Wicked Company by Ciji Ware

talent and innate dancing ability, appeared to have mastered a passable minuet. Boswell and Creech arrived, dressed handsomely, and Hunter donned his borrowed finery in the back chamber, hanging his tartan trousers on the handle of the printing press.
    “Gadzooks, man!” Boswell exclaimed as Hunter entered the front of the shop, “Deuced if you don’t look better in my clothes than I do!”
    Sophie could hardly credit the extraordinary change in Hunter. Boswell had lent him a fine linen shirt, complete with cascading lace at collar and wrist, which contrasted nicely with his ivory satin breeches and a midnight blue velvet coat with deep cuffs and matching buttons. As she stared at the startling metamorphosis of the strolling player whose unvarnished good looks had been transformed into classic masculine beauty, her heart filled with pride and confidence.
    Sophie dashed up to the second floor to change from her printer’s apron and faded skirt into her only dress, a gown cut down from one her mother had worn. The cotton garment wasn’t the least luxurious and the style was more than a decade out of date, but the skirt and bodice were of a pale peach color that set off Sophie’s auburn hair.
    She stared forlornly at the fabric bunched-up where her bosom should be. In spite of her sixteen years, her breasts had barely grown! Struck suddenly by an idea, Sophie scooped up her petticoat and rolled down her woolen stockings. Stuffing them into her bodice, she stared at the resulting hillocks. Unfortunately, the protuberances looked hard and artificial. With a sigh, she extracted the scratchy camouflage and headed toward the narrow stairs that led down to the first floor.
    By the time Sophie reappeared in the shop, her father had returned and was conversing animatedly with Jamie Boswell about an island off Italy called Corsica. The younger man had seen it mentioned in the book he’d been perusing earlier that day.
    “You’ve met Mr. Boswell,” Sophie asked her father rhetorically, “and Mr. Robertson, whose playbills we printed?”
    “Aye,” her father said genially as the church bells somberly tolled the hour of six in the cathedral belfry above their heads.
    Boswell handed Daniel the book on Italy.
    “I’d like to purchase this, if you please,” he said.
    “That will be six shillings,” Daniel replied, his eyes dancing with pleasure at the pending sale.
    “Will four do for the moment?” Boswell inquired smoothly, “unless Creech will stand me for the other two?”
    “Sorry, Bozzy, my lad,” Creech said shaking his head. “A poor university student has barely the entrance fee to Miss Nicky’s.”
    “Not to worry, Mr. Boswell,” Daniel said abruptly. “Take the book and pay me the rest when you can.”
    “You’re very kind,” Boswell replied cheerfully, digging four shillings out of a small pocket in his white brocaded waistcoat. “I shall retrieve it when we escort your daughter home tonight.”
    “We’d best be off,” Sophie said briskly, attempting to mask her annoyance that her father was so easily taken advantage of. Yet, four shillings was better than none, and perhaps young James Boswell was good for his debts. “I’ve left some bannocks and a bit of broth in the kettle for you, Da,” she added.
    “Thank you, my dear,” her father answered vaguely, lost in the pages of the book Boswell had selected from their shelves. “Enjoy yourselves, laddies,” he said, barely looking.
    “Do ye really think my attending tonight’s assembly will help sell tickets to the concert?” Hunter asked quietly, falling into step beside Sophie as the quartet headed toward Bell’s Wynd. “I perform on cobblestones, not in a ballroom of dandies and ladies in corsets,” he added glumly.
    “Just smile at those ladies when you speak, and when you’re dancing, concentrate on the steps, not on their corsets. I know you can do it! You can’t afford not to!”
    Hunter shot her a rueful grin, but also seemed