Here's a new story idea. Much darker than what I usually write. We're learning about Whitechapel in History, which is where this idea came from. This is rated M since, due to it being set in 19th Century Slums, there will be mentions of things like prostitution and violence, and I'm paranoid of being reported.

Note: I do not agree with any racial/ religious/ social prejudices mentioned in this story. These are just examples of ones that would have been present at the time.

Clary's an Irish-born pick pocket trying to survive on the streets of Whitechapel in 1888 without reverting to prostitution. She's stolen the frozen heart of Jonathan Morgenstern, local gang leader and has managed to construct a stable, reasonably safe life through her friends and allies in the slum, just trying to stay out of the path of the notorious Jack the Ripper. But when she tries to pick pocket a journalist, there to investigate into the Whitechapel murders, and he catches her, she never expected him to let her go. Provided she gives him and his siblings an insight into her world, of course. Aside from jealous gang leaders, racial tensions, a string of murders, and that strange being known as love, what can go wrong?

Disclaimer: I don't own TMI...

8:00am, September 8 1888, Whitechapel High Street

Clary kept her sharp eyes trained on the man standing near the scene, or - more specifically - the fine, lovingly crafted fancy handkerchief hanging out of his pocket.

By the way he was feverishly scribbling in his notebook, his head inclined to listen to the exchanges the police were having, she guessed he was a journalist, or at least an apprentice, judging by his fresh age. He had he had curly hair as bright as the gold chain on his enamelled pocket watch, and had a tall, muscular frame that Clary knew would dwarf her own. His head was turned away from her, but she could see enough of his front and side profile and the way he was dressed, to know that he was at the very least part of the middle class, if not one of the more modest wealthy families.

She presumed he was standing next to the police as they barked at each other because of the murder that had occurred in the early hours of that morning. She could tell by the slowly gathering crowd that word was only beginning to reach the residents of the district about it. She wrinkled her nose as she observed one young couple skipping down the High Street, heedless of the dirt and sewage staining their shoes, chatting away excitedly. She shook her head. Most viewed murder scenes as entertainment to be gawked at, places to go for a family outing. It was ridiculous.

Clary had found out about the event so early through the rumours circulating around the alleyways. No one knew the alleys better than her, and she knew exactly where to go and who to ask to find out information. People always found it strange that she, a lowly pick pocket, could wield so much power amongst the criminals who called the district home, but it was her invisibility that granted her that power. No one had any qualms about spilling secrets to the little curious girl, whilst they might hesitate if faced with a known notorious felon.

She watched the crowd slowly clog the street and suppressed a grin. Perhaps it was cold-hearted of her but she always took advantage of the situations caused by crime investigations; it drew in a crowd, which was the perfect environment for pick pockets.

At the moment, she was loitering in the doorway of a nearby tavern, looking to all the world like a prostitute tired out from the night. The only parts of her you could see from the perspective of those standing near the murder scene were the white smudges against the shadows. Even her brilliant scarlet hair - a sign of her Irish heritage - was dirty and blended into the muddy, filth-smeared wall with surprising ease. Her posture was as straight as a squashed S, her hands dangling with faked exhaustion, and her head drooped. The only parts of her that looked alive were her clear green eyes, which darted around the crowd, landing on the faintest twinkle they detected, and scrutinising how easy it would be to pull the wool over the eyes of her targets.

She moved out of the shadows into the little light that filtered through the murky, dust-ridden air as she heard the tell-tale sounds of the owners of the tavern getting up - pots clanking, stairs creaking, voices clattering. As soon as the shadows melted off of her figure, her demeanour changed completely. Her wilting shoulders were hammered into a straight line, her posture became erect, her dainty hands came down to fiddle with the hem of her dress. Her head stayed tilted downwards, her hair appearing brown as it fell in her face, but now it was in nervous modesty, rather than hopelessness. She became a fragile daughter of a respectable family, here to see what all the fuss was about.

Keeping her head down, she skirted delicately around the gossiping gentlemen, who were exchanging theories about the reason they thought was why the police were making such a big deal of a mere prostitute's murder. She would have smirked, but it would have affected her mask, so she fought it.

The police were interested in this case because of the expertise of the dismemberment. It was an oddity to begin with, so now it'd happened twice, it was an oddity to investigate.

Of course, neither the Metropolitan police nor the City of London police had anticipated having to fight over the scraps of evidence like dogs over scraps of meat.

She finally lowered her eyes to the ground, to maintain the image of a demure daughter, but they flickered up to observe her target every so often. He hadn't changed position and was still intently eavesdropping on the police officers as they went round banging on the doors to the houses that bordered Bucks Row, where the murder had occurred. One in particular stopped harshly questioning the housewife who opened the door, to walk over to him. The officer had straight, ink black hair and milky pale skin, almost as pale as Clary's herself, only without freckles. His deep blue eyes were solemn, and he carried a faintly irritated air about him.

The blonde journalist said something whilst grinning, and the officer scowled. Shaking his head, he turned away, appearing to mutter something Clary was willing to bet was less than complimentary.

She narrowed her eyes at the officer as he stalked back to his comrades. She knew him. Officer Alexander Lightwood. He was one of the regular policeman who patrolled Whitechapel, and was probably the best at his job. He was incredibly attentive. It was the pick pockets unspoken challenge: if you could steal from him without getting caught, you were the best, and gained unrivalled respect.

Needless to say, no one had done it yet. If you were caught, you could be sentenced to three months hard labour, which was a punishment no one wanted to receive.

The journalist huffed in what looked like a cross between an annoyed sigh and an amused chuckle, before turning around to shove borderline rudely and unceremoniously through the gathering crowd. She trailed him with a soft tread, glancing around cautiously in a way that would have made any onlooker think she was wary of pick pockets herself, if they bothered to spare her a glance. Which most didn't.

He walked for a few streets, before ducking down a side road and coming out through the shadowed walkway onto Commercial Road. He stopped a little way ahead, leaning his broad frame against the grimy wall. He was perfectly positioned so that he was just out of sight of the pedestrians as he scribbled something into his notebook. For the first time she noticed a heavy-looking silver ring on his left ring finger, inscribed with a H and a pattern of herons.

A faint smile lurked on her vaguely pretty features at this realisation. Now she recognised him. She'd stolen from him before. He was more attentive than the average citizen, but wasn't an impossible target. In the past eighteen months she'd gathered a few silvers, three colourful handkerchiefs, and six fine gold chains from him. He came here often.

She fastened her eyes onto the shimmering square of fabric that had been folded and stuck carelessly into his back pocket. He seemed engrossed in his own world, so she crept forward on silent feet, reached out a small hand which caught the corner of it and tugged ever so gently. It slid out as smoothly as anticipated, but there was a hint of resistance. She furrowed her brows and bit her lip. A sudden jerk as she finally pulled it free-

Clink. She cursed without words. She hadn't counted on there being change in his pocket. Now it felt to the ground, a winking silver disk. She glared at it as it hit the rubbish-decorated pavement with an incriminating clunk.

She turned to run into one of the alleys she knew so well, stolen handkerchief waving behind her like a golden goose, but slender, strong fingers wrapped round her wrist in a firm grip she couldn't break. Using her arm as a lever, the journalist spun her round to face him, wearing an infuriating smirk as he surveyed her surprise and distress.

"Well, well," he drawled, looking amused, despite the faintest trace of panic she read in his eyes. "Do we have a little pick pocket, here?"

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously."

His eyebrow rose and his head tilted as he picked up on the faint lilt to her words. "Irish, are we?"

"Born and bred in Whitechapel." She replied with a blank face. She noticed him trying to look past it and failingly. She grinned, which just seemed to baffle him more. "Parents migrated after the potato famine." She had picked up her slight accent from listening to them talk. Overall, she sounded fairly English.

He opened his mouth slightly. "And what's it like, living in London with all the racial discrimination going on?" He forced his voice to appear curious, but she saw his eyes flick to the notebook in his right hand. The pen he'd been writing with was still in the hand ringing her wrist, pressing up against her slowly steadying pulse.

"I'm not going to answer your questions like someone being interviewed, whilst you stand at the possibility of reporting me for theft. I have more pride than that." She stated matter-of-factly.

He just looked amused now, though also slightly impressed. "Pride is an expensive thing in the slums."

"One I can well afford." She lightly pulled on her wrist, but his grip didn't loosen. "Now, can you either let me go quietly, or just turn me in, because this is really getting on my nerves."

He grinned broadly. For the first time she noticed that his glinting eyes were a dull gold, as opposed to brown. "And here I thought you were warming up to me."

"You need to work on your people skills," she said, mock seriously. He chuckled, and she was struck by how it seemed to light up his face. His wicked smile made him look like a fallen angel.

"Well then," he narrowed his eyes at her. "how about this: If you return the handkerchief, I'll give you another, more valuable one, then let you go. However, if you want to fulfil the deal then tomorrow, you have to meet me and my siblings in Mitre Square at seven am sharp tomorrow and give us a detailed insight into the backstreets of Whitechapel."

She looked at him with her face scrunched up. "Why on earth would you want me to do that?"

He looked at her unfazed, like he was used to reluctant acquaintances. Perhaps he was. "My sister and I are co-writing a story about the conditions of Whitechapel, and the abundance of crime, so the rest of our class can know what it's like not just from garbled rumours." His eyes sparked dangerously. "And you seem like a girl who knows the streets well. The perfect guide. And along the way, you can tell us a bit about yourself." He tilted his head, scrutinising her. "Call it a case study."

There was a moments silence. "I'm Jace Wayland, by the way." He said, hurriedly, seeming to realise he was bartering with someone and he didn't even know their name.

"Clary Fray." The redhead studied him thoughtfully. "One last question," she said. Her hand was starting to ache from oxygen deprivation; his grip was tight. "Why would you want me to return the handkerchief, just for you to give me a more valuable one?"

His joking expression fell, and he chose his next words carefully. "That particular one was hand-stitched by my late mother," he admitted eventually. "It has sentimental value."

She nodded solemnly. "Fair enough."

He looked at her with genuine curiosity now. "You understand the value of sentiment?"

She kept her expression guarded. "Your not the only one who's lost a family member. You're not the only one who's known grief."

His eyes became shadowed. "I'm sorry," he said. She shook her head.

"No, you're not. No one is. That's just something you're required to say. Don't say it if you don't mean it."

"But I do mean it," he replied earnestly as he released her wrist. She rubbed it, and he pulled out a pale blue handkerchief with elaborate embellishments on it, which admittedly did look more valuable than the one she'd originally tried to steal. "I'm sorry for talking down to you. I'm sorry for thinking of you as less than human, just because of where you live. I'm sorry for being a spoiled rich kid who's made assumptions about places he's never been to for my entire life."

"Well in that case," she accepted the proffered garment. "Apology accepted, Jace Wayland."

13:00pm, September 8 1888, Taki's

"How did it go? What lavish goods do you bring back to this household, today?" Magnus asked cheerfully, leaning against the bar to his tavern and inn, surveying the redhead with a jolly interest, taking in her empty hands with obvious disappointment. Clary shrugged as the door swung shut behind her. It was the hour before lunch when the tavern - Taki's - was closed, and the only person in the main room was Catarina, Magnus' friend and co-owner of the franchise. Catarina was sweeping the floor of broken glass and nodded at Clary as she came in. She knew the older woman didn't approve of her activities, but they liked each other well enough as people.

Clary had spent another four hours or so looking for potential targets and trying to use the rest of the crowd to steal at least something of value. A few times she had seen dropped silvers lying in the street and pocketed them. Purely by doing that she could have gained an average day's harvest, but her slip up earlier had instilled some sort of fire in her to prove herself. Her pride had taken a beating, and now she had sworn to redeem her skills.

Finally, when the crowd no longer rendered the High Street incapable of passage, and her ankles were aching from the tension she kept coiled in them, ready to move, she had retreated back down the road to where Osborn Street joined Whitechapel Road, walked up that a bit, then dodged into the alleys that were her territory to avoid the peeler she could see pacing ahead. Not that she couldn't escape from him if he stopped to ask her awkward questions, like why she was carrying stolen goods, but she would rather not have her face flagged as a known felon.

When she'd reached Miller's Court, she'd stopped to relish in the familiar roll of heat emanating from the roaring fires in each of the taverns - which burned even at noon - and the burning sun of the Ides of September. Everything about the square felt like home to her: from the stench of gin-ridden vomit, to the squeak of rats scurrying through the non-existent gutter, to the constant, calculating glares of the paupers who couldn't afford to stay at Taki's, which was one of the better quality inns.

She could imagine plenty of middle and upper class citizens turning their noses up at her lifestyle, and had seen many a policeman - whether they be from The Metropolitan Force or the City of London - wrinkling theirs. But it was all she'd ever known, and she knew it was luxury compared to what the twelve hundred odd prostitutes had to put up with.

"Oh no," Magnus said now, eyeing her dejected posture as she strode through the room like she owned it. "What went wrong?"

Clary pulled up the high stool behind the bar and sat with her elbows on the counter, directly opposite from Magnus. She thumped down the handful of goods she'd nicked: Jace's handkerchief, five gold and silver pieces, two coppers, three shillings, and a beat-up bronze pocket watch. She saw her benefactor raise his eyebrow. "Not a bad haul, biscuit." He whistled as he polished a glass.

"We do better once we've made mistakes," she murmured in response. He looked up at her low voice.

"What's been bothering you?"

"I got caught," she mumbled. To his credit, Magnus remained calm, though the parental worry radiated off of him.

"Well, mistakes are made by the best of us," he consoled soothingly. "How come you're here and not in some labour camp?"

She recounted her tale of what happened, Magnus' eyebrows disappearing further and further into his hairline as he abandoned his task and turned his full focus onto what she was telling him. She didn't need to look to know that Catarina was listening just as intently.

Those two had been like parents to her ever since her own had passed away. Jocelyn and Luke Fray had been respectable citizens of Ireland, before the potato famine came and forced them to migrate to London, where they ended up in Whitechapel. Clary had been born soon after. They had both been struck by cholera about five years ago, leaving a twelve-year-old Clary desperate for food and money. She had taken to pick pocketing the policemen who patrolled the area, and thankfully never got caught. To sell her stolen goods she would come to Magnus, who took pity on her and gave her permanent lodgings in his inn. She worked in the bar during the evenings, and all in all became a part of a little family comprised of her, Magnus, Catarina, and Simon, who was another immigrant: a Jewish boy who worked the bar during the afternoons. He and Clary were close friends.

There had been two other owners who owned a share in the franchise, Ragnor Fell and Tessa Gray, but a few months after Clary's arrival Ragnor had gone on a 'retirement trip' to Peru, and Tessa had married into a higher class. Clary forgot her new last name.

"Are you actually going to meet him there?" Magnus asked her seriously.

She shrugged. "Do I have a choice?" Magnus couldn't argue with her on that point. "You're not... upset, that I failed?" She asked tentatively, with nervousness that wasn't faked. Magnus' gold-green eyes softened.

"Of course not," he said reassuringly, then said in a more joking tone "and I'm not going to throw you out, if that's what you're worried about. You're the only reason I don't have to pay protection money."

Clary grinned at him at that, knowing he was kidding. Protection money was a payment business owners had to deliver to the local gangs in Whitechapel, so they wouldn't wake up one day with their windows smashed in. Magnus had always made a habit of joking that she somehow freed him from having to do so, but he never seemed inclined to elaborate.

Just then a loud creaking on the worm-eaten stairs round the back alerted the three to the waking of the fourth and final permanent resident. Simon Lewis slowly plodded towards them, eyes shadowed and still full of sleep. Simon, as well as having the afternoon shift, had to supervise the tavern until three am, when Catarina first got up, so he had the right to sleep in. Not to mention he took the responsibility of stealing from the last few dregs of people walking the streets once evening fell and Clary was on her shift at Taki's. "Morning," he said optimistically, or as optimistic as one could get in Whitechapel.

"More like afternoon," Clary admonished, but she was smiling. She and Simon were like siblings, and used as much banter as they did as well.

"Details, Fray." He said, sitting down next to her at the bar and snagging a slightly old apple from the bowl set out. He bit into it, made a face like he always did, but kept eating until it was gone. "How went pick pocketing?" He asked absently.

Magnus planted his palms onto the counter and leaned forward. If that didn't get Simon's attention, his words certainly did. "Clary got caught."

The effect was instantaneous. Her dark-haired friend whipped round to face her. His mouth hang open in shock, with strips of apple dangling out, and his chocolate eyes were wide. "What?" He all but shrieked.

She grimaced mildly, and he spluttered. He looked like someone had told him the stars were made of sparkling rocks. "You don't get caught, " he stated, pointing an accusing finger at her. "What happened?!"

She recounted the tale again, this time in less detail with more cursing of the incriminating coin. Simon shook his head.

"But you're the best." He said. "If you got caught, what hope does everyone else have?"

She picked up one of the silver coins resting on the table and flipped it. She caught it out of mid-air, then looked at the side it had come up on: the head of Queen Victoria stared disapprovingly up at her, the abundant jewels she was bedecked with seemingly to taunt her. "No hope, Simon. None at all." Her voice was sarcastic with a flavour of bitterness. "No one had any hope to begin with. We all know we'll die young compared to those rich kids who can actually afford the bare necessities of life. The reason we fight for survival is to determine how young that is."

Her sudden change in demeanour, like a thunder-filled cloud suddenly blocking out the sky's light, shocked everyone in the room into a silence that Clary at once sought to break.

"So how did the night shift go?" She asked, turning to her friend. He raised an eyebrow at her knowingly; it was a well-known fact that Clary hated small talk. But he humoured her.

"As loud and insufferably boisterous as ever." He sighed. "Come two am I was cleaning up someone's vomit."

"Again," she grinned at him, though she empathised. It wasn't the first time it had happened to either of them. "Male or female?"

"I couldn't tell." She laughed with him, before a thought seemed to strike him. He leaned over to the shelves on the inside of the counter and pulled out a grimy letter, with a familiar scrawl on it that made a grin spread over her face. "Jonathan dropped by."

She unfolded the note, reading with excitement the short message written there.

Was this any good?

By the way, I'm trying to make the chapters longer than I normally have them in this story. This will probably mean slower updates, and more grammar/spelling mistakes (I can't proofread in as much depth). Is anyone interested in betaing this story, so you don't have to suffer through reading the mistakes?

Review?