Chapter 23: Duggaroo

Nell squeezed her hand sympathetically. "Chin up, duckybird. From the dockside kicks an' ballihoos I've feathered, fallin' in among the lilies o' the East End is just one sure kick down the apples an' pears from them toff-bridzers up Crown Hill way. But you're still brackin' it, same as any other squalor-mog in our pucker."

She raised her tankard in a mock salute. "So let's have a gargle to whatever bringlatter thrillflats or badchi gullywhoppers set you dodgin' down slippy into the loving hangarms of our little Matranker, eh?" 

Nell's warm hazel eyes danced with suppressed mirth at Elara's bemused expression. "What's the matter, dove? Thought us Eastlanders were just a unbradchicked lug of unalphabetters too bungwallin' thick to follow a born britcher like yourself slobberin' her gallick?"

Catching the younger woman's mirthful tone, Elara felt her rigid sense of propriety loosen its grip, if only for a moment. With an uncustomary abandon, she lifted her own tankard to clink against Nell's in a toast. "Well then, a 'gargle' to recounting the unlikely twists of fate that landed me amongst such...civilized companions in this delightfully archcultured pucker!"

The two young women dissolved into shared laughter, drawing curious looks from the other denizens of the Anchor's taproom. In that fleeting moment, Elara felt the clouds of her former gilded existence part briefly to let in a much-needed shaft of light and irreverent camaraderie. 

Down here in this watchful demimonde of unwritten rules, violence, and seemingly incomprehensible slang, simple joys were all too rare. If rollicking banter with roughspun street rogues like Nell was to be her infrequent respite, Elara would seize it gladly amidst the relentless demands of mere survival each day brought.

Of course, such fragile reprieves were always temporary in the unforgiving East End. No matter how staunchly Maggie Doyle enforced her iron decrees within these hallowed walls, the escalating shadow war between crime lords like Mad Jack McVitie and Sly Sam Hawkins was rapidly spiralling beyond any single woman's power to contain.

As Elara was destined to learn all too soon, neutrality and sanctuary were mere illusions amidst the ruthless life-or-death struggles waged by those who ruled through fear, violence and spilt blood. When the inevitable conflagration between Mad Jack and Sly Sam erupted, even Maggie's formidable influence would prove a mere tinder flame before the all-consuming inferno.

And those few like Nell and Elara herself, who had dared seek safe harbour within the Matranker's domain, would find themselves overwhelmed by the chaos - forced to make a resolute stand and embrace the brutal Domingue in hopes of surviving the vicious cycle anew.

For tonight, however, Elara allowed herself to relax amidst the raucous cheer and unlikely camaraderie. The storm was coming, to be sure. Meanwhile, she would seize this momentary respite from the East End's ruthless streets with Nell as her unlikely,salt-tongued guide through its perils.

After sharing several more rounds with Nell and absorbing an equally dizzying assortment of slang lessons, Elara found herself being ushered out of the taproom and up a rickety flight of stairs by her new streetwise companion. 

"Come on then, peckish birdie," Nell said with an impish grin, taking Elara's hand to steady her slightly uneven gait. "Time to get you rogued up for the night before Maggie starts lampin' us swankin' about on rickeys when she needs the jakes bottled up." 

They emerged onto a dimly lit corridor lined with numerous doors in varying states of disrepair. The pervasive stench of sour bodies, smoke and stale liquors hung like a miasma, making Elara's eyes water. Nell seemed utterly inured, leading her unhesitatingly toward a room at the far end.

"Here we are then, duckybird - my little duggaroo when I need to lie stay for a bine or two." She fished out an impressively large ring of mismatched keys, quickly finding the right one. "Don't mind the rattler decors, I nicked most of it off some mordishly wealthy nanti up Streatham way..."

The door swung open to reveal a surprisingly spacious chamber, if barely larger than a discreetly appointed linen closet back at her family's opulent Crown Hill manor. Still, after imagining, vermin-infested rookeries, the very fact that the room was fully enclosed with solid walls struck Elara as the height of luxury.

"It ain't much, but she's a proper duggaroo." Nell said with a hint of pride, ushering Elara inside. "Solid oak bunger for keepin' out any narsties or mara-crackers what might come skulkin', and just enough apples for you to get a bine in privatetott afore we go charin' with Mags in the umbers."

Elara gazed around in bemused amazement at the bizarre collection of curios and sundries that adorned every available surface - from tarnished candelabras to weather-stained oil paintings of grim-faced aristocrats to rusting swords and even what appeared to be genuine marble statuary tucked into every corner. 

"You're..quite the accomplished...terrier, it seems," she managed at last, fingers tracing the ornate patterns etched into an otherwise pedestrian-looking ceramic mug filled with hardened wax stubs. She shot Nell a sidelong glance. "This is all...'mordishly wealthy nanti' property I take it?"

"Ding ding, give the bird a badger for her smarts!" Nell cackled, flopping gracelessly down on the creaky bed, its feather mattress still bearing the indentations of countless other guests over the years. "Got me a right savvymog for spottin' the blingarees amidst the chum, ain't ye?" 

When Elara didn't immediately respond, merely continuing her silent appraisal of the ill-gotten finery, Nell laughed again and patted the coverlet beside her. "Go on then, love - get them prinked up taters up on the bunghuddick afore that gawgey goes stiff as Tedder's ammer from rampin' all night down the hanleys."

Flushing slightly at the irreverent invitation, Elara nonetheless felt a palpable weariness seeping into her very bones. Between the dim, hazy atmosphere of the tavern and the soothing lullaby of Nell's colourful Cockney slang, she found her usual anxieties over maintaining rigid decorum loosening their habitual grip. 

Toeing off her scuffed boots, she settled gingerly onto the lumpy featherbed, instinctively recoiling at the pervasive staleness of the linens. Just months ago, she would have recoiled in horror at the very notion of soiling her crisp ivory nightrail on such squalid bedding. Now, mere survival had become paramount over niceties.

"There's a birdlime!" Nell grinned in approval, shrugging off her own mud-splattered overcoat and cap to reveal a wild tangle of chestnut curls. "No need to get them titterlies in a luddlite, just bobbed on the bunghuddick and get some bine in privatetott afore the umbers. You've had a right bam-skuller of a first day in the pucker, ain't ya?"

Elara stifled a yawn, conceding the point as she tucked her legs up onto the questionable coverlet. Though she missed the simple luxuries of her former life - the crisply starched sheets, a mountain of goosedown pillows and overstuffed mattress warmed by discreetly buried bricks - she had to admit there was a humble charm to this little sanctuary within the Anchor's sturdy walls.

"Thank you, Nell..." she murmured, unable to resist another jaw-cracking yawn. "For...the hospitality. And the rather...vivid education today in the local... colloquialisms." Her eyelids already felt impossibly heavy, the comforting haze of the room combined with the day's exertions lulling her into an unaccustomed sense of security.

Nell just grinned and plucked a kerchief from amidst the eccentric bric-a-brac to scrub at her face, leaving smudges of kohl beneath her eyes. "Better get some bine in while you can, ducky. Tomorrow I'll bell us up for an umberling jarve with ol' Maggie herself."

Though half-asleep already, Elara managed an affirmative murmur around another cavernous yawn. The Matranker herself...Maggie Doyle, the fierce but principled mistress of this unassailable sanctuary amidst the East End's brutalities. Meeting her in person for an 'umberling jarve' - whatever that was - seemed only fitting now that she was poised to delve deeper into the Borough's dark underbelly of warring kingpins and iron-fisted matriarchs.

Already, Nell's outrageous tutelage was instilling in Elara a grudging appreciation for the dizzyingly nuanced culture of machismo and vigilant brutality required to survive these savage streets. Whether that harsh crucible would ultimately reform her resilience or obliterate whatever remained of her former self's ideals remained to be seen.

For now, she would seize this ephemeral solace of a relatively peaceful bine alongside her unlikely new protector. Tomorrow would bring its own trials and further immersion into the callous codes governing the East End's food chain of gullywoppers and custlebrutches.

Slouching deeper into the nest of musty linens, Elara allowed Nell's softly whistled air and the distant clink of tankards below to cradle her into an uneasy but mercifully dreamless slumber. Her final drowsy thought was to hope that on the morrow, Maggie Doyle herself might offer some sage counsel for navigating the maelstrom of savagery swirling just beyond the Anchor's stalwart doors.

Despite the relative peace and security of Nell's little duggaroo, Elara's slumber was far from untroubled. As the comforting clinks and laughter from the taproom below faded into the night, her mind was inexorably drawn back into the swirling maelstrom of pursuit and violence that had consumed her privileged existence...

She was running, though from what she could no longer say. Towering swathes of inky blackness seemed to coalesce into malevolent forms all around her, driving her ever onward through a lightless void. Spectral hands grasped and tore at her tattered gown as she fled blindly on, Her only companions the harsh rush of her own ragged breathing and the furious throbbing of her heart.

On and on Elara ran, her body screaming in protest as her bare feet found fresh torment with every punishing stride. At times the darkness itself seemed to sprout wicked fangs, snapping hungrily at her heels and drawing spurts of hot crimson in their wake. Still, she pressed onward, driven by the primal need to escape the smothering existential dread nipping at her very sanity.