Against my better judgement, I decided to send a letter to what used to be known as Thrice Lucky Tailoring. The master of this company, Trate Hawthorn, used this business as a front to mask his criminal activities, accompanied by several boys of whom were trained as gentlemen, of which I was once a member. My letter read as follows:
Trate Hawthorn,
I hope that this message finds you well.
I am writing to you to enquire about the current situation of the company Thrice Lucky. I appreciate that it has been some time since I have written, however as I’m sure you can appreciate, I have been quite busy seeing to my own affairs.
I am keen to hear how both you and the other employees are faring. You can write to me at 2 Chestnut Street, Hamglen, Bree-land.
I look forward to your response.
Best wishes,
Rufus Caswell
I decided to use my alias to avoid any incriminating evidence, just incase the true nature of the company had been exposed over the years. Weeks past until I received a response, which reads as follows:
Rufus Caswell,
You have some nerve. Given that we have not heard from you for what has almost been two decades, we took you for a dead man.
Thrice Lucky has thrived in your absence, as I presume you have too. Thank you for providing your home address, please expect us in the coming months.
Regards,
Trate Hawthorn
In short, I am well and truly buggered. My reservations of reaching out to Trate were well founded, to say the least. The thought of him in Bree, after all this time, is enough to turn my stomach. What does he hope to profit from this visit? What does he hope to gain? I am almost certain he’s not coming to have a heart-to-heart, reminiscing on the good old days. There must be some interior motive behind all of this.
As I allowed this to sink in, there was a slither of a silver lining behind it all. My brothers, specifically Rook. We were inseparable in our youth and went through a great deal together. The idea of seeing him again, after all this time, gives me a brief respite from the dread of it all. But what would he make of me now? Would he consider me a sell-out, having abandoned my mission to become wealthy and important? But then, surely they have changed in their own way, too? Trate did mention that they’ve ‘thrived’ in my absence. Perhaps they succeeded in the grand plan where I had failed. To become rich, respected and part of the greater society. Images of Trate in expensive silks, with his keg belly emerging from a gilded carriage did seem quite amusing. Providing they do not try and tempt me into my old ways, in retrospect, I see no harm in this… visit.
