man against the wall was wistful.
Colin’s eyes darted to Madeleine, who looked poised to bolt. “Very well.”
“Ye’ll need to come closher.” The man crooked a languid, fi lthy finger. Once, twice.
Colin glanced back at Madeleine, and he gained an impression of snapping livid dark eyes, fair skin, and very pink cheeks. Impatience , it might have said be neath her image on a woodcut.
Colin leaned over. “Yes, sir?”
That filthy hand came up to entreatingly grip his shirt. “Tell me . . . ” His friend wondered mistily. “Yer doxie . . . wash she . . . wash she . . . good ?”
“Was she good ?” Colin was all stern indignation. He paused eloquently. “Good God, man. I don’t pay her to be good .”
It took a moment for this to soak through the gin.
And then the man released Colin’s collar to slap his thigh and he gave a great shout of phleghmy laughter. His breath was like the vapors of hell, and Colin reared back, but he couldn’t help but laugh, too. God, it felt good to laugh at something ridiculous.
The man stopped laughing abruptly. “Ye’ve very fi ne teeth, guv,” he said shrewdly.
Well, then. Time to be off.
“Take his hat,” Madeleine Greenway hissed. She wasn’t amused, judging from the color in her cheeks.
“What? Why . . . ? Oh. We can’t just take his hat ,” Colin protested, also on a hiss. Though he heard how ridiculous it sounded even as he said it.
“He’d rather have gin than a hat.” She knelt, held a penny up before the man’s eyes, watched them light, then snatched it back. “For your hat,” she said fi rmly.
“Take it, me dove,” he said with tender gallantry.
She left the penny next to the man’s knee, snatched the hat from his head, and gave it Colin, who took it gingerly.
“A hat full of lice,” he said. “Your very first gift to me. I shall cherish it.”
“It looks clean enough,” she said darkly, and turned on her heel, walking away from him. “Put it on.”
Colin sniffed at the hat tentatively; shockingly, it didn’t reek. He patted it down over his head; it fi t, and then some, covering him to his eyes. Still, he was aware that his own shirt was as blinding as a sail on a frigate in this particularly grimy neighborhood.
He followed her to the end of the lane, dodging a large and suspicious-looking puddle. In this part of London it could be a puddle of nearly anything at all, none of it good.
Colin glanced over at his prickly new partner, want ing details about her, getting them only in fragments out of the corners of his eyes, as she was moving too quickly. He noted her shoes, flashing beneath her hem as she walked: good brown leather walking boots, in fine condition and of current fashion. She wasn’t suffer ing from poverty, then. Her dress was a shade of light muslin, and also fashionable—he knew these things, as he had sisters, after all, and had delivered more than one detailed order to the modiste for one of his mis tresses. The dress was conservative without being plain: two frills at the hem, snug sleeves, a tasteful fi chu of some sort wrapped about her throat and tucked into the low rectangle of the bodice. Then again, he doubted anything would succeed in looking plain on this crack ling woman. She looked clean, if not entirely crisp. Her skin was very fair and fine-grained; even in this grimy, filtered light it was luminous. Two tiny, almost imper ceptible round scars sat low on her jaw. Pockmarks. Her mouth was generous, a soft pale pink.
He inventoried her features, one by one, in quick glimpses, and knew regret that such singular beauty— and it was beauty—should exist seemingly exclusive of charm. She seemed a creature comprised of intent and resentment.
They reached the end of the alley and both stopped abruptly, doubtless arrested by the same thought. Sol diers would be fanning out like the aforementioned lice all over London, looking for him. And Colin had been a soldier. He knew they had their flaws, soldiers
Colin’s eyes darted to Madeleine, who looked poised to bolt. “Very well.”
“Ye’ll need to come closher.” The man crooked a languid, fi lthy finger. Once, twice.
Colin glanced back at Madeleine, and he gained an impression of snapping livid dark eyes, fair skin, and very pink cheeks. Impatience , it might have said be neath her image on a woodcut.
Colin leaned over. “Yes, sir?”
That filthy hand came up to entreatingly grip his shirt. “Tell me . . . ” His friend wondered mistily. “Yer doxie . . . wash she . . . wash she . . . good ?”
“Was she good ?” Colin was all stern indignation. He paused eloquently. “Good God, man. I don’t pay her to be good .”
It took a moment for this to soak through the gin.
And then the man released Colin’s collar to slap his thigh and he gave a great shout of phleghmy laughter. His breath was like the vapors of hell, and Colin reared back, but he couldn’t help but laugh, too. God, it felt good to laugh at something ridiculous.
The man stopped laughing abruptly. “Ye’ve very fi ne teeth, guv,” he said shrewdly.
Well, then. Time to be off.
“Take his hat,” Madeleine Greenway hissed. She wasn’t amused, judging from the color in her cheeks.
“What? Why . . . ? Oh. We can’t just take his hat ,” Colin protested, also on a hiss. Though he heard how ridiculous it sounded even as he said it.
“He’d rather have gin than a hat.” She knelt, held a penny up before the man’s eyes, watched them light, then snatched it back. “For your hat,” she said fi rmly.
“Take it, me dove,” he said with tender gallantry.
She left the penny next to the man’s knee, snatched the hat from his head, and gave it Colin, who took it gingerly.
“A hat full of lice,” he said. “Your very first gift to me. I shall cherish it.”
“It looks clean enough,” she said darkly, and turned on her heel, walking away from him. “Put it on.”
Colin sniffed at the hat tentatively; shockingly, it didn’t reek. He patted it down over his head; it fi t, and then some, covering him to his eyes. Still, he was aware that his own shirt was as blinding as a sail on a frigate in this particularly grimy neighborhood.
He followed her to the end of the lane, dodging a large and suspicious-looking puddle. In this part of London it could be a puddle of nearly anything at all, none of it good.
Colin glanced over at his prickly new partner, want ing details about her, getting them only in fragments out of the corners of his eyes, as she was moving too quickly. He noted her shoes, flashing beneath her hem as she walked: good brown leather walking boots, in fine condition and of current fashion. She wasn’t suffer ing from poverty, then. Her dress was a shade of light muslin, and also fashionable—he knew these things, as he had sisters, after all, and had delivered more than one detailed order to the modiste for one of his mis tresses. The dress was conservative without being plain: two frills at the hem, snug sleeves, a tasteful fi chu of some sort wrapped about her throat and tucked into the low rectangle of the bodice. Then again, he doubted anything would succeed in looking plain on this crack ling woman. She looked clean, if not entirely crisp. Her skin was very fair and fine-grained; even in this grimy, filtered light it was luminous. Two tiny, almost imper ceptible round scars sat low on her jaw. Pockmarks. Her mouth was generous, a soft pale pink.
He inventoried her features, one by one, in quick glimpses, and knew regret that such singular beauty— and it was beauty—should exist seemingly exclusive of charm. She seemed a creature comprised of intent and resentment.
They reached the end of the alley and both stopped abruptly, doubtless arrested by the same thought. Sol diers would be fanning out like the aforementioned lice all over London, looking for him. And Colin had been a soldier. He knew they had their flaws, soldiers
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