Dear Mr. Dickens,
Since you was so kind as to publish my story in your magazine, lots of folks have been sending me lots of letters asking me about stuff what happened what I don’t know about. Seems like they want to know how a priest what got himself chucked out the church, and the Arch Rogue of Gaslight, being only the prissiest motherswinker whatever held a knife to your throat, wound up in what I reckon ye might call love, or as near as passes for it.
Things is, I never did get the whirligigs to ask Ruben himself, but I done some asking round, and I think I got the shape of it.
’Cos it’s Ruben’s story, I tried to write it all proper and inkhornish like he’d like it, and Byron Kae has checked all the spellings for me, so you don’t have to ask that nice Mr. Collins this time.
I ain’t so sure about the commas.
Alexis Hall was born in the early 1980s and still thinks the 21st century is the future. To this day, he feels cheated that he lived through a fin de siècle but inexplicably failed to drink a single glass of absinthe, dance with a single courtesan, or stay in a single garret. He did the Oxbridge thing sometime in the 2000s and failed to learn anything of substance. He has had many jobs, including ice cream maker, fortune teller, lab technician, and professional gambler. He was fired from most of them.
He can neither cook nor sing, but he can handle a 17th century smallsword, punts from the proper end, and knows how to hotwire a car.
He lives in southeast England, with no cats and no children, and fully intends to keep it that way.