Chapter 3 - The Search in the Snow
London at two in the morning on Christmas Day was a city asleep under a blanket of fresh snow. The streets of Notting Hill were deserted, the festive crowds long gone to their warm homes. Arthur walked briskly, his designer shoes sinking deep into the drifts, his eyes searching every alley, every doorway, every shadowed corner.
He returned to the square where he had met the girl. The snow had covered her tiny footprints, leaving no trace of where she had gone. Panic, a feeling Arthur had not experienced in decades of high-stakes corporate negotiations, gripped his chest. London was vast, cold, and unforgiving. How was he supposed to find an eight-year-old girl and her mother in a city of millions?
He remembered her words: "Mom says sometimes people who seem to have everything need hope the most."
He began asking the few people who were still awake—a night-shift street sweeper, a taxi driver parked near a closed diner, an old woman wrapping up her flower stall. He showed them the envelope with the crooked stars and the drawn blue lily.
"Ah, little Lily," the flower seller said, her breath fogging in the crisp air. She adjusted her thick wool shawl and looked at Arthur with mild curiosity. "Sweet child. She comes by every weekend to buy the dropped stems for her mother."
"Where do they live?" Arthur asked, his voice trembling, pleading. "Please, it’s urgent."
"The old baker’s building on St. Jude’s Lane," the woman replied, pointing toward a narrow street two blocks away. "Third floor. But mind your manners, sir. Evelyn is a good woman, works herself to the bone fixing clothes, and she’s had a hard life."
Evelyn. Not Eleanor.
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Arthur’s heart sank. A wave of confusion washed over him. If the mother’s name was Evelyn, who was Eleanor? And why did the child have the photograph?
With a mind swirling with questions, Arthur hurried toward St. Jude’s Lane.
