The alley was too narrow for light to enter fully. What little remained of it mingled with the flickering glow of a lamp suspended by the doorway of a house with a worn façade. There, movement never ceased—it merely changed its rhythm.
Sebastian Harrow halted a few steps from the entrance.
The woman observing him carried herself with a firm, almost regal posture, despite the surroundings. A dark shawl draped over her shoulders with unexpected elegance. Her eyes, however, were pure calculation.
"You are not a client," she said, before he could even open his mouth.
Harrow offered a slight nod.
"And you waste no time."
A faint smile crossed her lips.
"Time is money… and safety. Here, both are scarce."
She stepped closer, appraising him from head to toe.
"Well then? What are you seeking in Whitechapel, Mr.…?"
"Harrow."
"Of course it is," she replied, as though the name held little importance. "And what would a man like you want with my girls?"
"Information."
The smile vanished.
"That usually costs more."
Harrow produced a few coins and let them be seen, without yet handing them over.
"I was told you are familiar with… all manner of people who circulate here."
She glanced at the coins. Then back at him.
"I know enough."
"Then tell me about a distinctly elegant man who has been seen regularly in the streets of Whitechapel."
The woman scratched her temple.
"I suppose you're referring to the man with the portraits."
"An artist?"
A pause. Brief. But perceptible.
"Artists?" she repeated, with mild disdain. "This is no gallery."
"No. But it is… inspiring, from what I hear."
She crossed her arms.
"And who told you that?"
"Someone who can no longer confirm it."
Silence.
The woman looked away for a moment, as though arranging her own memories.
"There is one, yes," she finally said. "Strange."
"In what sense?"
"He watches."
"Many do."
"Not like him."
She stepped a little closer, lowering her voice.
"He doesn't choose. Doesn't bargain. Doesn't touch."
Harrow held her gaze.
"What does he do, then?"
"He draws."
The word came out almost as an irritation.
"He draws the girls. Sometimes for hours. As if he were… measuring every inch."
"And they allow it?"
"Money buys patience."
A pause.
"And silence."
Harrow finally handed over the coins.
"Does he draw only prostitutes?"
She shrugged.
"I know what happens in here."
Then she tilted her head slightly, studying him. A vague gesture with her hand. Harrow frowned.
"So he has a preference."
She held his gaze a second longer than necessary.
"Everyone does."
Silence.
The lamp flickered in the wind.
"And what is his?" Harrow asked.
The woman smiled again.
But now there was something different in it.
"He likes people who don't move much."
A moment.
"Makes the work easier. But what truly unsettles me is that, from time to time, he takes the girls outside to be drawn—if you understand me…"
"What do you mean, outside?"
The woman gave a playful shrug.
"Oh, imagine that. He takes them somewhere secluded and asks them to undress. According to them, always very politely. He draws them very quickly. Then he leaves."
Harrow absorbed the statement without reaction.
"Where can I find him?"
She hesitated. Not out of fear. Out of choice.
Then she recited the address.
When she finished, she stepped back.
"If I were you…"
"You wouldn't go?"
"I would," she corrected. "But I wouldn't look for too long."
Harrow stored the information.
"Why?"
The answer came simply:
"Because some people learn by looking."
"And some people learn… by doing."