Free City of Light (City of Mystery) by Kim Wright Page A

her.  
    All of the choices
were equally unappealing.
    She’s pulling a
bluff, he suddenly realized. The calculated use of the word “detective,”
obviously designed to shame him, had instead given her away.  She doesn’t truly
intend to climb a half-built staircase that most likely leads to nowhere, he
thought.  It’s a test.  We will get no more than a few steps up and she will
turn to see me behind her.  She will relent and we will laugh about this
later.  I will have gained her respect and we shall raise champagne in some
bar, some properly-sized bar located on the ground, and we shall toast each
other’s courage.  And we will laugh about later too, years from now, perhaps on
lazy Sunday mornings spent in bed.
    The last thought
only seized the most peripheral part of his mind for Rayley was not a
delusional man.  He knew that in the real world, in the Paris sleeping below
them and in the London sleeping across the channel, he stood not a shred of a
chance with a woman like Isabel Delacroix.  But the fantasy was enough to get
his feet moving.  He approached the staircase and, with a sharp exhalation, put
his foot on the first step.  
    She was no more than
two or three feet above him.
    It was a
tightly-wound spiral, with each step not quite large enough to accommodate a
man’s foot.  The heel of his boot hung off the back of the step, forcing him to
lean forward onto the balls of his feet, keeping one hand on the flimsy railing
and the other on the more substantial center post.  In this pose it was almost
impossible to avoid the sensation that she was in his arms, for he had caught
up to her quickly.  This was a good thing, for if she now lost her footing, she
would tumble directly onto him.  An appealing thought, followed by the less
satisfactory question of whether or not in this bizarre hunched position he
would have the strength to catch her.  Rayley had a brief vision of the two of
them rolling head over heels back to the platform while a dozen reporters and
photographers turned to watch.
    But as for now, her
feet were just above him, her legs not only visible, but unavoidable.  He
should be a gentleman and stay close enough to catch her and being a gentleman
at this small distance offered the bonus of periodic glimpses of ankles and
even, once or twice, the flash of a calf.  He quickly saw that the climb was
arduous, each step steeply pitched and the spiral forcing them to twist and
lean ever more to the center.  Surely she will stop soon, Rayley thought.   No
more than ten feet should be enough for her to make her point, to know that if
she is determined to do something foolhearted, I will come with her.  Even if I
don’t want to.  Even if my hands are shaking and my breath is in my throat.
    Her feet.  Her
ankles. Her legs.  He could not not look.  Her foot was long and not as
delicately shaped as one might expect. The ankle was sturdy, the leg above it
showed sinew and muscle.  She has worked at some point in her life, he thought
with surprise. This is the leg of a barmaid, a housekeeper, a farmer’s wife.  A
woman who has used her body for more than caviar and clothing.
    “How high do you
intend to go?”
    The question cost
him.  Not just pride, but oxygen.  He had monitored his exhalations for some
time to save up the breath to ask it, and he was relieved to find his voice did
not sound strained.
    She merely laughed,
a sound which appeared to cost her nothing.
    “Why do you think
the steps are so narrow?” he asked.  He knew the proper answer. The spiral was
wound tightly to minimize the swaying of the staircase. The question was only a
desperate attempt to slow her down.
    “So that you can’t
change your mind,” she called back wickedly.  “Rather difficult to turn and go
back, wouldn’t you say?”
    He nodded, although
he knew she couldn’t see him.  He was already tired and he could think of
nothing in his experience exactly like this.  They plodded upward,