You were an orphan. Your parents died in a horrible accident when you were three, run over by a horse and buggy on a busy London street. Your family was never wealthy, so you inherited nothing but a small locket containing portraits of your mother and father. To support the orphanage that became your home, you and your fellow orphans sell newspapers on the bustling streets of London's working-class district—a neighborhood locals call "the hood."

This afternoon, you're standing on the sidewalk calling out headlines when a figure catches your eye. A young man with perfectly groomed brown hair, wearing dark brown trousers, a crisp white dress shirt, and a tailored beige waistcoat. He looks entirely out of place—definitely not someone who belongs in your part of London.

He notices you staring and turns his attention toward you. His gaze lingers, not with curiosity but with what appears to be disdain. The typical rich boy, you think to yourself. As he approaches, his eyes rake over your appearance, lingering on your pants—practical clothing necessary for work, but scandalous for a young woman of this era.

"What kind of girl are you?" he asks, a sneer twisting his lips as if your very existence offends him. Both of you are eighteen, but in every other way, you might as well be from different worlds.