ceiling was low, the space cramped—she could reach up and touch the wooden rafters with ease. Two single beds lined opposite walls with a narrow walkway squeezed between them. By the window sat two clothing trunks, flanking the low chest of drawers the sisters shared for dressing. The walls were plastered with overlapping sheets of yellowed newspaper to keep out dust. Nails driven into the wood held a chaotic display of hats, scarves, shawls, gloves, small leather purses, and various trinkets. From a quick glance, not a single item appeared to be worth more than three shillings. Even beneath the beds, fabric shoes, low-cut leather shoes, and leather boots for every season were crammed together alongside leather trunks storing summer clothes, all emitting a pungent odor of old leather and shoe wax. The tiny room was packed so tight with cheap belongings that it felt like a dark, cozy burrow—stuffed enough to keep out the cold draughts, saving them the trouble of lighting a stove. Dalie spent several minutes digging through her trunk before retrieving a complete outfit in proper order: a corset, a chemise, a petticoat, a long skirt, and a round-collared coarse tweed overcoat. The overcoat featured a tailored princess-cut pattern, hanging as long as the skirt to brush her insteps. The fabrics were mostly cotton and wool, dominated by muted shades of brown and soft green. Poplin ruffles trimmed the edges, while the collar was lined with a short row of ivory-white crocheted lace. Though clearly worn—with sleeves and shoulders altered over two years of growth—the previous owner had been neat and diligent. The clothes were clean and carried the faint, honest scent of plain soap. Dalie layered a thick petticoat over knit wool stockings, donned the deep green cotton dress, and wrapped herself in a brown tweed cloak. Ready at last, she negotiated the steep, narrow ladder that accommodated only one person at a time. The wooden treads creaked softly underfoot, the iron handrail feeling cold as the musty stench of damp timber mixed with the smell of fermenting bread dough. The second floor housed two bedrooms and a narrow utility nook spanning a few square meters, which also served as the resting spot for the chamber pots. At the landing, she bumped into her grandfather, Hank. Hank Nash went by the nickname "Shorty," a moniker that fit his build perfectly. He boasted the family's signature auburn hair, a bushy beard, and a ruddy complexion. At fifty-five, he remained full of vigor. He was carrying a chipped, white-glazed ceramic plate laden with buttered bread and a boiled egg in one hand, while his other held a hot water kettle. He was heading toward the main bedroom to deliver breakfast and wash water to Liza. For now, her grandmother was forced to take all three meals in bed. While Mary usually brought up her food, the old man handled her morning wash and chamber pot duties. Dalie knew that both her grandfather and father worked grueling schedules. They woke before dawn to load milk into small metal jugs, delivering to dozens of households along nearby Dorset Street and Jude Street. Last time her father had gone to the market alone to restock the shop, he miscalculated the math, costing the business several shillings in profit and earning a harsh tongue-lashing from Liza when the books were balanced. Thus, after a family council, they decided to rely on Dalie—the most educated member of the household—for this restocking run. However, with the recent murders spreading fear through the area, sending a young girl out alone was out of the question. Hank was assigned as her escort and heavy lifter, allowing Fred to handle the milk route solo so the old man could assist Dalie after bringing up Liza's breakfast. "Let me take that. I’ll be down shortly," Dalie said, taking the plate and kettle from her grandfather before stepping into the small room he shared with Liza. The room featured a single shuttered window, a double bed, a wardrobe, a small sofa, and a corner cluttered with chamber pots, night stools, and miscellaneous knick-knacks. The room wasn't small, but the shear volume of possessions made it feel claustrophobic. Liza lay beneath a heavy wool blanket, letting out a pair of rasping coughs. While her fracture was slowly mending and allowed her to sit up, walking remained out of the question. In a spacious house, she might have attempted a few steps. But here, surrounded by sloped ceilings, steep ladders, and tight turns, bed rest was her only option. Dalie located a washbasin in the corner, poured in the hot water, and wetted a cloth to help Liza wash her face and hands. Liza had no inkling that her granddaughter’s soul had been replaced. Wearing a colorful knit cap, she lay back and eyed Dalie with anxious concern: "How were yesterday's sales?" "Decent," Dalie replied noncommittally, handing over the buttered bread. Liza took two small bites, her appetite nonexistent. She looked as though she wanted nothing more than to spring out of bed and take charge of the counter herself. "Don't try to fool me; my ears aren't deaf yet! If this keeps up, we won't even cover the rent. Carry me downstairs—I'll mind the shop myself!" Liza had a long face, curly grey hair, and a faded knit shawl draped over her shoulders. The more she spoke, the more agitated she became. The moment she closed her eyes, she pictured the Lobbett Grocery at the end of the street snatching away her clientele while she lay helpless. "Focus on getting better first," Dalie said calmly, soothing the old woman's ruffled feathers. "If your condition worsens, who's going to run the business then? The shopkeepers down the street are counting on you staying down so they can swallow us whole." The words struck home. Liza went silent for a long moment, turning her head toward the wall to chew glumly on her dry crust of bread. People who care intensely about money are always the easiest to persuade, Dalie noted dryly. Having forced down her breakfast, Liza reached into her bodice to retrieve a small key she kept close to her chest, handing it over to Dalie. She instructed her to open the box inside the chest of drawers and take three pounds for the restocking run. These three pounds represented a significant chunk of Liza’s rainy-day savings. Taking the small key, Dalie crossed to the cabinet, pushed aside a clutter of knick-knacks, and located the hidden box. Inside, stacks of coins rested neatly within wooden grooves—sovereigns, shillings, pence, and even farthings, totaling thirty pounds. The one-pound coins were struck in gold, while the shillings were silver, all bearing the crisp profile of Queen Victoria. Recalling the original Dalie’s memories, she mentally reviewed the currency system: 1 Pound (£) = 20 Shillings (s) 1 Shilling (s) = 12 Pence (d) 1 Penny (d) = 4 Farthings Currently, grain sold at roughly two farthings per pound (450 grams)—meaning a single farthing could buy a little over 200 grams of grain. Using this benchmark, she quickly calculated the true purchasing power of the family's 30-pound fortune.