Chapter Text

Anthony Crowley lounged in his favorite armchair as he haphazardly listened to his wife drone on and on about something or another during their afternoon tea. He stifled a sigh and brought the porcelain teacup to his lips, sipping lightly at the fruity liquid before placing it back down on the matching saucer. White porcelain printed with small pink roses - hybrid tea roses to be exact. The most popular and boring of them all, in his opinion, but no one really cared what an investment banker seemed to think about roses, least of all his wife.

“And just think, darling, our little Adam would be in the first full blown graduating class of Eton Preparatory School. Imagine what kind of doors that could open for his future. Eton is going to be the best school in all of the greater London area. I heard from Betsy Lockwood that they’ve started up the planning committee and designs are going to be released at the end of the year.”

The man bit back a groan. Was she still on this? Their son, Adam, was only six years old. He wouldn’t be allowed to attend boarding school for at least another three or four years. And that was only if he passed the entrance exams and was deemed emotionally mature enough to attend.

“Lilith, love,” Crowley interrupted. “I think we may be getting a bit ahead of ourselves. The school won’t even be completed for a few years and there’s no guarantee he’ll make it in once it has been built.”

His wife looked at him in shock, the dark ringlets of hair framing her face bouncing up and down as her head shifted positions. “Of course, he will get in Anthony. He’s my son. Adam is a brilliant boy. He won’t have any issues passing those entrance exams.”

Crowley frowned. “I’m not concerned about the entrance exams. The boy’s been kicked out of three schools in the past year alone for behavioral issues. With that track record, I doubt they’d let him in no matter whose son he is.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. Crowley waited patiently as his wife thought over his concerns, taking another quick sip from his cup of tea. At the corner of the table in front of them sat a plate full of finger sandwiches that were just out of the man’s reach. Crowley could have grabbed one if he’d bothered to sit up and lean forward a few inches, but the man was comfortable. No snack, no matter how tempting, could get him to move when he was comfortable.

“Perhaps we could get him some sort of tutor,” Lilith Crowley mused. “Someone to teach Adam his lessons here at home where he’s more familiar with the environment. Until he’s mature enough to attend school with the other children.”

“You mean like a governess?”

Lilith Crowley’s eyes shone. “Yes, that’s exactly it. A governess. Excellent idea, Anthony! I shall put an advert in the paper tomorrow morning. We’ll hold the interviews here and watch how their interactions with Adam go. Salary will be negotiable, of course, based on their credentials, and - “

Anthony tuned her out. There was no point in paying much attention now. Lilith would arrange all the details. All he had to do was show up whenever she asked him to. If he was lucky, he might get a say in who was ultimately chosen for the job, but if history was any indication, Lilth would do the choosing for him.

“Yes dear,” he murmured after a lull in her speech, still eyeing the sandwiches that sat just beyond his reach. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to shift around and grab one or two. Surely he’d be able to get comfortable again. “Splendid idea, as always.”

Bugger it all. Crowley sat up and reached across the empty space between him and the food. He grabbed three of the small sandwiches for good measure, stuffing one into his mouth in a way that would make his wife balk if she’d been paying any attention. She wasn’t. Smirking to himself, Crowley shifted back into the chair, anxiously awaiting the comfort it had provided him just moments ago.

Somehow, in the five seconds it had taken for the man to snag his snack, the chair had morphed into a harder, lumpier version of itself. No matter how he maneuvered, he couldn't quite get the damned thing to mold to his form like he wanted. The man scowled.

Bugger it all, indeed.

Ezra Fell went about his morning as he always did. He awoke at precisely 6:15 am and ambled into the kitchen twenty minutes later when he was fully shaved and dressed. There, he put the kettle on and made his way downstairs to the front stoop of the bookshop beneath his flat to grab that day’s newspaper. By the time he made his way back up the stairs, the water was close to boiling and he poured himself a piping hot cup of English Breakfast Tea that he drank while reading that day’s news.

There was nothing of particular interest going on in the world today, which meant Ezra got to open the bookshop earlier than normal. That was all well and good with him. Hardly anyone came into the shop this early in the morning, and if he opened early, he wouldn’t feel guilty about closing early to go for a stroll before the sun got too low in the sky. The days were getting longer, bit by bit, but even the early days of springtime saw the night coming too quickly for Ezra’s taste.

A.Z. Fell & Co. was an antique bookstore located in central Soho. It had first opened in 1842 when Ezra’s grandfather had decided to turn his love of books into something he could share with other people. Ezra had been his favorite pupil and when dear old Alexander Fell had passed away, he’d left his pride and joy to Ezra.

He absolutely loved running the bookshop. Selling the books could be difficult, mostly because Ezra loved them all too much to ever wish to part with them. Most of the time, he tried to direct customers to tomes he had multiple copies of or ones that he knew weren’t rare so much as they were just old. He sold enough of the books to make ends meet, and Ezra’s quaint lifestyle didn’t require much, so most days he spent cleaning and organizing rather than actively selling anything.

The best part about his job, however, were the children.

“Good Morning, Mr. Fell!” a bright voice called out to him as the bell jingled above the door. Ezra, who had been balancing atop a stepstool to place some of his most precious books on the top shelf in the back of the shop, quickly stepped down and bustled over to the door.

“Good morning, Miss Caroline. And Mr. Marcus. How are you two this fine spring morning?”

“We’re good,” the little boy answered, although the response sounded a bit more like ‘Weah guht’ as his tongue was currently preoccupied with wiggling a loose tooth back and forth.

“Mr. Fell?” Caroline asked, in a proper voice fit for a lady. Ezra smiled. At nine years old, she was shaping up to be quite the gentlewoman. “Will you be around this afternoon? After we are finished with school?”

The man smiled, his blue eyes twinkling in the morning light. “I would imagine so, Miss Caroline. Will you and your brother be stopping by for another visit? Perhaps we could read another chapter of Treasure Island together.”

Caroline beamed, her auburn hair fluttering as a breeze blew in from the open window. “That would be wonderful, Mr. Fell.”

“Do you have any biscuits?” Marcus asked, interrupting his sister, loose tooth momentarily forgotten. “Mum forgot to pack our breakfast.”

Ezra nodded his head, then reached for the tin can he always kept well stocked by the front desk. Carefully, so not to damage a fingernail, he pried open the lid and held it down for the children too partake.

“Mother was awfully busy this morning,” Caroline explained, grabbing three biscuits and tucking them into her dress pockets. “She’s preparing for an interview this afternoon at Mr. Crowley’s house.”

Crowley. Where had Ezra heard that name before? He was almost sure it was not unknown to him, but he could not remember where he might have seen it.

“What is the interview for, my dear?” Ezra had never really interacted with their parents before. The children only ever came and visited on their way to and from school. They hardly stayed longer than an hour and always came and went on their own. Caroline and Marcus’ mother knew this was where her children stopped each day and had apparently decided that a bookshop with a very friendly, somewhat flamboyant, single man in his late twenties was of no danger to her children, so she simply let them come and go as they pleased, so long as their schoolwork was completed on time and they didn’t stay out after dark. Ezra didn’t actually know what the Mr. or Mrs. did for a living.

“She said it was for a position as a tutor,” Caroline explained as her brother stuffed the biscuit into his mouth all in one go. “Mr. Crowley has a young son who needs help in school. There was an advert in the paper this morning.”

The clock outside chimed a quarter to eight. Knowing this was their signal to go, Caroline and Marcus bid the bookshop owner goodbye, promising they would be back later in the afternoon. Ezra smiled at them as they went, hanging by the front of the shop to wave at some of the other children as they wandered by, running too late to stop in and say hi on that particular day.

A tutoring position, Caroline had said. Ezra wondered what that would be like. Now that he’d had some time to think about it, he was pretty sure Mr. Crowley was in banking somehow. He recognized the name on one of the buildings he passed by in downtown London. The bookshop owner hadn’t interacted much with people like Mr. Crowley in his lifetime. People like that lived for the finer things in life - multi story Victorian houses, brand new automobiles, fancy dining and expensive clothing. Ezra’s life was mediocre by comparison.

Mediocre was perfectly acceptable in his eyes. He liked working at the bookshop very much, but part of Ezra was curious to hear about this new position. He’d never been employed as a tutor before, not officially, anyway. Ezra helped the local children with their schoolwork all the time when they came to visit, but he wasn’t certified, and he’d certainly never been paid to do something of the sort.

Silently musing to himself, Ezra meandered back upstairs and looked through that morning’s paper again. After a few turned pages, the man found what he was looking for.

Tutor for hire. Must be available weekdays from 8am to 3pm and well versed in primary school topics of education. Pay negotiable, holidays and personal days included.

Contact Mrs. Lilith Crowley for more details or to schedule an interview.

All in all, it looked like a decent opportunity. There was no information on the age of the child, but the mention of ‘primary school’ made Ezra think the boy was likely no older than eight or nine. Ezra tended to like children at that age, before they learned too much about the world and became cynical and unbelieving.

There was no reason he needed to apply for this job. Ezra had the bookshop and that had always been enough. Still, there was nothing wrong with trying something new. With those tutoring hours, he could even still be at the bookshop during the off hours when his visitors usually came. He could get paid to teach, wouldn’t have to sell any books, and he would still be able to spend time imparting his love for literature on the young minds of central London.

Looking at the big picture, it seemed like a win-win situation. He would be a fool not to give it a try.