Antique was the first word that came to Isabelle’s mind as she stepped into the shop, the air thick with the scent of cedar and time. The interior seemed plucked from a different era—a capsule of history where nothing had changed for centuries. Dark wooden shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, laden with rolls of fabric in rich, muted tones. A thick Victorian rug sprawled across the floor, its intricate floral patterns in deep reds and blacks leading up to a long, polished shopkeeper’s desk. Above, glass lanterns cast a warm orange glow, their light reflecting off the gleaming wood and brass fixtures, bathing the room in a cozy yet mysterious ambiance.
Isabelle’s attention snagged on a mannequin, though mannequin felt like the wrong word. It wasn’t the cheap, plastic kind found in most modern stores. This was a full padded canvas form, slightly worn but elegant, the sort of thing one might see in an old film where tailors with pins in their mouths crafted bespoke suits for London’s elite.
The sound of creaking wood broke her reverie. Isabelle turned toward the desk as a figure emerged, ascending from a staircase behind the counter.
“Sorry, we’re about to close up,” came a tired voice, heavy with age. Its owner came into full view as he reached the top of the stairs. His pale face bore the wear of years, with deep lines and a complexion that spoke of someone who rarely saw sunlight. Shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair framed his face but did little to conceal his pointed ears—subtle, but unmistakably sharp.
“Oh,” the man muttered, his expression shifting briefly, as if she weren’t what he expected. “I thought you were… never mind.” His tone softened, though a glint in his eye unsettled her, sharp and probing, as though he wasn’t just looking at her but through her. “We are about to close, but I can make time for a new arrival.”
Isabelle opened her mouth to respond, but her voice faltered under his piercing gaze. She stood frozen, an inexplicable weight pressing on her chest.
“Well?” he asked, a faint, almost amused smile creeping onto his thin lips. “Does this one have a name?”
The air seemed to rush back into Isabelle’s lungs. “I’m Isabelle,” she managed. “I was just looking—”
“Of course you were,” he interrupted smoothly. “We get a lot of lookers in here.” His lips curved into a thin smile as his eyes lingered on her, uncomfortably long. “Godfrey McNeil, at your service, ma’am. And given that it’s your first time here, I assume you’re looking to book a fitting?”
Isabelle shook her head quickly. “Oh no, I don’t think I could afford something like this. I was actually just… looking. You see, I found a blanket with the label of this shop and decided to…” She trailed off, noticing the confused look on his face. “…see where it came from. Do you not make blankets? The label matched the sign outside.”
Godfrey stepped out from behind the counter, and Isabelle could see him fully now. He was tall and wiry, his movements carrying an agility that belied his apparent age. His attire matched the shop’s antiquity—a high-collared white shirt, a meticulously tailored waistcoat, and a green cravat that added a splash of subdued color.
“A blanket, you say?” he mused, stroking his chin. “We do make a few, though it’s been some time since one was commissioned. Do you have it with you?” His sharp green eyes locked onto hers, unblinking.
“No, I left it at home,” she replied, feeling a sudden need to apologize. “It’s a bit bulky to carry around all day. Sorry about that…”
“Never mind,” he said, his posture relaxing slightly. “What color was it?”
“A dark green,” Isabelle answered. “Sort of a tartan pattern. It really is a lovely blanket.”
Godfrey froze at her words. His gaze, which had been merely sharp, turned to something else entirely—fear. It flickered across his face like a shadow before he regained his composure.
“A tartan blanket,” he repeated, his voice lower now. “Those are… some of our finest. Mostly made for our most distinguished clients. You found it, you say? May I ask where?”
“At work,” Isabelle replied. “Burning the midnight oil, and it just sort of… showed up there.”
“I see,” he said after a pause. His tone was measured, but there was a tension behind it. “Well, I assure you, its owner would likely welcome it back. But as the saying goes, what’s found is found.” He studied her for another moment before asking, “Which Court are you with?”
Isabelle blinked in confusion. “Court? Oh, I’m not a barrister or in legal. I’m an accountant.”
The silence that followed was almost suffocating. Godfrey’s sharp features softened into surprise, though his eyes remained calculating.
“An accountant,” he echoed slowly. “Of course.” He stepped back toward the counter and pulled an engraved business card from his pocket, the parchment-like paper embossed with elegant lettering.
“Getting with the times,” he muttered with a faint smile, handing her the card. “If you ever decide to return that blanket or find yourself in need of our services, this will serve as proof we spoke. Mr. Gallagher, my partner, can be a touch… temperamental. This should smooth things over if I’m not around.”
Godfrey ushered her toward the door with a practiced, almost gentle efficiency. “Get home safe, Miss Isabelle,” he said with a courteous nod, his thin lips curling into an unreadable smile. “I hope to see you again.”
Before she could respond, Isabelle found herself outside, standing at the base of the staircase. The lights in the shop flickered off, leaving her alone in the cold evening air.
She glanced down at the business card in her hand, its surface strangely warm despite the chill. Turning it over, her gaze lingered on the elegant script as the faint echo of Godfrey’s words played in her mind. What’s found is found.
____
The city felt emptier than usual as Isabelle began her walk back to the tube station. The evening crowds were there as always, but something about them felt hollow, lacking their usual oppressive bustle. The noise, the rush—it all seemed muted, distant, like a recording played back on low volume. Without realizing it, she had already passed Baker Street station, her feet carrying her across the road as if on autopilot. Something in her decided it was best to walk for a while, to let the day dissolve into the quiet of the night, her mind drifting with each step.
It was only when she stepped up onto the curb that she noticed the crowd had thinned, then vanished entirely. The city had grown quieter, the chatter and traffic muted to the occasional distant hum. The sun had dipped behind the buildings, casting long, dark shadows that stretched across the streets. Isabelle paused, her thoughts snapping back into focus. How long had she been walking?
A low, guttural growl broke the silence, pulling her attention to an alleyway on her left. Isabelle squinted into the shadows, where faint movement flickered just around the corner. Something large, hulking, shifted in the darkness, the sound of claws scratching faintly against the pavement.
A cold knot of fear formed in her stomach, and instinct told her to turn away. She stepped back, scanning the nearest street sign to reorient herself. Then she heard it—strained, weak, but unmistakable.
“Help.”
The word was choked out, barely audible, but it was enough to stop her in her tracks. Without thinking, Isabelle stepped toward the alley, her heart pounding as a strange, sudden courage propelled her forward.
“Oi!” she called out, her voice steadier than she expected. “I’ve called the police—they’re on their way!” It was a lie, but the words came easily as she rounded the corner, her hand gripping her keys tightly, the metal spikes jutting between her fingers.
The alley was narrow, its walls pressing in like a tunnel. The faint smell of damp stone and trash lingered in the air. At first, all she could see was a shadow—a massive, distorted silhouette of a snarling dog cast on the brick wall in front of her. Then, in a blink, the shadow disappeared, and the scene before her came into focus.
Three men stood in the dim light. One of them, slumped against the wall, was clearly the victim. Blood smeared his white shirt, and his trousers were torn at the thigh as if something—or someone—had taken a bite out of them. The second man, standing over him, was massive, a bear of a figure wrapped in muscle and menace. His shaggy red beard covered the lower half of his face, and his green eyes glinted with a dangerous light as he turned his head toward Isabelle.
The weight of his glare froze her in place. Those eyes seemed to cut into her, sharp and unrelenting, and she realized she had no plan beyond bluffing her way out of danger.
“Brother,” came a voice, sharp and commanding. The third man, lean and wiry, stood a few steps back. His blonde hair hung in unkempt strands, partially obscuring a jagged scar that ran down the length of his left cheek. He looked like a relic of a bygone era, someone who belonged more in a gritty biker movie than a London alleyway.
“That’s enough,” the lean man said, his voice firm.
With a grunt, the giant released his grip on their victim, letting the man collapse to the ground in a heap. The red-bearded man turned toward Isabelle again, taking a deliberate step forward. A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but his eyes held no warmth.
“Brother! Enough!” the lean man barked again.
The giant’s smile faded, replaced by a low growl of frustration as he turned away. His heavy footsteps echoed as he disappeared deeper into the alley.
The lean man crouched beside the slumped figure, his leather jacket pooling on the ground around him as he spoke in a low, menacing tone. “Lucky this time, Virgil. We’ll see you again soon—when you can’t hide behind the meat down here.”
Without another glance at Isabelle, he followed his brother, their footsteps fading into the distance.
As soon as they were out of sight, Isabelle rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside the injured man.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice trembling.
The man groaned, shifting slightly. His bloodstained shirt clung to him, and his trousers were torn and soaked through. Looking up at her with half-lidded eyes, he managed a weak smile.
“Oh, just a little misunderstanding,” he rasped, trying to push himself upright.
“Nothing to—” His words faltered as he staggered, collapsing back against the wall.
“Worry,” he muttered, his body slumping sideways. For a terrifying moment, Isabelle thought he had stopped breathing, but she saw the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the bloodstained fabric.
Frantically, she pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed emergency services, but the call failed to connect. The dead tone buzzed in her ear, mocking her. “Damn it!” she hissed, shaking the phone in frustration.
“No… ambulance,” the man wheezed, his voice strained but resolute. “Just… get me up.”
Without thinking, Isabelle slung his arm over her shoulder, his weight nearly buckling her knees. He groaned in pain but didn’t resist as she heaved him to his feet.
“Thank you,” he murmured as she began leading him toward the street.
“You need a doctor,” she said, her voice rising with urgency. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
The man fumbled in the pocket of his tattered trousers, pulling out a crumpled wad of cash and a torn business card. “Address… on the card,” he managed, his voice fading.
Isabelle glanced at the card, the writing smudged but legible. She could have taken him to A&E, left him at the front desk, and walked away. It would have been the sensible thing to do. But something—curiosity, instinct, or sheer madness—compelled her to do otherwise.
Flagging down a black cab, she bundled the injured man into the backseat. The driver protested at the sight of blood, but Isabelle silenced him with several hundred-pound notes.
As the cab rolled through the darkened streets, the city blurred around her. Isabelle’s thoughts raced, her grip tightening on the card as she repeated the address in her mind.
She didn’t know what she was walking into, but there was no turning back now.