Free The Lady and the Locksmith by Cody Young Page A

on. It’s cold outside tonight. Thank goodness I’ve found you. I thought I was one down before we even made it to the hostel.”
    I haul on my jacket, obediently. “Sorry I scared you, Mrs. B.”
    “Oh my gosh, Maddie. Is that your bag?”
    I turn and see the giant tartan eyesore being swept away on the conveyor belt. It’s already out of my reach, and so I try pushing my way through the crowd to see if I can rescue it, apologizing all the way. I catch frustrating glimpses of it as I try to shove my way through to try to grab hold of its old plastic handle. I can see I’m not going to get it. It’s heading serenely towards the black rubber strips concealing the entrance to that unknown, unnamed area out back. The place where all the lonely unclaimed bags end up. I suppose I’m in for a long, long, wait while it does another lap of honor around the entire system. Or worse – they might pull it off the conveyor and send it to Lost Property.
    I sigh. Mrs. B isn’t going to be thrilled about this.
    Then I see him again - the man in the immaculate charcoal suit. He appears through a gap in the crowd and suddenly he’s right there - reaching out his hand to grab my bag . I see his outstretched arm and his pale, elegant, fingers, rescuing my runaway bag, just before it disappears out of sight. He lifts it up and off the conveyor, and then he checks the label. I watch him tweaking open the tag and taking a look.
    I frown. Now he knows where I’m staying. I bite my lip.
    He looks up and catches my eye. He looks kind of angry – in a sultry, stormy sort of way - but he moves towards me, and holds out the offending tartan bag.
    “I believe this is yours, Miss Lambourne.”
    I take hold of the handle, and my fingers graze against his as we do the exchange. I look up, feeling grateful and a little guilty. “Thank you.”
    “Not at all.” His tone is light and casual. His eyes are not.
    “My teacher’s waiting for me.” I say, desperate to get away, but mesmerized by him all the same. I’m drowning in his dark eyes. Yearning to feel the glancing touch of his hand again. Knowing I never will.
    “Of course,” he says. Very British. Very proper.
    He turns away and releases me from his spell. I can breathe again, and I remember my manners. “Thank you. Thank you so much!”
    He spares me one last, intoxicating glance. “Fare thee well, sweet lady.”
    His strange turn of phrase leaves me struggling to make sense of him, again. I stare as he disappears into the crowd. Fare thee well. What archaic words they are, and used so lightly, so naturally, as if he spoke like that all the time. I feel a tiny surge of pleasure, and I can’t suppress a smile. Sweet lady. He called me ‘sweet lady’! Though I have to say his voice was a little gruff and bitter when he said it.
    But he said it, all the same.
    Again, it’s Mrs. Bertorelli who breaks into my little daydream with her harsh New York whine. “Now wasn’t he your guardian angel, huh? He came along just in the nick of time.”
    I smile weakly, and struggle with my bag. The ancient mechanism that allows the handle to extend seems to be jammed. At this rate I will have to drag it like a dead animal out of the airport, instead of wheeling it gracefully away like everyone else.
    “Didn’t kill him to help out a pretty girl, of course.” Mrs. B says, with a laugh.
    I bite back a swear word that comes to my lips, and tug at the handle of my horrible bag. At last it gives. The handle extends and I straighten up. I can wheel it along – slowly and with a repetitive bump every few inches. One of the wheels must have gotten squashed out of shape or something. It’s like towing a little drunk guy along by the hand. A little drunk guy in a huge tartan overcoat.
    “Move it along, Maddie! I wanna be on the bus, honey. My feet are killing me. I need to take the weight off and I still have to get all those kids settled into the hostel. If that bus has gone without us I am going