A familiar tale with a twist. Vern's life as a poor matchboy is hard and cruel. Starving and freezing, he loses consciousness, and when he awakens, thinks he must have died and gone to heaven.
Instead, he finds he's been rescued by Oren, a doctor and inventor, who lives with his sister and brother-in-law.
Each man is attracted to the other, but both fear to speak of the attraction thinking it would be misinterpreted, especially when a friend of Oren's seeks to keep the couple apart.
But Vern has a plan. He crafts a gift for Oren, intended to reveal his heart in a way he's unable to put into words. Will the matchboy's gift win the heart of the inventor?
Sitting in his carriage, bundled up against the inclement elements, Oren stared out of the window, frowning as he tried to see past the snow, which seemed determined to foil his attempts.
Perhaps he was a fool, but this time -- this time -- he would buy a box of matches and hopefully exchange a few words with the young match seller.
The young man he sought looked in need of a good meal, a bath, and some new attire, but something about the man’s deep brown eyes had haunted Oren’s dreams for the last few days.
He can’t make much of a living selling matches. He’s not my business, yet I can’t forget him. At worse he’ll just laugh and walk away.
“Auton, stop the carriage.” As soon as he gave the order, his vehicle stopped. “Leave the horse switched off, and come down here.” Oren waited for his automaton to come to the door. He was justifiably proud of his creations; both Auton and his clockwork horse were his inventions.
The grey metal face of his robotic servant appeared at his window. “Turn around, Auton, use lantern vision, and scan into the alleyway.” Auton’s eyes became powerful beams of light that Oren used to look first into the alley then the doorways of the buildings nearby.
The match seller has been here at this time three nights in a row. Why didn’t I speak sooner? Maybe he’s --
“Auton, stop! Slowly, move back a few feet. Yes! There. Stop! Follow me!”
Leaving the carriage, Oren strode forward. He was certain Auton’s lights had shown something, and a crowd never gathered without a reason. “Move aside, please. Let me through.” Oren pushed past onlookers who gawped at what he prayed was just an unconscious young man. Oren dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse.
Thank you, Lord.
Not only did Oren detect a faint, but rapid, heartbeat, but heat seared his fingertips.
He has a fever. He won’t survive if he remains in this cold. He’s so malnourished and his clothes are little more than threadbare rags. Why did I wait? I can’t -- I won’t -- leave him to die.
“What are the police about, allowing his kind to simply lie dead on our streets?”
At the callous words, Oren turned to glare at a woman had the good grace to blush before looking away. He’d seen no pity in her eyes, just disdain.
Now they all stare. Now they all stop to look. Yet not a one of them has asked me if they can help in any way.
“He’s not dead. He still lives. Just. Auton, pick him up and follow me to the coach.”
Rising to his feet, Oren waited for his automaton to obey him, and then strode quickly back to his carriage, the gathered crowd parting for him and his machine.
I don’t know anything about him, but I’ll not leave him to die in the street as macabre entertainment for this crowd.
“There are matches scattered around. He must have been trying to light a fire. Such things shouldn’t be allowed. What if a child had come across him?”
Oren didn’t so much as glance around at the speaker. He’d seen the spent matches. You mean what if one of your children saw him. A child of the streets like him wouldn’t even merit a moment’s consideration from the likes of you. Banking his anger, knowing a retort would be wasting his time and his breath, Oren continued to his carriage. Opening the door Oren settled himself inside.
“Pass him to me, Auton, then get back into the driver’s seat and take us home.”
The youth seemed to weigh almost nothing. I know I’m well-built and that working with metal as I do has given me a good, strong musculature, but still, he seems so frighteningly light. Without any difficulty, Oren was able to lay him on the seat, his head in Oren’s lap, and then Oren threw his blanket over the thin, frail body.
Hold on. You’ll soon be somewhere warm and safe. Just hold on a little longer. He stroked the young man’s fevered brow and the matchboy seemed to react. Unsure of whether he could be heard, Oren continued with the caress.
“I’m taking you home. Don’t be afraid. I’ll take care of you. All you have to do is get well. We’ll be there soon.” Oren hoped and prayed he wasn’t too late.
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