Escapade by Walter Satterthwait Page B

for an instant in the light of the moon.
    It came still closer. It glided out of the moonlight and it became a silhouette, black against silver.
    Four feet away.
    Three feet.
    Two feet from the bed.
    It leaned toward me.
    I whirled over, swinging my arm. Aiming my fist into the hood, at the spot where its chin should be.
    My knuckles clipped the corner of something.
    The figure toppled to the carpet, boneless and slack.
    I sat up, turned on the light, jumped from the bed, bent down and turned the figure over. The hood fell away
    Cecily Fitzwilliam lay there, out cold.
    I said an impolite word.
    

    CECILY'S EYES opened. “What?” she said. She blinked.
    I took the damp washcloth away from her face and dropped it into the ceramic basin I’d set on the floor. “Everything’s okay,” I said.
    She blinked again. Her eyes were still unfocused.
    I moved the lamp on the nightstand a bit farther away. “Everything’s okay,” I said.
    She looked at me. “What happened?”
    She was lying on my bed. It wasn’t a shroud she was wearing, it was a white silk robe with an attached hood. She was naked beneath it. I had learned this when I scooped her up and stretched her out along the bed.
    “You tripped,” I said.
    “I . . .” She winced. She reached up and put her fingers to her chin. “I hurt, ” she said. She looked vulnerable and lost and about twelve years old.
    “Must’ve banged yourself when you fell. Probably what knocked you out.”
    Suddenly her eyes opened wide. She looked quickly around the room, then back at me. I was sitting on the edge of the bed in my bathrobe. Her own robe was belted shut but she clutched at it with both hands and tried to draw the front of it closer together. She moved to sit up and then winced again and fell back to the pillow. “What are you doing here?” She was whispering now.
    I smiled. “I was just going to ask you the same question.”
    “But this is Mr. Houdini’s room!”
    “We switched.”
    She frowned. “Switched?”
    “Exchanged rooms. What did you want with Mr. Houdini?” She lowered her eyebrows. Her hands still gripped the front of her robe. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”
    Her flat, bored drawl was gone. Maybe it was something she hung up at the end of the day, with her clothes. Before she started wandering into other people’s rooms.
    “I handle his appointments,” I said. “Usually he doesn’t have any at two o’clock in the morning.”
    “I . . . If you really must know,” she said in a ferocious whisper, “I wanted to ask him something.” She winced again and she brought her left hand up to her jaw. “ Ow . ”
    “Ask him about these?” I held up the object she had brought into the room. I had found it on the floor after I picked her up. A pair of handcuffs.
    Her hand dropped to her chest and she blushed. It was a spectacular blush, a deep crimson that tinted her face from the hollow of her throat to the top of her forehead. It told me everything I wanted to know about her coming here, and then some.
    I tossed the handcuffs onto the bed.
    She looked down at them and then looked back at me. She raised her head. “They’re my grandfather’s,” she whispered defiantly. “Part of his collection. I thought it might be amusing if Mr. Houdini taught me how to unlock them.”
    I nodded.
    “It’s the truth ,” she hissed.
    “You don’t have to whisper,” I said. “No one can hear you.”
    She glanced toward Houdini’s door. Looked back at me. Carefully, as if trying to decide whether I was telling the truth. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. She blushed again. Not as spectacularly, but still fairly well. She opened her eyes wide and she said, “Are you saying that, about no one being able to hear me, because you have designs on my virtue?”
    “Your virtue is safe,” I said.
    She looked down at her hands again, and when she looked up into my eyes she was smiling. She was trying for boldness and she got there.