Page 5 of Plucked By the Orc

Iris read the papers whenever she could get her hands on one. She knew something of these chappies from the Hidden Realm, that secretive land way up north. King George had seen fit to ennoble the first orc to tread on English soil, recognizing the wealth from trading in their fancy sapphires and such. The merry Prince Regent had got on famously with the Orcan duke as well, presenting him with an open invitation to what the papers called the alternate court at Carlton House.

When the first Duke of Barrington passed, theTimespublished a lengthy obituary. Now, about a year on from the duke’s demise, his eldest son was left to carry on his legacy. For this reason, Iris was inclined to trust Duncan Higgins more than she would a human man. Fair or not, he was burdened not only with his personal honor but that of his people.

“Iris, ‘ave you heard a word?” Lottie declared.

“I’m sorry, luv.” Iris had heard every word. Some gent had tried to take advantage, assuming Lot was willing to sell more than flowers. Unfortunately, that sort of thing was familiar enough, but she admired Lottie’s spirit in dealing with it. “I’m glad you got a good lick in, I am.”

“You seem distracted. Are you all right?”

“La! Why wouldn’ I be?” Iris was all right. Doing fine. Just fine, indeed, thank you.

Yes, she had lost her mother at the tender age of five years. And yes, when her mum passed, her father seemed to have given up on his own life as well, relying less on hard work and more and more on porter and ale to make the days bearable.

Having no siblings nor extended relations of which to speak, Iris had been left alone in the world to take care of herself. And did a fine job of it, she did.

Granted, for a while, she’d slept rough on the streets. Iris chose not to dwell on memories of those times, huddled under blankets as the rain dripped down the eaves of a church near Covent Garden where the parson allowed poor unfortunates to make a home for themselves on the steps outside. Thanks to a few choice friends, first among them Lottie Greenstreet. Lot had a friend at the nearby flower market who collected cast-offs for flower sellers and pinched a blossom or two when supplies ran low. Iris soon had a thatched wicker basket of her own. She kept it full of tulips, hyacinth, and forget-me-nots in the spring, and pansies, hollyhocks, and snowdrops in the winter.

With these meager provisions, Iris had joined Lottie in front of the Theatre-Royal at Drury Lane. There, much to her surprise, gents parted with sixpence or even the odd schilling to buy flowers for the ladies accompanying them. The wives, mothers, and daughters who couldn’t spare more than a passing glance for the likes of Iris Gabbert.

Whether these gentlemen purchased flowers because they genuinely wanted them or because they felt sorry for her, Iris couldn’t say. What did it matter when, within a few weeks, she’d set enough coins aside to make her way into one of the long row of cots in a doss house. And then, armed with an abundance of holly and mistletoe tied with jolly red and green ribbons over Christmastide, her profit from the Theatre-Royal provided her share of the rent on this place.

As for getting anything more from life than a bedsit in which to sleep and enough to eat? Well, she hadn’t given that proper thought in a long while. She and Lot had talked about opening a flower shop of their own one day, but that day seemed distant indeed.

Until this Duncan Higgins brought it all back to her with the simple suggestion that she could make something of herself after all.

Speaking correctly would be a good start to all that. For much as Iris liked to read and could form thoughts in her head that she knew were clever, she’d struggled to make those same ideas transfer properly from her brain to her mouth.

At first, her East London inflections had been affected, for she’d quickly learned that gentlemen and the occasional lady preferred purchasing flowers from a woman who seemed born to the streets.Not a woman once genteel, who’d fallen destitute due to circumstances beyond her control. That would only remind them that such a fate might befall them one day. And so the accent had stuck.

“I’ve a dilemma, I do,” Iris told her friend. “It’s distractin’ me a bit.”

“Out with it then!” Lottie said, blowing a puff of air on a wiry red curl that had strayed in front of her eyes.

In as few words as possible, while Lottie fiddled with the brass key rattling in the lock on the door, Iris related what had happened earlier. She emphasized the loss of her flowers before moving on to the conversation between herself and the green-skinned chappie, and his peculiar offer to teach her to speak like a lady.

“Why, you have to accept!” Lottie cried, stepping over the threshold.

“I don’t know that Ihaveto do anything.”

Iris pronounced her “h” distinctly, like a proper lady, and followed her friend inside. Each of them had a mattress tick stuffed with straw and wood shavings. A shared pitcher and night table stood in the middle of the room. Old nails half-screwed into the boarded walls served as hooks for their cloaks and hats and underthings when they needed drying.

“But you’re a sensible gal,” Lottie said. “Always ‘ave been.”

Iris tossed her poke bonnet, her namesake flower—so regal when she’d affixed it to her hat this morning, long since gone—onto one of the nails sticking out of the wall. Iris Gabbertwasa sensible woman. “The sensible thing is to go about business same as usual, and not get distracted by stuff and nonsense.”

“Do you trust the lad? What’s ‘yer sense of ‘im”

Some on the streets were scared of orcs, but Iris thought him a right gent, if haughty. Duncan Higgins, Duke of Barrington, owned not only a proper title, but the virtue of polite manners. Not that appearances told the whole story. She understood that well enough.

She didn’t know why she thought this fellow was different. And yet the sense she had of him was that a kind heart lurked underneath that gruff demeanor. Something about his comment about being an expert on thetonintrigued her, she supposed. Coming to London from that Hidden Realm of his, he was an outsider, like Iris. Difference being he was an outsider with plenty of coin to spare.

The fact of the matter was most humans still knew little to nothing about the place or the orc blokes that resided there. Iris got her hands on a broadsheet often enough to know that Duncan Higgins, his brother, and mother—and his father when he still walked the earth—were the only orcs who had made it to London so far. But that would change, it would. More of them were coming, and then maybe some English folks outside a secretive ambassador or two might have the chance to go up and see that lot with their own eyes.

The Orcan world had a distinct language, customs, food … anything you could think of that made people into people, human or orc. This scared folks who wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything different or newfangled. From Iris’s vantage point, which she thought a fine one, truth be told, this wasn’tanything to fear. The chance to interact with an entirely new world meant opportunities.

“Seems a decent sort near as I could tell. Respectable and all. Besides, I got my friend ‘ere.”

Iris removed her dagger from inside her pelisse, tossing the ribbon that held it in place aside. This blade was the only item her father had provided her before walking out of her life forever. She tucked it under her pillow, a habit she’d picked up at the doss house and which she’d no intention of abandoning.

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