Free Shadowdance by Kristen Callihan Page B
Authors: Kristen Callihan
night. Londoners fought back against the cold by heaping on the coals. Great billows of smoke rose from a profusion of chimney pots. What was too heavy to dissipate fell in black flecks that danced about them like the devil’s snow.
Due to the late hour, few were out, most human traffic being shepherded by coach now. A hack rattled past, horse hooves clipping over the cobbles.
Walking next to Talent, she felt the singular, cozy comfort that steals upon one who is with a good friend. That Talent gave rise to such equanimity instantly shattered it, and her stomach clenched. She ought not trust him any further than she could toss him. Perhaps it was not his presence, but the predictability of all his actions that she took comfort in. Well, one could hope. “Where are we going?” she asked to break her muddled thoughts.
His attention stayed on the walk before them, but his pace, which he had slowed to match hers, faltered for just a step. A wry grimace twisted his mouth. “You know, Chase, I don’t believe I thought that far ahead.”
“And you are admitting this?” She made a noise of astonishment. “I shall have to make note of the day.”
He looked at her sidelong, and the brackets framing his mouth deepened. “You better. It doesn’t happen often.”
Mary ducked her head to hide her smile. “Well,” she said after a step, “we might consider going to Trafalgar Square. Perhaps we can learn something from it.”
Talent grunted. “Perhaps.”
Taking that as an agreement, Mary headed down Charing Cross road. They soon entered the square, a wide-open public space that featured tranquil fountains and a Corinthian column rising 170 feet into the air. The monument was in honor of Admiral Nelson and was guarded by four large bronze lions, one at each corner of the massive base. Half walls flanked three sides of the square, creating a sense of place despite the openness of the area.
Far off, keeping to the edge of the square, a group of women idled about. A lone man, wearing a horrid lime-green bowler—its color so vivid that it was discernible even in the low light—lounged against the wall, close enough to keep an eye on the women but not so close as to interfere should they be approached.
And approached they were. Two fellows strolled by, eyeing the flesh for sale, before one broke away. An agreement was clearly reached, and the man guided two women off to a shadowed corner.
“Perhaps the fellow in the hideous hat might have seen something. It appears as if he might be here nightly.”
“And if he had, you’d be the last person he’d tell,” Talent retorted. “He might be a sinner but he isn’t stupid. The ones who stay alive never are.”
Mary caught Talent’s expression. “My, the way you are sneering, Talent, one would think you’ve never partaken in that particular exchange.” Most males she knew had at one time or another.
Talent’s brows lifted just a touch. “Once, when I was too young and ignorant to know any better.”
It was her fault for broaching the subject, but the sudden image of Talent bedding a strange woman was entirely unpalatable. “And you do not approve of it now?” she asked, as if untroubled. “Odd, seeing as your former master used to be quite infamous in regards to his bedding of prostitutes.” She would not call them whores. Despite what society thought, she knew too well how human they were beneath their protective veneer.
The corner of Talent’s mouth twitched. “Ian and I do not see eye to eye on everything.” He resumed his glaring. “Point of fact, I cannot fault the women for seeking coin. I know how desperation feels. The men who use them are what makes me ill.” The scowl upon his face grew. “It’s disgusting.”
“Because they are not treating the woman as people?” She almost smiled at him. But he brusquely shook his head, killing her sudden goodwill.
“Those women make their choice to be treated as such.” His lips curled. “But by
Due to the late hour, few were out, most human traffic being shepherded by coach now. A hack rattled past, horse hooves clipping over the cobbles.
Walking next to Talent, she felt the singular, cozy comfort that steals upon one who is with a good friend. That Talent gave rise to such equanimity instantly shattered it, and her stomach clenched. She ought not trust him any further than she could toss him. Perhaps it was not his presence, but the predictability of all his actions that she took comfort in. Well, one could hope. “Where are we going?” she asked to break her muddled thoughts.
His attention stayed on the walk before them, but his pace, which he had slowed to match hers, faltered for just a step. A wry grimace twisted his mouth. “You know, Chase, I don’t believe I thought that far ahead.”
“And you are admitting this?” She made a noise of astonishment. “I shall have to make note of the day.”
He looked at her sidelong, and the brackets framing his mouth deepened. “You better. It doesn’t happen often.”
Mary ducked her head to hide her smile. “Well,” she said after a step, “we might consider going to Trafalgar Square. Perhaps we can learn something from it.”
Talent grunted. “Perhaps.”
Taking that as an agreement, Mary headed down Charing Cross road. They soon entered the square, a wide-open public space that featured tranquil fountains and a Corinthian column rising 170 feet into the air. The monument was in honor of Admiral Nelson and was guarded by four large bronze lions, one at each corner of the massive base. Half walls flanked three sides of the square, creating a sense of place despite the openness of the area.
Far off, keeping to the edge of the square, a group of women idled about. A lone man, wearing a horrid lime-green bowler—its color so vivid that it was discernible even in the low light—lounged against the wall, close enough to keep an eye on the women but not so close as to interfere should they be approached.
And approached they were. Two fellows strolled by, eyeing the flesh for sale, before one broke away. An agreement was clearly reached, and the man guided two women off to a shadowed corner.
“Perhaps the fellow in the hideous hat might have seen something. It appears as if he might be here nightly.”
“And if he had, you’d be the last person he’d tell,” Talent retorted. “He might be a sinner but he isn’t stupid. The ones who stay alive never are.”
Mary caught Talent’s expression. “My, the way you are sneering, Talent, one would think you’ve never partaken in that particular exchange.” Most males she knew had at one time or another.
Talent’s brows lifted just a touch. “Once, when I was too young and ignorant to know any better.”
It was her fault for broaching the subject, but the sudden image of Talent bedding a strange woman was entirely unpalatable. “And you do not approve of it now?” she asked, as if untroubled. “Odd, seeing as your former master used to be quite infamous in regards to his bedding of prostitutes.” She would not call them whores. Despite what society thought, she knew too well how human they were beneath their protective veneer.
The corner of Talent’s mouth twitched. “Ian and I do not see eye to eye on everything.” He resumed his glaring. “Point of fact, I cannot fault the women for seeking coin. I know how desperation feels. The men who use them are what makes me ill.” The scowl upon his face grew. “It’s disgusting.”
“Because they are not treating the woman as people?” She almost smiled at him. But he brusquely shook his head, killing her sudden goodwill.
“Those women make their choice to be treated as such.” His lips curled. “But by