After the first child was hired, the others couldn’t be bothered to watch the commotion anymore and rushed to finish their work.
Oliver’s fingers were trembling, but he soon focused intently on assembling the parts and raised his hand.
Before long, ten children had finished their assembly.
In addition to Oliver, his companions were also hired; not a single one of the five children under Fagin was left out.
The remaining spots went to other ordinary children from the East End who had heard the stories, including Bella, the girl who had been telling them.
Arna announced the news and led the hired children to the second floor, pushing open the dormitory door.
Oliver’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
Inside were five double-decker wooden beds. They looked brand new, and each was spread with clean straw.
“You will live here,” Arna said, handing the key to the oldest child in the group, Lucy. “As the group leader, you are responsible for supervising everyone to maintain hygiene.”
Lucy nodded and gripped the key.
Soon, the children became familiar with the layout of the factory, and they unanimously agreed that their factory owner, Little Mr., was a mystery.
Unlike other factory owners, he didn’t send overseers down to punish them or catch them making mistakes. Instead, he spent his time running around inside and outside the factory.
On a rare clear day, the morning sun shone through the newly repaired windows, casting a golden glow on the floor of the second-floor dormitory.
Although the air still carried a faint scent of fresh paint, it was much fresher than the alleys these children had once called home.
A breeze blew through the open windows, and the lavender hanging on the walls swayed gently, releasing a crisp fragrance.
Since arriving, everyone seemed to be protecting this hard-won environment, including Charley Bates, who had complained incessantly at the beginning.
Meals were served on time, kind people sent warm and clean old blankets, no one cursed at them for talking, and no one stole their food while they slept.
Just yesterday, they had even seen meat in their meals—not that sham of a watery, tasteless broth, but real meat. Even if each person only got one piece, it was precious.
Oliver woke up early, but someone was even earlier.
Lucy, the little leader of the group, was already outside. She had likely finished washing up and was now diligently rinsing the steps with a basin of water.
He rolled out of bed and began helping to tidy the room and clean the factory. Then, kneeling on the floor, he carefully placed the assembled parts from yesterday into a box one by one, handling them gently and arranging them neatly.
These were not like anything Oliver had ever seen, nor were they like the small items Mr. Essas had him make during the test.
Many people, hearing that the factory no longer did textiles and had abandoned its reputation to process miscellaneous parts, thought Mr. Essas must be mad.
But… Oliver felt that Lucy knew what these were for. At least, she knew a bit more than they did.
He had once seen the older girl holding a part thoughtfully, lifting it with fascination and observing it against the light.
While working, Oliver liked to let his mind wander.
But compared to the painful and angry thoughts of revenge after being beaten, what he could think about now was completely different.
He recalled the sunlight in his dreams, the smell of sun-dried straw that reminded him of summer fields he had once seen—clear weather with a light breeze and rustling leaves, far away from dampness, fleas, and lice.
Someone tapped him on the back.
“What are you thinking about, Oliver?” his friend, Doug, asked. “It’s time to eat, friend. You wouldn’t want to miss breakfast.”
Mrs. Laura from nearby had proudly taken on the job from Mr. Essas, cooking for the children every day and filling those hungry mouths.
Though she talked a lot, nagged, loved to complain, and kept her earnings a closely guarded secret, her cooking wasn’t bad.
“I was thinking,” Oliver’s hands paused. “Um, just thinking.”
It was more of a murmur to himself than a reply to Doug. “…Do you think he knows?”
The former master thief looked down at him. “Knows what?”
“About… the things we’ve done…” Oliver said hesitantly. “The other things?”
He instinctively glanced toward the door to ensure no one was eavesdropping.
Doug’s half-grin froze. After a moment, he forced a smile.
“Of course he doesn’t!” he said, perhaps comforting himself. “Do you think rich people pay attention to that sort of thing? He’s soft, like fresh bread. People like that only believe in the best side of things.”
The breakfast bell rang, clanging away.
Doug jumped up and ran toward the kitchen shouting, declaring he would beat everyone else in today’s breakfast speed race.
Oliver sealed the box properly before standing up to eat.
At the thought that such days could be ruthlessly destroyed, an idea flickered in his mind.
That idea wavered like a tiny flame, making him involuntarily look forward to the next time their factory owner, Mr. Essas, appeared.
The subject of their conversation, Arna, was currently tidying the reins and adjusting the carriage to make it look more orderly.
She had rented a carriage, paying a fixed monthly fee for daily use. The carriage company was responsible for feeding the horses, daily cleaning, and storage when she wasn’t using it.
This was much cheaper than actually buying a horse and carriage frame, and more cost-effective than calling a carriage every day.
Most importantly, driving it herself allowed her to control the speed, which was even better!
…She just had to watch out for the horse’s wear and tear.
But that wasn’t a problem! There was nothing that couldn’t be solved by feeding the horse!
Watson happened to come downstairs, his small medical kit under his arm, not forgetting to look down and adjust his gloves.
He was thinking of calling a carriage when he saw Arna sitting on the driver’s seat.
He looked at Arna curiously. “Essas, are you going to the factory again? Are you driving yourself?”
Arna patted the rail beside her.
“Is that so, Doctor,” she said with a smile. “I’m heading there now. Want a lift?”
Watson had waived her medical fee last time, so she didn’t mind being generous, using a bit of the carriage’s durability to give him a ride.
Watson hesitated for only a second before smiling.
“Ah, how generous of you,” he said happily, carrying his medical kit up and finding a seat. “I happen to be going near Whitechapel; a patient there needs a follow-up. This saves me the trouble of calling a carriage.”
He added casually, “Did you learn to drive before? In Yorkshire?”
“Not exactly,” Arna thought back to how she had only learned to ride horses and tame cattle on the farm in the original game, nothing as high-class as the city. “I learned recently.”
She was very confident. “It’s simple. You just watch and you get it.”
“It seems you’re a natural at this,” Watson joked. “You know, most people would rather spend the time they’d use driving on finding something to amuse themselves.”
He adjusted himself to sit more comfortably. “If there’s a chance, I’d like to visit your factory…”
Arna wasn’t listening to a word he said.
Gripping the reins, she said cheerfully, “Hold on tight, Dr. Watson!”
No sooner had she spoken than Arna flicked the whip, and the carriage shot forward like an arrow from a bow.
As the carriage reached full speed, Watson’s grip on the rail grew tighter and tighter.
He began to feel that getting on this carriage was a mistake.
Arna held the reins, howling happily as she took sharp turns. Meanwhile, the hat on Watson’s head nearly flew away.
“Good heavens—!” he shouted, forced to free one hand to catch his soaring hat while the other gripped the rail.
“Doctor, watch out! Grip tighter!” Arna shouted into the wind, not slowing down. “We’re going to accelerate!”
“Wh—What?!” Watson said in terror.
The beast that looked like a horse was moving so fast it seemed ready to fly. Its hooves hammered the road frantically, as if the Devil himself were chasing them from behind.
Was this really a speed a normal carriage could reach?
As Arna wove between carriages and pedestrians, Watson, who was currently questioning his life choices, gasped, his knuckles turning white from gripping the rail.
When the distance narrowed to just a few inches of clearance, he held his breath, feeling he was about to die with his eyes wide open.
“Maybe—er, slow down a bit?” he managed to say, his voice strained as he instinctively leaned back.
“Almost there!” Arna replied happily.
Her speed had reached a whole new level; she was about to unlock a new achievement.
A moment later, the carriage came to a halt.
The lively horse tossed its head excitedly. After a while, it affectionately pressed its head into Arna’s palm, enjoying a comfortable head rub while taking the opportunity to eat the beans in her hand.
Meanwhile, Watson climbed down from the carriage on shaky legs.
His face was a mix of green and purple, and his expression was complicated. He looked as if he wished he could go back fifteen minutes and strangle his past self for agreeing to the ride.
Too trusting. Too careless.
Watson now felt not only that his stomach was turning but also that his heart was thumping violently, as if it were about to jump out.
“You,” he panted, leaning against the nearest tree and letting out a long sigh. “You drive like an absolute madman, you know that?”
Arna, who had just received the title of “Death-Defying Speed King,” blinked.
“But we saved twenty minutes compared to usual,” she said earnestly. “Cherish time. Time is money, efficiency is everything, Doctor.”
Watson groaned, pressing his forehead against the rough bark of the tree as if praying for someone to save him.
“Next time,” he wheezed, “I’ll definitely choose to walk, even if I have to walk to Scotland.”
As it happened, Doug, who was responsible for cleaning the kitchen today, walked into the factory carrying a bucket of water and overheard the conversation.
“Oh, Mr. Essas, will you be driving again in a while?” he said playfully, shaking the bucket. “I’d pay to see that again! I’d even go fetch another bucket of water and scrub the breakfast pots again.”
Watson let out a dry heave and said weakly, “Please, for the love of God, don’t.”