Horacio Ashmont's Arc

Chapter 12 of 12

The visitor stopped three paces away, close enough that Horacio could see the fine weave of his coat. The man's face hadn't changed much—older, yes, but still wearing that careful neutrality professors had favored during examinations. "Ashmont." The man drew out a gold pocket watch, checked it, then tucked it away. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen you myself. Eight thousand four hundred pounds to E. Scrooge & Co., all told. The records are public now, you know. Your creditors filed with the court last month." Horacio's throat went dry. The amount hung in the air between them like something solid. He'd known the debt existed, had signed the papers years ago when wine and cards had seemed more important than tomorrow. But hearing it spoken aloud—here, in the street where anyone might pass—made it real in a way it had never been before. A bicycle rounded the corner just then, its rider braking hard at the lamppost. Siobhan. Her face showed she'd heard every word. The Oxford man tipped his hat and climbed back into his carriage without waiting for a response. Horacio stood frozen as the wheels clattered away over the cobblestones. Siobhan set her bicycle against the lamppost and walked toward him, her expression unreadable. He'd spent months building trust with her, careful conversations over bread and soup, shared laughter about the absurdities of the East End. Now she knew exactly what he was—not just poor, but ruined. A man who owed more than most people in this neighborhood would see in a lifetime. The distance between them felt wider than it had a minute ago, and he had no words to bridge it.