Free Gretel and the Dark by Eliza Granville

alarming speed. The noise of the tavern ebbed, flowed, and finally broke over him like an angry seventh wave. He shook his head hard, like a dog trying to dislodge a particularly troublesome flea from its ear, and glared at his glass.
    ‘It’s only distilled fruit juice,’ Hugo said reassuringly. ‘Home-grown schnapps.’
    Benjamin saw that the journalist’s familiar had emerged from his place among the cinders to perch, smirking, on the arm of the settle. ‘What’s he laughing at?’
    ‘Nothing,’ said Hugo. ‘Ignore him.’ One beefy hand wiped the smile off the boy’s face. ‘You were telling me about your young lady.’
    Benjamin lifted his heavy head and looked carefully round. Suddenly everyone was listening. The three parading girls had paused, ostensibly to warm themselves at the fire, where another tavern slut joined them, her clothes in artful disarray, winking at Benjamin, squeezing his arm as she manoeuvred around his seat. The woman’s large breasts pushed into his shoulders and she laughed aloud when he politely moved the chair forward, giving her more space. Back came the fellow with the long nose, moving past as slowly as possible. The wall-eyed man continued to stare. And now the blond man on the other side of the hearth closed his book and sat with his hands folded, waiting.
    ‘She’s not my
young lady
,’ he said, very carefully and in a stage whisper. ‘A friend found her … wandering around. She’s lost her memory. Can’t remember her own name.’
    ‘Or so she says.’
    Benjamin clenched his fists beneath the table in the effort not to spring to Lilie’s defence. He nodded. ‘That’s what she says.’
    ‘Pretty, is she?’
    ‘Beautiful.’
    ‘Uh-huh. And what about her clothing? Rich? Poor? Any clues there?’
    ‘None,’ said Benjamin, adding, before he had the chance to think better of it: ‘She wasn’t wearing any.’ He immediately wished the words unsaid. The level of noise in the tavern hadn’t diminished and yet a curious stillness seemed to hang over the table.
    ‘You’ve got yourself –’ Hugo laughed. ‘Or should I say,
your friend
has got
him
self, a runaway whore. And probably a dose of syphilis into the bargain.’
    ‘No,’ muttered Benjamin, knuckling his temples. ‘She’s no whore.’ An image of Lilie’s pretty face danced before his eyes. Conscious that so far he’d achieved nothing on her behalf, he cleared his throat and tried again. ‘She must have been held prisoner somewhere –’
    Hugo laughed; his small familiar dutifully followed suit.
    ‘For ransom, I presume?’
    ‘No. Yes.
Maybe.
Why not?’ Benjamin glowered. ‘This isn’t funny.’
    ‘Very well.’ Hugo straightened his face. He pursed his lips as if giving the matter serious consideration. ‘Many brothels – no, hear me out – many such establishments curtail freedom when the novice is unwilling.’ One stubby hand drew another draught of beer towards him. ‘But I hear the inmates of a certain misnamed gentlemen’s club are slaves in all but name. Unlikely that she escaped from such a place – from what I hear the security is better than that of many banks – but it’s a possibility, I suppose.’
    ‘You mean the Thélème club? I thought of that.’ The words dropped into one of the curious hushes that sometimes fall in noisy, crowded places and Benjamin felt rather than saw heads turning. His eyes slid sideways and met those of the blond man, who was now pocketing his closed book. He noticed for the first time the man’s curiously cherubic face, as if the statue on the Plague pillar had stepped down and, in taking on life, matured a little. One of his cheeks bore a duelling
Schmiss
and Benjamin felt a twinge of envy. Girls couldn’t fail to be impressed by such a scar; it was a badge of personal bravery and gallantry. A smile played over the man’s lips; he nodded and drew on a cigarette, surrounding himself with a cloud of aromatic Turkish tobacco smoke. Was he