"Poverty is the parent of revolution and crime."

~Aristotle

"Eh, Miss. Ya all right, then?"

"Hm?" she had a look about her…she wasn't paying attention at all.

"She t'ain't listen' t'all," the old woman said to her husband. "I said, d'at'll be 2 pence," she had upped the price of the grapes 1 full token, but the woman was smiling all the same.

"Oh, yes. Thank'ee," replied the young woman, and she paid her 2 pence.

Jane Foster turned and began her walk down Whitechapel Road, bustling with merchants and peddlers and such. It was early London, in August, 1888, and the place was hot with close air…

She nibbled on her grapes, nodding to the other merchants she recognized with a "Mornin'" or a "Fine day." Jane's father had owned the apothecary shop just on the outskirts of Whitechapel, in Spitalfields market. He had fallen ill, and Jane, being bright and competent in all things science, took over. Her mother long gone, and Jane the only child. Dr. Foster had never remarried, his only excuse that he preferred the work of the shop to the work of the home.

So Jane walked on toward the market, about a five minute stroll from Whitechapel Road. She enjoyed her morning constitutional.

She arrived at the aptly named, "Foster's Apothecary and Finery," though Jane had always wondered what was so "fine" about anything in the shop. The place required some attention, it was accumulating a thick layer of dust on top of the cabinetry. August had touched the innards of the store, and the heat was stifling.

Jane threw the windows open and breathed what she could of the air, not so fresh. London had many scents which most people had learned to ignore. Jane, unfortunately, wasn't one of them.

She set about readying the place for the day when she heard the tinkle of the bell indicating someone had entered.

She was bent over, rummaging through the drawers at the bottom of the cabinet. "Be right with you," she said.

"Oh, no rush. I quite enjoy the view."

Blast.

She abruptly stood, wiping a stray hair from her face. "Mr. Odinson. What a dubious pleasure."

"Haven't I asked you to call me Loki?" and he ran a finger across the counter. "Really, Miss Foster. You keep a filthy shop," he smiled, and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together to rid himself of said filth.

She hurriedly wiped the place he was standing. "No children to scare this morning, Loki?"

He smiled. "The masses are ridiculously daft, Jane," ignoring her jab, and he sat in a chair by the window; as she covertly rolled her eyes. "No one reads anymore."

"You chose a poor spot for your bookshop," she returned.

"It wasn't my idea. Odin fancied himself a philanthropist, peddling knowledge. I inherited his mistake," he crossed his legs, a smirk curled on his face.

Jane had heard all of this before, and didn't care to hear more. Loki often bothered her out of boredom, his bookshop, "Asgard," was always in the red. He blamed everyone for it…everyone except himself. Thor, his older brother, was the most common recipient of his ire. Luckily for Thor, he had moved to a neighborhood north of the city proper, but Jane had forgotten the name.

She had always liked Thor. He was genteel and proper.

Loki, while proper, wasn't so genteel.

But he would come to her shop and complain, and Jane found him mildly amusing, so she seldom complained. They would trade jabs, then round about ten in the morning, the shop would get busy, and Loki would leave for his own establishment. His family was wealthy, so they had hired him some help. He could afford to pester Jane while someone looked after Asgard.

"Do you suppose you'll pick up this autumn?" she asked.

"Well, unlike you, I keep a tidy shop. If you want to wait until October to pick up, I doubt you'll enjoy much business."

Her hands were on her hips. "I was referring to your business. Your customers! Gah, you are infuriating," she spat.

He laughed. "I don't pretend to understand the patterns of the uneducated, Jane. Either they will start to read or they won't."

"'Tisn't their fault they didn't go to school," she replied defensively.

"Whose is it, then?"

"No one's. Stop trying to assign blame."

"You are educated, Miss Foster," he smiled.

"It was important to my parents that I was," she gathered some more ingredients and placed them in the mortar, ground them with the pestle, putting some muscle into it. "Look….I'm quite busy Loki. Can we continue this discussion later?"

"If you like," and he stood.

"Very much," she smiled falsely.

He laughed at her. "You wound me Jane. But I do enjoy these little talks. They are quite diverting."

"I'm so pleased you enjoy our banter," she was guiding him to the door. "I really live for it. Now, off you go," she ushered him out.

Loki was left laughing as she propped the door open.

He turned, still smiling, and headed for his shop down the block. He wasn't lying, he very much enjoyed the way he and Jane spoke. It was one of the only things he truly looked forward to. So he made the most of it by seeking her out at least a few times a week.

She was incredibly naive in so many ways. But that was part of her charm.

"Mornin'," he said to a few other merchants. He wasn't as liked as most, but he knew how to work his charm. It wouldn't do to be surly and abrasive to everyone.

He entered Asgard. "Well, Fandral. How is business thus far? Bustling?" he poured himself some brew.

"Oh yes. I'm needing to close the shop for the amount of people in here is over capacity," he turned a page of the book he was reading.

"What are you on about, man? We have no capacity limit!"

Fandral laughed. "How is Miss Foster? Still as lovely as ever?"

"If you think her so lovely, perhaps you should invite her to one of those drunken evenings you so enjoy."

"I doubt a lady such as she would appreciate that."

"Precisely," and Loki went to the back to see to his ledgers.

August 7th…

Jane was mixing and collecting her monies when Mrs. Jameson came in her shop in a tizzy. "Oh! Miss! 'ave ya 'eard? Martha Tabram!" Her eyes were wide and she was breathing heavily.

"Sit down, Mrs. Jameson. You are overwrought."

"It's been all over everywhere this mornin'…she was found, killed she was…and so much blood, Miss!" Jane had escorted her to a chair and gave her some water.

"Now, Mrs. Jameson. Please tell me what happened."

"Thirty nine times, she was stabbed! Thirty nine, Miss! And her neck…" she began to sob.

Jane Foster held Mrs. Jameson's hand as she wept, an ominous feeling descending upon her in her small shop that August morning.