made a sudden inexplicable shift to the pea in the pod. She experienced a fleeting vision of Phaeton in conversation with the unborn child. Phaeton was intuitive in the extreme, he would sense the life inside her. She squeezed his arm to steady herself.
“Here we are.” Phaeton hesitated at the entry to the pub. “All right, love?”
America nodded. “Nothing a bit of refreshment can’t cure.” She wondered, frankly, how long she would be able to keep the child from . . . talking . . . so to speak. Or better yet, how she might break the news to him.
A favorite of sailors and dockworkers alike, the Silver Lion was as much a casino as a public house, featuring a variety of entertainments that could make a Portuguese sailor blush. For years America had half listened to a string of colorful stories told about the pub, and she was rather curious. It appeared the proprietors had converted the private dining rooms into a gambling hall, with a small space adjoining known as Cat’s Meat Shop.
Phaeton gave a nod to the backroom. “Peep shows, two a penny, featuring photographs of a depraved and indecent character.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Leastwise that was what the arresting officer reported to the Manchester Guardian the last time the shop was raided.” Phaeton leaned close and whispered, “Nothing you and I haven’t tried once or twice, darling.”
A shiver curved down her neck and spine. Suddenly it was as if they were alone in the casino. Her whole body, every nerve ending, tingled. She sensed his arousal spark to life. This mutual excitation they experienced had always been mystifying. It was as if they each felt the other’s pleasure as their own.
“What’ll it be?” Exeter cleared his throat and waited.
Phaeton broke the spell. “A pint for me.”
“Ginger ale,” she breathed, her words barely loud enough to hear.
The doctor went off to procure their drinks, and Phaeton settled in to watch two young women dance on mirrored tabletops. The clatter of coins on the looking glass encouraged the dancers’ skirts to rise ever higher.
“Seems like a great deal of money to get a peek at a girl’s quim,” America huffed.
“Actually, my dove, it’s more of a disappearing act.” Just as Phaeton spoke, a well dressed West Ender positioned a bottle right side up beneath the dancer. America tried to keep the blush away but heat flooded her cheeks.
Phaeton stretched his legs out and scanned the smoke-filled room. “Something isn’t right.” He nodded to a darkened corner and shifted his line of sight. He was concentrating on his peripheral vision—exactly as he had taught her to do on board the Topaz .
America concentrated as well, and a figure emerged from the shadows. A hooded entity stood like a sentry. Might there be more? She thought so, but couldn’t be sure. Human life forms, at least partially so, but what were they waiting for?
The clink of whiskey glasses returned her attention to the table. Exeter set down a bottle and two pints. “I sense four of them,” the doctor warned. “Two more, possibly, in the back.” He nodded to the gaming room behind their table. He uncorked the ginger ale and poured a glass.
“I find it oddly comforting that you see them as well, doctor.” America drank thirstily.
Exeter grinned. “So, you’ve both been practicing?”
Phaeton sipped his bitters. “My life has been idyllically unadventurous these last few months, leastwise with regard to the extramundane.”
Scanning the corners again, America caught a flicker of light—a glint in the shadows. A familiar feeling licked up her spine and unsettled her stomach. Terror. Phaeton had lived with these kinds of apparitions since he was a child. Growing up, he’d faced down any number of wily phantoms and snarling trolls. She marveled at his composure, as even now he paid little heed to the hooded figures lurking in the corners.
“They know that we know.” Phaeton flicked an eye roll toward
“Here we are.” Phaeton hesitated at the entry to the pub. “All right, love?”
America nodded. “Nothing a bit of refreshment can’t cure.” She wondered, frankly, how long she would be able to keep the child from . . . talking . . . so to speak. Or better yet, how she might break the news to him.
A favorite of sailors and dockworkers alike, the Silver Lion was as much a casino as a public house, featuring a variety of entertainments that could make a Portuguese sailor blush. For years America had half listened to a string of colorful stories told about the pub, and she was rather curious. It appeared the proprietors had converted the private dining rooms into a gambling hall, with a small space adjoining known as Cat’s Meat Shop.
Phaeton gave a nod to the backroom. “Peep shows, two a penny, featuring photographs of a depraved and indecent character.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Leastwise that was what the arresting officer reported to the Manchester Guardian the last time the shop was raided.” Phaeton leaned close and whispered, “Nothing you and I haven’t tried once or twice, darling.”
A shiver curved down her neck and spine. Suddenly it was as if they were alone in the casino. Her whole body, every nerve ending, tingled. She sensed his arousal spark to life. This mutual excitation they experienced had always been mystifying. It was as if they each felt the other’s pleasure as their own.
“What’ll it be?” Exeter cleared his throat and waited.
Phaeton broke the spell. “A pint for me.”
“Ginger ale,” she breathed, her words barely loud enough to hear.
The doctor went off to procure their drinks, and Phaeton settled in to watch two young women dance on mirrored tabletops. The clatter of coins on the looking glass encouraged the dancers’ skirts to rise ever higher.
“Seems like a great deal of money to get a peek at a girl’s quim,” America huffed.
“Actually, my dove, it’s more of a disappearing act.” Just as Phaeton spoke, a well dressed West Ender positioned a bottle right side up beneath the dancer. America tried to keep the blush away but heat flooded her cheeks.
Phaeton stretched his legs out and scanned the smoke-filled room. “Something isn’t right.” He nodded to a darkened corner and shifted his line of sight. He was concentrating on his peripheral vision—exactly as he had taught her to do on board the Topaz .
America concentrated as well, and a figure emerged from the shadows. A hooded entity stood like a sentry. Might there be more? She thought so, but couldn’t be sure. Human life forms, at least partially so, but what were they waiting for?
The clink of whiskey glasses returned her attention to the table. Exeter set down a bottle and two pints. “I sense four of them,” the doctor warned. “Two more, possibly, in the back.” He nodded to the gaming room behind their table. He uncorked the ginger ale and poured a glass.
“I find it oddly comforting that you see them as well, doctor.” America drank thirstily.
Exeter grinned. “So, you’ve both been practicing?”
Phaeton sipped his bitters. “My life has been idyllically unadventurous these last few months, leastwise with regard to the extramundane.”
Scanning the corners again, America caught a flicker of light—a glint in the shadows. A familiar feeling licked up her spine and unsettled her stomach. Terror. Phaeton had lived with these kinds of apparitions since he was a child. Growing up, he’d faced down any number of wily phantoms and snarling trolls. She marveled at his composure, as even now he paid little heed to the hooded figures lurking in the corners.
“They know that we know.” Phaeton flicked an eye roll toward
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