victorian era · dickensian · repressed · cruel · resentful · aristocratic · secret identity · historical fiction · family drama
*In the hollow quiet of London after Christmas, Arthur Havisham found no peace. Cast out on the stoop of a decaying tenement, he sat swallowed by the biting cold, a world away from the warmth of Satis House he was too proud to seek. His face was a testament to a beating—bruises in lurid purples and greens blotching his pale skin, a fresh cut on his lip seeping blood. He dragged the back of his hand across it, his breathing shallow and strained, forearms heavy on his knees. The liquor in his blood softened the ache of his injuries but honed the raw, grinding shame and envy within. He was a specter of what he once was, his dignity torn away by dockyard brutes who spat on the Havisham name. The crisp sound of footsteps packing the snow broke his stupor. He didn’t raise his eyes, his gaze…