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1880
In the year of our Lord Eighteen Hundred Eighty, when from the womb of Mrs. Simmons her only child emerged, the University of London awarded the first degrees to women anywhere in the vast Empire belonging to Queen Victoria. What should have been a day of great joy for the family Simmons, already in their thirties when their daughter entered into their lives, was instead one of sadness. Mrs. Simmons, following the stress of the hot London summer, survived the birth only to name the young girl Jemma. “Jewel of my heart,” the new mother whispered, a sheen of tears in her eyes and sweat on her brow.
Mr. Simmons, once a member of the Royal College of Physicians, fled the dirt, squalor, and grief of crowded London to take up a practice in Sheffield. Mr. Simmons was a new sort of doctor for the town. His formal training had been at Cambridge, and as such he was well versed in Latin and Greek, and by all accounts a gentleman. However, he believed fully in new medical advancements such as sterilizing his medical equipment and washing up whenever he visited his patients. He even began administering vaccinations. Perhaps most peculiar of all was that he brought his young daughter along on every house call. This was true even on days when he rose at dawn and didn’t return home until well past sunset, weary, with an equally exhausted daughter in tow.
The arrangement was one of a kind of emotional necessity at first, for Widower Simmons could hardly bear to part with the child, his only connection to his deceased wife. Later, though, the arrangement became one of practical necessity, for young Jemma Simmons took quickly to the medical sciences. Indeed, by the time the bright and curious girl was a mere seven years old, Mr. Simmons could not imagine toiling away at his practice without her.
The same could be said for her. A relationship of not only love but also mutual admiration grew between the two. Though professional doctors did not learn by apprenticeship, it is safe to say that under the tutelage of her father, Jemma Simmons knew more, and was more trusted by her patients, at eleven, than at least half the members of the Royal College of Physicians.
It was not unusual by that time for Jemma to make house visits on her own, provided the infirmity simple enough for her to treat and the home within a reasonable distance.
To ask her, it was a very cruel twist of fate that she was not with her father when his horse threw him and he suffered a broken back, though perhaps fate had something else in mind for the young girl. It was only later, as he lay taking his last breaths and instructed her to continue her training in London with the help of a Mr. Coulson – an American of all things – that Jemma understood perhaps there was more to the world than her small town of Sheffield. With a sorrowful and heavy heart, Jemma left her home to board a train bound for London, a note from her father folded against her breast alongside a photograph taken on her parents’ wedding day, and an address for Mr. Coulson’s Royal SHIELD Academy held firmly in her mind.
1891
Leopold Fitz was a small eleven-year-old boy when his mother passed from this life to the next. As she had no relations save one elderly uncle who lived in London, young Fitz was shipped quickly to this crowded and bustling city. The locomotive which dropped him off steamed heavily, its whistle shrill and loud against Fitz’s ear. Never in his life had he seen or heard anything of its magnitude.
He had caught tales of the great city of London, of course, a long way from rural Scotland. The train station itself was an impressive construction of glass, steel, and wood that soared high above his head and rivaled Glasgow Cathedral in majestic scope and size. The interior was lit by electricity, the whole space filled with a seemingly magical glow (though Fitz certainly knew otherwise; it was science, after all). Despite the loneliness in his heart, and a grave longing for his mother, Leo Fitz couldn’t help feel a sort of thrill at being surrounded by such grandeur; the great minds that engineered and lit and built this palace of glass and edifices like it were all over London. He intended to be just as great someday, to make his contribution.
His awe and inspiration were quickly quelled, however, when he learned that his uncle had apprenticed him as a climbing boy to a man named John Garrett. Mr. Garrett noticed Fitz’s usefulness very early on, due in no small part to Fitz’s narrow hips and shoulders, but in larger part to the gadgets Fitz fashioned to help with the dirty task to which he was assigned. Instead of learning great things and exploring the heart of science, Fitz’s days were spent using his elbows and knees to scamper up chimneys and rid them of their soot. Every day, his body filled up the width of a different chimney. His elbows pressed hard against the brickwork, scraping and peeling. Ash and soot would fill his bloody wounds, which never quite managed to heal over properly.
There was very little joy to be had, and his first thrill for education died along with his dreams.
Though no one would ever call Jemma Simmons foolish, there were a fair few who might classify her as stubborn.
Victoria Hand was currently in agreement. Just two days ago, Mr. Coulson deposited the slim, shiny-haired eleven-year old in Victoria’s parlor. “Her father was at Cambridge with Stark,” Coulson had said. “He’s passed on and asked us to take her in.”
Victoria looked at the young girl, at her red-rimmed eyes and the freckles standing in sharp contrast to pale skin. In her right hand, she grasped a photograph that had been coloured in professionally. Victoria guessed that it was a likeness of young Miss Simmons’s mother and father, judging by the tight grip the girl kept on it. Victoria was very good at recognizing grief and sympathetic to its turmoil. “Of course,” she agreed, assuming that as a child of a Cambridge-educated gentlemen, Jemma Simmons had knowledge of music, language, singing, and the like.
She had been very wrong.
“But I want to be a doctor. That’s what I’ve been training for!” Young Miss Simmons stamped her foot and crossed her thin arms in front of her chest. She looked deeply uncomfortable swathed as she was in an ill-fitting black gown, a necessity while in mourning.
“This is a school for ladies, Miss. Simmons, not doctors.”
“This is a school for spies,” Miss. Simmons countered.
Victoria sighed heavily. “You must learn the skills necessary for a lady, so that you may infiltrate when necessary.”
“But I don’t want to be a lady.”
“Unfortunately, Miss. Simmons,” Victoria retorted, “your options at this juncture are limited. As an orphan - ” Miss Simmons flinched slightly, causing Victoria to temper her tone. “As an orphan,” she said again, more gently, “your options are the workhouses or here with us. I believe you’ll find we are not so terrible.”
Miss Simmons was quiet for a moment. Though she blinked her eyes rapidly, to dispel tears, no doubt, there was a stubborn set to her jaw.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Victoria implored out of desperation. “Miss. Morse has had some training in the biological sciences. If you spend your days learning the feminine arts, you may spend your evenings with Miss. Morse in the laboratory.”
Once she settled in with Mr. Coulson’s team at the Royal SHIELD Academy, Jemma discovered she liked it very much.
Though Ms. Hand worried that she would come across as a blue stocking, Jemma found that she was fine at the piano (though not when she sang along) and did quite well with languages. She had very little patience for needlepoint, but would admit that she enjoyed drawing. She was, as Ms. Hand remarked, an adequate dancer.
She missed her father deeply, of course, and her small home in Sheffield. She missed her horse and the townspeople. She missed medicine. It turned out, however, that she had quite the knack for both biology and physical chemistry. After less than a year, Ms. Hand agreed that her days would be better spent under the tutelage of Miss. Morse alone.
Miss Morse and she were returning to the Academy from the apothecary with satchels full of new chemicals for the laboratory on an unusually sunny day. Jemma kicked at her dress with her boots. The gown was a point of contention between Jemma and Ms. Hand. Her father had never insisted she wear a dress, rightly so, for they were impractical when calling on patients. Gowns like the green silk frock she currently wore were also impractical in the lab. The buttons and tight sleeves restricted her mobility, and the ridiculously large bustles often caused her to knock over beakers whenever she turned too quickly.
Hand had eventually agreed to a compromise. At the Academy, Jemma was permitted to wear trousers, as long as her elbows were covered, and even this last bit hardly ever happened when she was in the lab. When she was out in London, however, Jemma was to wear a gown, despite the fact that they made her feel clumsy and ridiculous. It was amazing, she thought idly, walking under the summer sun, that both May and Bobbi managed to hold their own in sparing matches, all while wearing these ghastly get ups.
As she and Bobbi turned the corner onto their quiet street lined with luxurious houses, Jemma noticed a troupe of dirt-covered children walking a few paces ahead of them.
She flicked her eyes from the scene before her to Bobbi. “Who are they, do you suppose?” she asked quietly for fear of being overheard.
Bobbi glanced over, eyes narrowed slightly. “Climbing boys.” At Jemma’s blank expression, she explained: “Chimney sweeps. They clean chimneys by climbing up through them.”
“That explains the dirt.” The youngest must have been five or six, by the looks of them. They were so soot-covered that it was hard to make out their genders. Mostly young boys, Jemma guessed, though she suspected the one leading the group was a girl around her age.
“I’ve never seen them in our house.”
“Coulson thinks it’s an awful practice.”
“Yes, I can see why. Just look at the state of them. Their poor arms so burned and scraped.”
As if he heard them, the furthest back of the lot turned to look behind him at Jemma and Bobbi. Beneath the layer of ash and soot, Jemma made out a mop of curly hair and light eyes. She offered a small smile to the boy, but he quickly turned away and hurried along after his friends. He didn’t turn fast enough for Jemma to miss the long gash along his cheek or the singed clothing he wore. She frowned.
“How often do they clean the chimneys?”
Bobbi regarded her with a small smile on her face. Her blond hair was piled upon her head in ringlets. “Frequently, I suppose. The chimneys must be cleaned at least once a week to prevent fires.”
Jemma nodded, an idea forming already.
1892
London was two cities. This was something Fitz knew very well. Piccadilly, Gloucester Street, Portman Square. These were all fashionable neighborhoods with large several-bedroom houses, expanses of green parks, and genteel charm. This was a city shuttered to Fitz save for when Garrett was paid a sum of money to send Fitz, Daisy and their fellow chimney sweeps through the narrow, hot smokestacks. Despite the fully mechanical device Fitz developed two years ago, Garrett still insisted they follow after to make sure all was clean.
The other London was a city Fitz and Daisy knew much better. The slums, such as their familiar Whitechapel, were full of workhouses, orphanages, factories and common lodging homes. It was dirty and, frankly, smelly. It was so different from the pristine streets to which the upper classes confined themselves.
Just then, Daisy and he were leaving one of the large, clean houses. Both of them were covered from head to toe in soot and ash. The house had nine fireplaces, and Fitz had spent the bulk of his time cleaning the chimney in the library, mostly for an excuse to be around the rows and rows of leather-bound books. If Fitz hadn’t come from another house and already been covered in ash, he would have braved sneaking one or two of the tomes from the shelves when no one was looking. As it was, he contented himself with reading the titles from the spines of the books.
“Your arms look awful,” Daisy said now, bending to inspect a large burn that ran from Fitz’s wrist to elbow. “You’re getting too big for this.”
“We both are,” Fitz said, making a point to nod to the long gash on the inside of Daisy’s left arm.
“Where are we supposed to meet Garrett?”
“Right up there.” Fitz pointed to where Garrett was waiting for them and the other children working the rest of the neighbourhood.
It was slightly overcast as Fitz and Daisy walked past one of the few houses on this block they’d never been inside. It was easily the largest house on the whole street, and the door had a strange eagle-like emblem carved into the wood.
A young girl who looked to be about their age was standing quite awkwardly on the stoop. She was holding a small apothecary jar in her grasp and appeared to be mumbling to herself. She was dressed as most young ladies in the neighbourhood would have been, in a pale rose gown with buttons running all the way up her throat, though Fitz saw her tug slightly on the collar and roll her shoulders, as if uncomfortable. She chose that moment to look up, and gave a start when she saw him staring.
Fitz quickly twisted his face away, but turned back again when she heard her call out. “H – hello,” she said when Daisy and Fitz were directly before the front of the house.
Fitz slowed, though Daisy kept walking. The young girl smiled at him and moved away from the stoop. Fitz looked around. There was no one else at whom she could be smiling. He felt his ears go red as he pointed at his chest. “Me?” he asked, suddenly feeling poked up and all too aware of the filth that covered him.
Daisy stilled then and turned. “Fitz, why are you stopping? Garrett will batty-fang you.”
Fitz ignored her. The girl took a tremulous breath, a kind of dizzying light in her eyes. “It was only,” she said, inching closer, “I noticed a few weeks ago that many of you had cuts and burns along your skin, and I made an emulsion for that sort of thing a while back.” She held out the jar expectantly. Neither Fitz nor Daisy stirred to take it. Fitz noticed her smile dim just slightly. “I only thought – I saw you walking along here, and, well, I thought, I mean, I thought it could help…you…” She trailed off quietly.
Without thought, Fitz reached to take the jar from her hands.
“We can’t take that.” Daisy’s voice cut through the haze Fitz was in.
“Oh, it’s no bother,” said the girl.
“No, it’s very sweet.” Daisy darted her eyes toward where Garrett was waiting. Thankfully, he hadn’t seen them yet. “It’s only we might get in trouble. He’ll think we stole it.”
“Oh.” The girl’s face fell. She and Fitz were both holding the jar now, their fingers just millimeters away from one another. Fitz had expected white, delicate hands, but noticed instead they were stained, though with what he couldn’t tell. “Right.”
“We can take it,” Fitz cut in.
“That’s not a good idea, Fitz.”
“I’ll hide it here, in my bag.”
The girl released her grip on the jar. Her eyes had fallen to Fitz’s burn. “Oh dear.” She looked as if she wanted to latch onto his arm, so Fitz quickly pulled it back, jar in hand.
Tucking the jar into his satchel, Fitz shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.”
“Put it on twice a day,” she instructed, “and put a wrap on it.”
Daisy nodded and looked in Garrett’s direction. “Oh, Lobcock,” she said abruptly, “Garrett sees us. We have to go.”
The girl looked taken aback, though Fitz couldn’t tell if it was Daisy’s foul mouth or her whole demeanor that did it. Daisy took off in Garrett’s direction. Even from this far vantage, Fitz could see that the set of Garrett’s shoulders spelled trouble.
“Clean it if you can,” said the girl hurriedly. “Soap and water, and let it air dry before you wrap it.”
“Thank you,” Fitz said. “We will.”
He trailed Daisy, and tried to school his face into something resembling innocence, though he could tell by Garrett’s squally expression that Fitz and Daisy were in a fair amount of trouble. Fitz felt the lump of the jar against his leg through his sack, and he thought it might be worth it.
1894
By the time Jemma Simmons was fifteen years old, she had put her foot down on the trousers versus dress dispute. She procured most of her pharmaceutical and medical goods from Allen & Hanbury’s factory. After she had sent various errand boys to the factory, and they consistently came back with the wrong order, Jemma had no choice but to go herself. As Bethnal Green was not the sort of neighborhood a lady of her social standing would typically be seen minus a chaperone, and as Jemma often tired of waiting for someone to venture out of the Academy with her, she quickly gave up the silky frocks in favor of dressing like a young boy. With her hair pushed up beneath a cap, and a pair of trousers cinched at her waist, she reckoned she resembled a lad more than a young woman anyway.
It had become a habit of hers to make the trip every Monday, calling a Hansom cab to take her the distance.
It was one such Monday when she had just left the factory, making sure her hair was secured beneath her cap, when a young woman came up to her with tears in her eyes. The woman, no older than Jemma, looked vaguely familiar, though Jemma couldn’t place her.
“’Scuse me, boy,” she said around a hiccough. “Could you tell me the way to the butcher?” The girl sniffed loudly. Her long dark hair was covered by a ratty shawl, and the toes of her boots were so worn down Jemma could see her stockings peaking out. The bow of her mouth trembled, and her brown eyes focused on Jemma’s face. “I was s’posed to get my master a leg of mutton, but I’ve lost my bearings.”
“Oh,” said Jemma. She glanced around, concerned. “I’m so sorry; I’m not familiar with the area.” She pointed to a group of dirty children playing in the street in front of a public house. “Perhaps you could ask them?”
The young girl gave a nod and headed in that direction, but tripped over untied laces. “Oh!” Jemma cried out, reaching for her elbow quickly to steady her.
“Thank you,” the girl looked at Jemma. She frowned. “Miss,” she finished. “You’re not a lad.”
Jemma quickly let go of her elbow. “Good luck finding the butcher,” she said, hurrying away with an inward curse that her disguise was so quickly unraveled. She’d have to be better about allowing anyone to converse with her.
She glanced back only once to make sure she wasn’t being followed. The young woman was speaking with a lad who had curls the colour of hay peeking out from beneath his cap. The two were gesturing animatedly. Jemma nodded and contented herself that the young woman had found someone who could offer her directions.
Her cab driver and his horse were waiting for her on the outskirts of the neighbourhood, as they always were. “That’ll be three farthings,” he said, when they pulled up front of SHIELD.
Jemma reached for her purse, ready to pass over the coins, but it wasn’t in the side pocket of her coat. She paused, thinking back to the young woman who stopped her. She hadn’t been lost, Jemma realized, but instead was distracting her while that natty lad, the one with the light brown curls, pickpocketed her. Jemma huffed loudly. What scobberlotchers! And to think, she’d felt pity for that woman. Jemma had half a mind to demand the cab turn back around so she could seek out the fopdoodles who had stolen her purse and demand they give it back. Had she not had to ask the poor man to wait while she went inside to fetch money from Hand or May, she might have done just that.
Jemma fumed as she made her way back into the house. Really. It wasn’t even that much money. It was the principle of it that truly bunched her up. May had gifted her the purse last year when she determined Jemma was capable of going to the factory on her own. It was knitted silk work with steel bands and tassel ends, easily one of the most luxurious items Jemma owned. That and – Jemma stopped cold. Never wanting to be without the photograph of her mother and father on their wedding day, she had kept it in her purse.
Her purse that had just been stolen.
“Lobcock!” she swore out loud.
Not long before Fitz turned fourteen, he and Daisy managed to get away from Garrett. Ostensibly, they ran away from him, though even Fitz knew Garrett let them do so; they had both grown too large to fit up the narrow chimneys, and public opinion was turning against the use of climbing boys and girls anyway. Garrett’s business was quickly fizzling.
The problem was that neither Fitz nor Daisy had acquired much in the way of skills to procure respectable jobs. Fitz’s dream of attending a university, of studying to become an engineer or a physicist had long escaped him. Daisy had a knack for picking locks, a flair for the dramatic – really, Fitz thought she might better suited for the theater than anything else – but neither of these skills were going to land her a husband anytime soon. And while Fitz was still capable of fashioning gadgets, there was very little need for that on the streets of London’s slums.
There were really only two options for orphan children who made it out of child labour alive: the workhouse or a life a crime. Luckily, Fitz and Daisy made a very good team, and their particular brand of skills suited themselves well to pickpocketing. It wasn’t long before they had garnered a reputation as a cunning but sought after duo in the Bethnal Green neighborhood.
Fits very rarely had qualms about this life of crime. They typically preyed upon older men who looked as if they could afford to give up a few shillings, and people so rarely carried much coin on them anyway.
He stared down at a photograph of a man and woman on their wedding day he’d taken from the pocket of a young man – no, Daisy had said she was a young girl – one week ago today. He shook his head at the guilt flooding his stomach, a rare indulgence in his line of work, as he remembered that afternoon.
It had been nearing the end of the day when a young boy who appeared no older than twelve or thirteen exited the factory. Though young, he was certainly dressed finely enough. There was something familiar about the set of his narrow shoulders, and Fitz stared after him, brows drawn together. Daisy had followed his gaze.
“Him, then? Rather young, don’t you think?”
Fitz set his mouth. Just one more mark and they could call it a day to head back home so that Fitz could curl up with the book Daisy had chosen. They took turns reading aloud to each other. It was Daisy’s choice this go around, and with her it was always fiction. Fitz was just grateful it was Charles Dickens this time, and not the “new women” fiction she was so very fond of, for that always made him blush considerably.
Eager to head back their flat, Fitz nodded, despite the young age of the lad.
He wasn’t there long enough to even hear the conversation between Daisy and the boy. Fitz was, if he said so himself, a spectacular dipper. The trick was to thrust the fingers, stiff and straight, quickly into the pocket, latch onto whatever was there, and pull back swiftly. With Daisy as a distraction, most didn’t even notice they had been robbed until Fitz and Daisy were long gone with their earnings, such as they were.
He stared at the photograph again. The woman looking back at him had brown eyes and pretty hair the colour of honey. The tint was fading, and the edges of the photograph were worn, as if the owner had taken it out often to study the couple. It must have been an important photograph to the girl, as she’d carried it on her person. Fitz wondered if she was as pretty as the woman in the picture. He regretted not sticking around long enough to notice. He tucked the photograph into his own pocket, unwilling to part with it just yet.
“What about him?” Daisy pointed to an upstanding albeit slightly dopey looking man ten paces away from where they stood. The man wasn’t much taller than Fitz, and his top hat was perched a bit crookedly on his head. He wore a fine velvet jacket and studied a gold pocket watch closely. He had a pleasant enough face, narrow nose and thin lips. It was clear right away that he didn’t frequent this neighbourhood.
Fitz nodded, already moving into position to while Daisy drew her tattered shawl over hair. In truth, Fitz and Daisy had become so good at their schemes in the past year that their regular dress could have been much more sophisticated than the ratty clothes they still wore. But they had remained in their one room apartment, and for the sake of their business, had kept almost entirely in clothes suited to the slums. Daisy hid most of her share of their haul under a loose floorboard, though she did have a few custom gowns made and stored away. Fitz spent his first big chunk of money on a subscription to Philosophical Transactions, and then an old copy of Newton’s Principia.
He watched Daisy slide into place beside the man who was still thoroughly engrossed in his pocket watch. It was an unusually large timepiece, Fitz noticed, with gems surrounding the outside. If Daisy did her job well, Fitz suspected he could pilfer it easily enough.
Fitz hid a smile as Daisy worked up a sufficient amount of tears. He was just out of earshot when the conversation began, but almost immediately, Daisy had the man’s attention. Fitz moved in quickly, right arm snatching out to reach for the watch when --
“Hey!” he yelped as a hand latched onto his wrist. Suddenly, he felt the pointed end of a knife jam into his side. He glanced up wildly. He couldn’t see who was behind him with the weapon, but the man Daisy had been talking to had hold of Fitz’s wrist. His eyes looked amused, though his mouth was pulled straight.
He heard Daisy make a desperate noise. Frantic, Fitz tried to twist out of the man’s grasp, but his accomplice jabbed the knife in a bit deeper. He swung his head violently to see what they were doing to Daisy. Two women in fine dresses – one tall and blond and the other smaller and Asian – had hold of her. The blond had a small, sharp-looking hairpin pressed against Daisy’s neck. It had drawn the tiniest bit of blood.
He met Daisy’s eyes. His left hand was free, so Fitz clenched it into a fist, ready to throw his less than considerable weight behind him in another effort to free himself. Immediately, the voice behind him said, “I wouldn’t, if I were you, mate.” The man belonging to the voice reached around and grabbed hold of his left arm, easily (and painfully, though Fitz refused to cry out for fear of upsetting Daisy) twisting it behind Fitz’s back.
“Do they fit Jemma’s description?” asked the man with the gold timepiece. He had an American accent.
It was the Asian woman who spoke. “She said there were two, a young boy with curly blond hair and a young woman with a shawl thrown over her long dark hair. They took her purse right out of her pocket.”
Fitz felt his heart sink. They were caught then. Though the crown didn’t execute pick pockets anymore, the hard labour they set thieves to was considerably horrible. And it meant he’d be separated from Daisy.
“We haven’t taken anything from anyone,” Daisy cut in.
“Right,” said the voice behind Fitz’s left ear. “And you weren’t going to snatch Coulson’s gold watch, either.”
“I was just asking for the butcher shop.”
“The butcher shop,” said the blond woman. “That’s the line they gave Jemma.”
The man with the watch – Coulson, someone had called him – was studying both Fitz and Daisy calmly. “It’s impressive sleight-of-hand,” he said. “If I hadn’t been expecting it, these two would have absconded with my watch, no doubt.”
“Should we bag ‘em?”
“I think yes.”
As if on cue, Fitz and Daisy both struggled earnestly. Fitz had no idea what “bag them” meant, but it didn’t sound good. His struggle was in vain. Immediately, a sac went over his head, obscuring his vision. Not an instant later, he felt the sharp press of a needle against his forearm. His eyes drooped shut.
In what felt only a few moments later, though Fitz suspected otherwise, his eyes were weakly opening to a dim room. He was lying a soft mattress, still in his earlier clothes, expect his cap and shoes had been removed. A quick glance told him they hadn’t been taken from him. His shoes were lined up beside the bed, and his cap lay on a table to his right. Groggily, he sat and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He was in a small though nicely furnished cell, likely underground, judging by the only source of natural light: a small window high above his head. Rough, unpainted walls surrounded him on three sides. The fourth was occupied by a set of steel bars, set into the floor and ceiling. Beyond them, in a lone chair, sat Coulson, watching Fitz quietly.
“Where’s Daisy?” he demanded.
“I’m here, Fitz,” said Daisy, somewhere to his right, presumably in adjacent cell.
“Did they hurt you? Are you okay?”
“I’m not hurt,” she reassured him. “They’re not going to hurt us.”
“How do you know?”
It was Coulson who answered: “We would much rather employ you than hurt you, Mr. Fitz.”
Fitz narrowed his eyes. He’d heard of gangs of pickpockets, some run by older men who took most of the coins and pilfered items. He and Daisy had managed by and large to avoid them.
“We’re not thieves,” Coulson said, anticipating Fitz’s line of reasoning.
“What are you then?”
“Have either of you heard of the Royal SHIELD Academy?”
Fitz shook his head.
“No,” said Coulson, “I suspect not. What we are is a group of men… and women. “ He nodded toward Daisy’s cell. “Who fight to protect the Empire and its citizens from all manner of criminal activity.”
Fitz barked out a laugh. “So you’re Peelers?”
“No. We try to avoid the police, and they do the same of us.”
“What do you want with us then?” asked Daisy.
“You both have considerable talent. Judging by the items in your apartment, you also have a thirst for knowledge.”
“Hey!” said Fitz, just as Daisy asked, “How do you know where we live?”
Coulson ignored them both. “We have already transported your belongings to our dormitories, though should you choose to leave and go back to a life on the streets, you may do so, but,” he said, “I have a proposition that you might find tempting.”
Jemma had been in the laboratory when Bobbi, May, Hunter, and Coulson returned with the two petty thieves. They had both been administered a sleep-inducing concoction she had created, so she knew they would be out cold for at least another two hours. Plenty of time for her identify them as the two who had pilfered her items.
She was able to do so right off the bat. Unconscious as they were, they both looked much more innocent than she knew them to be (though a good bath wasn’t uncalled for, for either of them).
“What will you do with them?” she asked Coulson.
“I was thinking of inviting them to join us.”
“They’re thieves!” Jemma protested. “Remarkably good thieves,” she admitted at Coulson’s pointed look.
Coulson nodded. “Remarkably good thieves who are most likely also orphans and who could use someone on their side, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know that I will ever be civil to them.”
“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see,” Coulson said around a smile. “Would you like to be here when they awaken?”
Jemma hesitated but shook her head. Her eyes flitted to the young man’s face. His pillowed lips were open just slightly and his eyelashes fanned out long over his pasty cheeks. She swallowed. “I’m needed back in the lab.”
*
It was over a week before she knew he would be away from his small dormitory room long enough for her to search through his things. He didn’t have much in the way of clothes, though she knew that Coulson had ordered him a new custom wardrobe just yesterday. What he did have were plenty of books, and – Jemma was surprised to discover – over a year’s worth of Philosophical Transactions, her favored journal.
After nearly an hour of searching – where she all but ransacked the square room, though to no avail - Jemma huffed and threw herself into a seated position on his bed. He found her there not twenty minutes later, arms crossed impatiently over her chest and foot tapping against the floor.
As soon as Mr. Fitz stepped into the room, he looked around, as if afraid he’d walked into the wrong dorm. Then his eyes took in the disarray and narrowed in her direction.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Jemma ignored his question. She stood, hands on hips. “What did you do with it?”
“Why are you in my room, mucking about with my stuff?”
“What did you do with it?” she demanded again.
In her quest to find the photograph, she had upended nearly all of his books. Muttering to himself, Fitz began to arrange them on the single shelf against his wall. “You would think that a man’s room would be off limits, but no one in this blasted, skilamalink Academy has any sense of decency or privacy.”
“Hey! My stuff! What did you do with my stuff that. You. Filched. From. Me?”
Finally, he whirled around to face her. “Your purse? We sold it to a pawnbroker.”
Jemma gave a frustrated huff. “No, you fopdoodle, not my purse.” She began to pace back and forth across his chamber floor. “I looked through all of your belongings for it, but it wasn’t – “
“Who gave you approval to paw through my effects?”
She rounded on him. “The same person who told you it was appropriate to pickpocket my items.” She snapped her eyes to his face, gratified to see him flush slightly. “So did you throw it in the rubbish, then?”
“I told you we sold it to a pawnbroker.”
“Not my purse. My photograph. My parents on their wedding day.”
“Oh.” He fell silent.
“Well…”
“I didn’t toss it.” He dug his hand into the front pocket of his trousers. To Jemma’s shock, he pulled out a photograph and unfolded it, turning it around. It was her parents.
“You kept it.”
He shrugged. “It seemed important.” He held the edge of the photograph carefully. Jemma could see scars running up and down his fingers. His hand wasn’t terribly large, almost delicate, though not feminine; his fingers were calloused and worn. The room felt very warm all of the sudden, and Jemma was suddenly quite conscious of her clothing: trousers and a shirt whose sleeves were folded up over her elbows. She felt a curious urge to test the weight of his hand in hers. Instead she snatched her photograph from his grasp.
“Why did you have it on your person?”
She watched him give a lazy slump of his shoulders as he looked down and plucked at a loose thread on his trousers. “I thought in case you came back…” Suddenly, he darted his eyes to her. “I wondered if you looked like her, and you do. You might even be more beautiful than – “ He clamped his mouth shut then, his eyes widening.
Jemma let out a tremulous breath. The air around her became heavy. She felt a deep flush crawl up her neck. Aware that he could probably read her confusion, she snapped, “You shouldn’t have folded it.”
“’M’sorry,” he mumbled, looking down again.
“Yes, well…” Jemma quickly made her way to the door. She mustered up a haughty tone. “Thank you for returning it.”
Once outside his chamber, with the door shut behind her, Jemma leaned against the wall. She held the photograph against her breast. It had suddenly become very difficult for her to breathe.
It was nearly a fortnight before Fitz saw Jemma Simmons again. For all of his grumbling about the Academy to her, he did find that both he and Daisy fit in quite nicely. The whole situation was rather intoxicating. Daisy had quickly begun training with Ms. May, who said she had a natural talent for this line of work. It was all very physical, Daisy said, but she was able to wear many beautiful gowns, so worth it.
Fitz’s work was less physical. Most of his time was currently spent under the tutelage of a Mr. Stark whose job it was to “teach him to be a respectable gentleman,” though Fitz privately thought his job might have just been to teach Fitz all about the different grades of whiskey. Still, Coulson had assured him that at the rate he was learning, he might be able to attend Cambridge in a few short years.
Privately, Fitz had begun to think that perhaps his destiny was here rather than at university.
One evening after another highly educational day spent in Mr. Stark’s office, Fitz left a tipsy Stark to find himself summoned by Mr. Coulson. Daisy and Miss Simmons were already seated beside one another at the large polished-wood table, conversing quietly. Fitz wasn’t even aware that they knew one another, and it seemed whatever animosity Simmons harboured toward Fitz for pilfering her parents’ photograph did not transfer to Daisy. The other chairs around the table were occupied by Miss Morse, Miss May, and Mr. Hunter. Fitz resisted the urge to rub at his arm, remembering how efficiently Mr. Hunter had subdued him all those weeks ago.
As Fitz fully entered into the room, Coulson gestured for him to take the empty chair besides Miss Simmons. Though she didn’t offer him a smile when their eyes met, she did give him the briefest of nods, her cheeks pink as though the room was too warm. Fitz didn’t have much time to contemplate the lovely freckles marching across her nose before Coulson handed them each a stack of parchment bound together with string.
“There’s a ball at the Assembly Hall Saturday next,” Coulson began, no other form of hello or introduction save a quick smile. “And a formula we believe may be used to harm a good number of lives. A man named Quinn will have it a sample of it in his possession to sell to an unidentified party. We’d like to get to it before they do.”
“Dr. Quinn?” interrupted Miss Simmons. “He has quite the reputation.”
“His greed being primary,” said Miss Morse.
“Mr. Fitz, I’ll need you to work up one of those devices Daisy has told me so much about, something that can help if the team we send in to retrieve the serum is unable to take it by hand. Miss Simmons knows the laboratories better than anyone, and will assist you in any way she can. And,” continued Coulson, “I’ll need a duo of highly trained pickpockets to pull this off. Daisy, that’s where you come in.”
*
“The laboratories are down this way,” Miss Simmons said over her shoulder, leading Fitz down a long flight of stairs into the cavernous collection of rooms beneath the Academy. She was wearing what Fitz had already surmised was her usual outfit of trousers and a linen shirt. Watching the sway of hips just now, Fitz wondered how he’d ever confused her for a small boy. He jerked his eyes away from the sight, cheeks colouring at where his thoughts had been headed.
“Here we are.” She pushed up a lever to light up a truly magnificent room. Along the far wall were glass jars filled with all sorts of bubbling, gurgling liquids. They crowded shelves that ran the length of the room and spanned from ceiling to floor. Fitz could swear he saw eyeballs peering out at him from one of the jars. Another wall was taken up entirely by books that Fitz fairly itched to get his hands upon. Electrical contraptions took up nearly every surface of the three wooden tables that sat in the centre of room. It was chaotic but beautiful (eyeballs not withstanding).
“Blimey,” breathed Fitz, turning wide eyes to Miss Simmons, who was watching him with a curious light in her gaze. “It’s a bit like Doctor Frankenstein’s lab, isn’t it?”
“You’ve read Shelley then?”
The shock in her voice set a scowl of Fitz’s face. “I am capable of reading. Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Oh no,” Miss Simmons rushed to say. She held out a placating hand. “I didn’t mean to – bother. I know you’re capable of reading, Mr. Fitz. Miss Johnson mentioned you even taught her to read while you were under the employ of that awful man.”
“Right,” Fitz mumbled quietly, sorry for his temper. “I just thought…”
“I haven’t given you much reason to think I believed otherwise, I suppose.”
“No,” Fitz said. “I haven’t given you much reason to believe otherwise, or to like me very much.”
Miss Simmons brought her gaze up to his. “We could start over, clean the slate.”
“That sounds like a splendid idea.”
She held out a small hand, pale and ink stained. The sight of it stirred something in Fitz’s belly as he took it delicately in his own. He was suddenly too aware of his own calloused hands, worn from work, as he clasped his fingers around her palm. Her hand was warmer than he expected, and soft. He didn’t so much shake it as hold it within his grasp. The lab was very quiet. As if from a great distance, Fitz could hear his own quavering heartbeat and suddenly-strained breath, but mostly his senses were consumed with the feel of her hand in his, and the hold of her gaze, a near physical thing. Her cheeks had gone pink again. Dimly, Fitz registered that neither had said anything for many long seconds at this point.
He cleared his throat as he watched her lips fall open, just slightly. “Leopold Fitz,” he said, voice low as if trapped somewhere deep in his chest. “But everyone just calls me Fitz.”
“Jemma Simmons. It’s very nice to meet you.”
“This is quite the lab you’ve got here.”
Suddenly, Miss Simmons turned a bright smile upon him, letting go of his hand to move toward the wall of bookshelves. The smile transformed her face. It was like a ray of sunshine lit the lab, brighter than any of Mr. Edison’s bulbs could ever be. “I think you’ll like this,” said Simmons.
His eyes followed where she pointed. “Philosophical Transactions,” Fitz read aloud.
“I noticed, in your, um, well, in your dormitory – well, this is every journal they’ve ever published, from its inception.”
Fitz ran his finger along the narrow spine of one of the journals before him, staring reverently for a moment before bringing his gaze, equally as reverent, back to Miss Simmons. “This is…” He trailed off, completely at a loss for words.
“Yes, well.” Her smile softened and then dropped from her face altogether. They fell into silence for a moment before Jemma spoke again. “I owe you an apology for ransacking your room the other day,” she said quietly.
“Oh no. I owe you one. We should never have – “
“Well, you were going to pickpocket somebody. Not that I condone a life of crime, but – you know – my parents, well, I was an orphan, and had Coulson not agreed to take me in, who knows where I may have – what I mean is. You did what you had to do.”
“Still – “
“And if you hadn’t picked me, as it were, you would not be here right now, so maybe it was – “
“Fate,” Fitz finished.
“I was going to say luck.” She smiled up at him, brown eyes shining. “But we can call it fate.”
“Would you care to dance, Lady Coulson?” Jemma turned to see a very dapper looking Fitz staring into her eyes. A periwinkle cravat was tied around his neck, and it brought out the deep blue of his eyes to such a degree that Jemma felt her breath catch. She had seen him just under an hour ago at the Academy – had actually helped him tie the cravat around his neck because his hands were shaking so from the nerves of his first true mission – but it still didn’t prepare her for the force of seeing him out in public like this.
“Oh,” said Jemma, “shouldn’t you dance with your betrothed?” Fitz sent a glance behind him, where Daisy, stunning in a deep fuchsia gown, was engaged in a waltz with another man. Jemma looked closer to see Daisy was dancing with Quinn.
“My intended is occupied at the moment. If you would do me the honor?”
“Very well,” agreed Jemma, placing her gloved hand into Fitz’s. She could feel the heat of his hand through the material. She was suddenly very grateful for Victoria Hand’s insistence that she practice her dancing so often, as the feel of Fitz’s hand on hers was enough to send her into a fit of distraction. Really, she thought, get a hold of yourself, Jemma Simmons; you are not some swooning damsel in those books Daisy brought you last week.
To keep her mind off the fluttering in her stomach, Jemma murmured quietly, “She moves very quickly.”
“She does,” Fitz agreed. “Though she also said I’m a horrible dancer, and she couldn’t suffer to allow me to step on her toes anymore.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Jemma smiled up at Fitz. “Your lessons with Mr. Mackenzie have paid off considerably. You’re quite good, though that shouldn’t be a surprise. You seem to be quite good at everything you turn your mind to.”
The compliment was out of Jemma’s mouth before she had time to think about it. She felt her eyes go wide. She would have regretted the slip, save for the way Fitz’s eyes went limpid and liquid as he smiled down at her. Jemma had to fight from letting her own smile grow too wide for fear of drawing too much attention to them.
“The serum in his left inside pocket,” Fitz said quietly.
“How do you know?”
“Do you see Daisy’s left hand?” Fitz spun them around so Jemma had Daisy in her sights. “The two fingers are crossed. It’s a code we developed.”
The whole operation was meant to be very simple, really. Fitz and Daisy were posing as a newly engaged couple dancing at the ball whilst using the device Fitz and Jemma had designed to pick the pocket of Dr. Quinn. It should not have taken more than an hour. Coulson had brought Jemma along, posing as his daughter, merely in case something malfunctioned on the device (“Not likely,” Fitz and Jemma had declared at the same time).
So of course, it all turned to rubbish very, very quickly.
Fitz had turned Jemma so they were side by side yet facing one another, opposite hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder, while their arms that were closest to each other both reached across to grab the other’s waist. Ms. Hand had called it the “slow waltz.” The length of Fitz’s arm felt warm against her stomach. Her whole body felt suffused with bubbles. Jemma had just arched her opposite arm above her head as her lessons had instructed her when she felt Fitz’s hand tighten on her waist. “Codswallop,” Fitz said. “What’s he doing here?”
Jemma whispered, “Who?”
“It’s Garrett.”
“The chimney man?” Jemma asked, confused. She glanced around as if to spot him, though she had never been close enough to know what he looked like. “What would he be doing here?”
Fitz nodded in Daisy and Dr. Quinn’s direction where a fashionably dressed man approached from the opposite corner. He had a barrel chest and a puffy, sallow face.
Dancers twirled all around them, a dizzying array of colour and silk, cutting Daisy, Quinn, and Garrett out of their line of sight every few seconds. Judging by the look on Daisy’s face whenever it swung into view, it was apparent she had yet to see the man. It was also very clear that he had recognized Daisy.
Jemma swore loudly, drawing a few disapproving looks from nearby dancers. She watched Garrett pull out a long, nasty-looking knife and press it against Daisy’s side. She and Fitz couldn’t hear the conversation from where they were, and Coulson was nowhere in sight.
There were at least twelve other couples between where Jemma and Fitz needed to be. Fitz was trying, not very successfully, to dance Jemma over to Daisy without making a scene. Finally, Jemma stepped out of his arms. Fitz threw her a startled glance and stopped abruptly. Without taking his gaze off Daisy and Garrett, he said, “We need to start dancing. You’re making a scene.”
He was right, of course, about the scene, though Garrett had yet to notice them.
“Give me the device,” Jemma insisted. Fitz, however, was barely listening to her, eyes intent on Daisy. Jemma huffed. She had seen Fitz put the device in a hidden pocket in his jacket, so she reached into it. Fitz spluttered.
“I can’t see Coulson anywhere,” Jemma explained at Fitz’s look. “You get Daisy. Make a scene, and I’ll get the serum.”
“It’s too dangerous. You need to go. Garrett, he’ll…”
“Garrett won’t know who I am. We need to complete this mission.”
“You could get hurt.”
“I’ve been at the Academy much longer than you. I’m perfectly capable.” She tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Now go. Get Daisy.”
With one last look at her, Fitz took off. By this point, no one was even dancing anymore, and the music had gone silent. Jemma held the device in her hands, waiting for a moment when Quinn would be distracted enough for her to take the serum.
She was so focused on Quinn that Daisy’s sharp slap across Garrett’s face startled her slightly. “How dare you?” came Daisy’s voice in a startlingly put-upon accent. “To accuse me of such – “ Daisy put a hand to her chest and sucked in a breath.
Fitz had come up behind Garrett just then. Seeing the two of them next to one another made Jemma cringe just slightly, for Fitz was really very small compared to his former employer. Not that he let that fact deter him. Fitz thrust his fist into Garrett’s nose, knocking the other man back slightly. Quinn had rushed over between them. Jemma inched closer. The whole hall was in chaos at this point. There were screams and shouts. Fitz yelled something to Garrett about impugning Daisy’s honour.
Jemma was close enough now that she could lever forward with the device. Quinn didn’t even notice as the vial left his jacket pocket for by now, Garrett had recovered and was throwing his considerable weight into a right hook that caught Fitz in the side of his head, knocking him to the ground. Both Daisy and Jemma screamed for him.
A hand fell on Jemma’s shoulder. She screamed again, pivoting toward the person with the intent to push them away but stopped suddenly upon seeing Coulson. “There’s a carriage waiting outside,” he told her. “There’s no driver, so you’ll have to take the reins. I’ll get Fitz and Miss Johnson.”
Jemma heard Daisy scream again, though this time her scream was accompanied by an almighty kick at Garrett’s genitals. Confident they were in going to make it out, Jemma rushed out and took her place as driver of the carriage.
In all the commotion when they arrived back at the Academy, Fitz had barely seen Miss Simmons before Coulson had sent her to the lab to perform initial tests on the vial they had recovered.
He was dizzy and too keyed up to go to sleep yet, so Fitz found himself alone in a dimly lit engineering lab, tinkering over one of Edison’s light bulbs as a way to calm himself. His cravat had long been loosened and tossed aside. He had undone the top buttons of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves.
“There you are,” came a voice, starling him and causing him to look up toward it.
“Miss Simmons,” Fitz said quickly, cringing when his voice cracked. He felt half rats suddenly, unsure if he should button himself back up or just excuse himself altogether. He wanted to do neither, though he moved a hand as if to do up his buttons.
“You could call me Jemma,” she said. “Miss Simmons is so – we’re probably past that, don’t you agree?” Her eyes had followed his hand, trained suddenly on his open collar. He cleared his throat. She swung her gaze to his face.
She was already out of the bright blue gown she’d worn to the ball. When Fitz had seen her earlier, when she’d stopped by his room to help with his cravat, he’d thought he should tell her she didn’t wear gowns enough; she had been such a vision, but now he was glad he’d held his tongue. This was how she was meant to be: trousers and a shirt with her collar exposed. Her sleeves had been folded up. She’d never looked more alluring.
Fitz let himself smile. “Jemma.” He tested the weight of his on his tongue. “Italian for jewel.”
Jemma’s eyes lit up. “Yes. My mother named me.”
“It’s fitting.”
She worried her lower lip between her teeth and puffed it out again, before sucking in a deep breath. “Right. I was coming round to see if you were okay. You weren’t in your dormitory, so….” She took a few steps into the room. She was holding a small jar in her hands. “What’s that you’re working on?”
“Oh, this? I’m trying to see if I can make the bulb burn longer.”
“Really, you can do that?”
Fitz nodded. “I think so. See?” He moved to uncover the diagram of the light bulb he’d drafted a few nights before. “Edison uses this arched filament, and his bulbs burn for thirteen hours, but I think by using this, a spiral filament, I can extend its life – “
“Of course,” she interrupted. “It will retain its heat for so much longer, probably ten – “
“Times, yeah. I think I can get it to burn for over one hundred hours, maybe longer.”
Jemma brought excited eyes up to his. “Fitz, that’s brilliant!”
Fitz smiled, looking into her eyes. Embarrassed suddenly, he glanced back down at his drawing. “It’s just a theory right now.”
“A very good theory. Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Course not.” Fitz went to hand her the parchment, but stilled when he felt her fingers against his inner forearm.
He had scars from what felt like another life running up and down his arms. Though he supposed he should be properly embarrassed, all he could think about was the way her soft hands made his breath catch in his chest and his heart thump in his ears. His eyesight maybe even went a little fuzzy.
“How’s your head?” she asked, though her gaze was pointed at her fingers upon his arm. Fitz’s chest felt packed with cotton.
“It’ll be fine,” he said, voice gruff in his ears.
Jemma finally lifted her eyes to his face. She was so close that he could see the flecks of hazel in her brown eyes, and the makeup she had painted over her eyelashes, making them longer and more spikey than usual. Fitz felt as if the lab had been captured in a bubble just then. It was suddenly so quiet and peaceful and intimate. They held eye contact briefly, until Jemma moved her gaze to the cut above his eye, courtesy of Garrett’s fist. “Bobbi did a good job stitching it,” she said quietly. She pulled back just a little and hefted the jar in her hand. “May I?”
Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded.
“Sit,” Jemma instructed. She nodded toward a bench, and Fitz sat down. She came in close to him, so that the freckles on her collar and chest were right in his eye line. Fitz was entranced by the heave of her chest, as if she was having trouble breathing. He spread his legs wide to allow her easier access. He could feel the heat of her body as if she were already touching him.
His hands clenched together on his lap as hers came to cup his chin, drawing his face closer for her inspection. He felt her smooth the balm she’d prepared over his cut. The peppermint smell was familiar. His eyes drooped shut as her hand lingered against his face. When he opened them again, it was to see her gazing down at him, a serious expression on her face.
Fitz licked his lips, watching her eyes track the movement. His whole chest felt cinched in a vice; it was a delicious struggle to breathe, but he caught her wrist and pulled her down very gently, giving her time to move away should she choose. Just as his lips brushed against hers, he saw her eyes drop shut. He felt like one of Mr. Edison’s light bulbs, just switched on. One of her hands grasped his shoulder while the other splayed fingers through his hair at the base of his head. His whole body felt filled with electricity as the soft pressure of her lips grew stronger and her hand moved around to cup his jaw, fingers digging into his cheek just slightly.
When they broke apart, Fitz spoke. “I never thanked you, you know, not properly,” he said. He brought a hand from her waist to push a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.
“Whatever for?”
Fitz held out his arm. “They would have been considerably worse, were it not for your balm.”
Her hand came back down to trace along his forearm. The touch was feather light and stirred him nearly as much as her kiss had done.
“I didn’t know if you’d remember,” she said softly.
Fitz met her gaze. “You, Miss Simmons – Jemma,” he corrected himself at her smile. “Are a hard person to forget. And it seems you’ve been helping me for a very long time now. I feel very lucky to have met you.”
They smiled at one another in the glow of the laboratory. “Perhaps,” Jemma said, buzzing her lips against his, “It was fate.”
The End