Lola was a name that grated on my ears. Most people considered it sonorous and calming, but after my teenage years, fraught with rebellion, Lola was a name uttered in exasperation rather than cooed.
THat is why I insisted Spencer call me Lara. It was a close sound so that I would still answer to it, but distant enough from my childhood that I could free myself from my past mistakes. He didn't seem to care either way. Lola, Lara, both names meant love to him and loving me was all he knew to do.
He found me in the gutters of the Great Library. I was scavenging for what scribes-stock and fire starters I could after the other street urchins had raided my hoard and wrecked my box home. Spencer peered down in the gap, sticking his head in without any concern for his own safety or rather he was simply devoid of common sense.
"Allo, love," he greeted me, offering right away what I was starved of most. "Can I help you in any way?"
"No." I meant to say yes, but outside in the cold, I had used No so often that I forget the other words.