Free The Shadow Queen by Rebecca Dean Page B

her. He’d given her what she wanted—her first experience of a truly adult kiss—and, though she had a crush on Henry, she’d never been serious about him. The only person she was life-and-death serious about was John Jasper.
    A fter vacation was over she tried hard to accidentally-on-purpose run into John Jasper. It wasn’t easy. The Bachmans didn’t live close to either Biddle Street or East Preston Street and didn’t attend Baltimore’s Episcopalian Christ Church, where Wallis spent her Sunday mornings.
    It was in June, on her grandmother’s birthday, which fell shortly before her own birthday, that Wallis got lucky where John Jasper was concerned. It was a Saturday morning and as she turned onto Preston Street, awkwardly carrying her grandmother’s present—a cashmere shawl lavishly tissue-wrapped and boxed—John Jasper entered it on the opposite side of the street.
    Wallis clutched the box tighter and with a pounding heart waited for him to cross the street toward her.
    He did so at a negligent stroll, his hands in his trouser pockets, the June sun glinting on his tightly curling dark hair.
    “Hi, Wallis,” he said as he walked up to her. “Where are you going?”
    When she spoke, her voice sounded so unlike her normal voice it could have come out of a squeezebox. “It’s my grandmother’s birthday. I’m taking her a present.”
    “Does she still live at number thirty-four?”
    There were blue-black glints in his hair that she’d never been aware of before, and his eyes weren’t a straight brown, as she’d always thought, but a golden brown. Simply looking into them turned her knees to jelly.
    “Yes.” Her voice was still a squeak. She paused, took a deep breath, and said, trying to sound as laconic as he did, “How is it you know where she lives?”
    “My father is on the board of one of your Uncle Sol’s companies.”
    Whether he had intended to walk down Preston Street she didn’t know, but that was what he did, walking along beside her so close she could smell the faint tang of lemon cologne. She wondered if he had begun shaving. He was a few months older than her, already sixteen. If he hadn’t, and if the lemon tang wasn’t from cologne, than it was from the soap he used. Whatever it was from, it was something she liked a great deal.
    “Someone told me the other day you had a little dog.”
    His hands were still in his pockets. She wished they weren’t. If his hands had been free she could have carried her grandmother’s present in her left arm and let her right hand fall down so that even if he didn’t take hold of it, the back of it would brush against the back of his.
    “Yes. My stepfather gave him to me. He’s a French bulldog. His name is Bully.”
    John Jasper chuckled. “I reckon that’s a pretty good name for a bulldog, Wallis. Why isn’t he with you?”
    “My grandmother doesn’t like dogs. At least, she doesn’t like them in the house, and Bully wouldn’t like being tied up outside.”
    John Jasper looked across at her speculatively. “How would you like it if I took Bully for a walk now and then? I like dogs and I’m pretty good with them. I used to have a Siberian husky. He was a great dog. He died last year, and I still miss him.”
    “Why didn’t you get another?”
    They were fast approaching number 34, and Wallis began walking as slowly as possible, not wanting to reach it, not wanting their time together to be over.
    “My ma didn’t want another big dog. The dog we have now is a Pekingese. He’s kind of cute, but he doesn’t like going for walks. He sits on my ma’s knee whenever he can, and when she’s not around, he sits on the sofa.”
    They’d reached number 34, and there was nothing for it but for her to come to a halt. She turned toward him. “You can take Bully for a walk any time you want, John Jasper.”
    What she didn’t say, but what she intended, was that when he did so, she would go along too.
    “That’s great, Wallis. I