ALLEGRO - by Deanne Wilsted

ALLEGRO
By: Deanne Wilsted

Prelude

Sandra took a final swipe at the make-up on her face and then let her hand fall to the faux granite vanity where she sat. She stared at herself in the mirror, a wall of glass which spread the length of the room. Her image taunted her; shoulder length curly auburn hair pulled back with a glimmer headband, skin, pale from her many hours spent indoors practicing piano or composing, short nails, like stubby exclamation points at the end of a ten run-on sentences.

After years of being known as a child prodigy, it was so much a part of her identity that she barely recognized herself as the twenty-six year old woman she had become. An image of her younger sister, Marie, skimmed through her thoughts. Marie had played the dark angel to Sandra’s light one. Sexy as soon as she had grown breasts, her appeal had only become more sophisticated and classy, leading men to trail her like notes lingering on the piano.

It had been weeks since she’d seen Marie. Weeks, in fact, since she’d seen any of her family. She picked up the phone which she had tossed onto the vanity before heading onstage. The text from Marie was still there- the words still as nonsensical as when she had first read them.

Sandy… Dump the gig and come meet me in Barcelona. You need a break and I need an excuse to escape Antonio.

             As if she could just back-out of a concert, thought Sandra. Marie’s way of looking at the world was so different as to be incomprehensible to Sandra. And yet, there was something about the text which nagged at her. She’d been studying it for days now. And as the weekend closed in on her the niggling idea that she could, indeed, sneak away if she really wanted to floated its way into her consciousness. It was preposterous. But aside from the girlish hair, pale skin, and filed nails, the dark circles under her eyes made a compelling case.

             She pulled up the calendar on her phone and studied her schedule. She’d need travel time, she calculated. And time to practice when she returned. It didn’t leave much of a break. Maybe two days, max- assuming she could reschedule the recital for the local school. Still, two days was better than nothing. Her fingers played unconsciously with her phone, like keys on the piano, until the decision was made.

           Okay. She typed; then pressed reply.

Sonata

Sandra made it to the airport with minutes to spare. Her plan to meet her sister in updated clothes had been discarded alongside the plan to reschedule the recital. The school’s disappointment had simply been too severe to ignore. Instead she had re-jiggered her flights and run, literally, to make it.

“Excuse me.” The tall man in front of her didn’t seem to hear her plea to pass. “Excuse me,” she said, more loudly this time.

The stranger continued to face forward, holding up one finger at his shoulder to let her know he’d heard but chosen to ignore. Sandra tapped her toe, peeking around him at the ticket desk where she had hoped to upgrade at the last minute. She had a finger she’d like to show him, she thought. Sighing in frustration she accepted that she would have to stick with the cramped middle seat- the only assignment available on such short notice.

They called the flight for boarding and Sandra moved away from the crowd at the ticketing desk and into the crowd at the gate. Behind her she heard a man’s baritone talking on his cell phone. One glance over her shoulder told her it was the same man who had blocked her way to the agents. The annoyed words running through her brain dyed on her lips. He was- beautiful. Like when she heard a piece of music played flawlessly, her heart beat was a recognition of his perfection.

Bright blue eyes stared out unseeingly from a face darkened by a 5:00 o’clock shadow. The V opening of his dark shirt highlighted his strong jaw; a jaw which formed the foundation for his rugged check bones. But more than anything it was his mouth which had Sandra staring. The flat, clearly annoyed lips, hinted at straight white teeth underneath, and quirked up to one side as if perpetually mocking life.

Sandra would have dropped her eyes, if she could have. So it was with a horrifying blush that he caught her unintentionally listening in on the last of his conversation.

“It’s not enough to put them on the cover. You need to give them credit. ”… “Of course they said they can’t fit it. What else would they say?”… “Right. Well, I don’t care if they threaten to cancel your contract; we’re talking about a hospital of kids here. Get their name and information on the cover or find a new agent.”

“Idiots,” he mumbled, hitting the end call button with his finger and finally noticing Sandra.

The red crept up her chest, climbed her neck and felt like a glowing spotlight on her cheeks. Sandra prepared herself to apologize. But before she could get a single word out, his glance skimmed right over her and landed on the open doorway to the gangway.

Sandra spun on her flat, ballet style shoes and shuffled toward the door, even more embarrassed to have been so completely discounted by him. She fumbled with her luggage, checking her ticket and comparing the seat numbers with her assignment. At least she wouldn’t be at the back of the plane, she consoled herself. She threw her purse onto the seat and got ready to heave the suitcase up to the overhead. Before she could raise a finger, though, strong arms lifted it into the small space.

“There you go, miss.”

Sandra scooched into her seat and turned to say thank you, but was again tongue tied when she realized he was lowering himself into the seat next to hers. Was this a good thing, or a bad thing? Two hours would surely be enough time to find her voice, wouldn’t it? She watched the way the man tapped his cell phone on his flat palm and thought, perhaps not.

So, what do you do? Sandra was trying out opening questions when the flight attendant began her emergency spiel.

“So,” she began; then noticed the rapt attention with which the man listened to the flight attendant. In front of them the woman, clicked an unclicked a fake seatbelt, and Sandra wondered what could be so engaging about that. Until she noted the way the woman’s breasts squeezed together every time she fit the two pieces together. Sandra had been on her fair share of flights, but this was the first one where the emergency directions felt ‘R’ rated.

Sandra stared down at the pearls which lay against her own, black silk blouse. It was certainly feminine. But sexy? The buttons which hit above her collarbone hid any sign of cleavage. She tried scrunching her elbows into her side like the flight attendant had done, and proceeded in bulging the blouse, but not much else. She looked up and caught the passenger on the window side of her watching her with a bemused expression. The older woman smiled briefly, and then returned to the book which lay open on her lap.

“I’m Sandra, what’s your name?” Even the voice in her head sounded like a little girl now. She had yet to come up with a conversation starter- let alone the courage to ask it. You can do it, Sandra. You perform in front of thousands of people all the time. Just do it. The Nike quote was a favorite of Marie’s and finally motivated Sandra to go for it.

“Do you have cranberry juice?” Directed at the flight attendant who was waiting for her order, the question also finally got the man’s attention. His curious eyes were more like, does she need it in a sippy-cup, than, how about a shot of vodka for to go with it.

His own, low voice rumbled out an order of diet coke- with a side of rumpled sheets and a steamy shower. The flight attendant was back before Sandra had a chance to regain his attention. And, although Sandra had her hand out, ready to take the pink cup of juice, the flight attendant leaned across the man. She placed it on Sandra’s tray table, never taking her eyes from the man’s.

He, on the other hand, was busily drinking in the mounds of skin which threatened to topple out of what should have been the very conservative blue dress shirt on the flight attendant. She stood back and raised her arms over her head in a stretch, as if her job serving beverages was that strenuous.

A jolt of turbulence sent her swaying toward the man, who reached out to stop her from falling.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, apparently surprised that at 5,000 feet, with her hands over her head, she might lose her balance.

“Happy to help.” His smile was warm. And the little quirk at the corner now appeared ironic and knowing. It didn’t seem to bother him that the woman was obviously working him. His amusement created the intimacy of a shared joke.

While he was otherwise engaged, Sandra decided to take a cue from the very obvious flight attendant. She reached up and casually flipped open the top two buttons of her silk blouse. Waiting until the two of them were alone again, Sandra shifted her body toward him and with fingers graceful from playing piano, lifted her glass of cranberry juice to her lips. Perhaps the red color would dye her lips a luscious red like the flight attendant’s.

With her free hand she pulled the hair band from her head and shook out her curls. The movement reverberated down her neck, across her shoulder and through her arm, sloshing the cranberry juice out of the cup and into her lap.

“Damn.” She leaned forward to set her glass on the tray table, but when she leaned back to dab at her skirt her pearls got caught and she found herself jerked forward again. She bumped the tray table, and more of the pink juice spilled from the plastic cup.

“Perhaps a juice box next time,” the man suggested with a chuckle. He laid his spare napkins on her tray table and Sandra watched the drips from the juice circumvent it and continue to drip into her lap. Marie would have had a snappy reply, Sandra was sure. But Sandra was at a loss. Playing a man was nothing like playing a piano. She threw in the towel, metaphorically, and called for the flight attendant to return. As she had guessed, the woman was at their seat before Sandra’s fingers had left the call button. Sandra consoled herself with the thought that at least she would get good service on the flight.

 

Crescendo

Sandra woke up to heavy breathing in her hotel room. Near her on the floor, her sister, Marie was doing some sort of Pilates pose which must have required some intense effort to hold. She dropped down to her side, and hugged her knees to her chest, before rolling up to a sitting position.

“How long have you been awake?” Marie asked.

Sandra yawned and lay back against her pillow. “I just woke up,” she admitted.

“Good. I was trying hard to stay quiet.” Marie’s stretch was far more demanding and less calculated than the flight attendant’s had been the day before. “But, now that you’re awake, what should we do today?”

Although Marie had been at the hotel waiting for Sandra when she arrived from the airport, she had promptly gone out when it became clear that Sandra’s objective was room service and an early bedtime. “Kinda seems like it misses the point of a weekend away,” Marie had huffed, before spritzing herself with a musky scent and shimmying out the door.

Her late night had clearly done her no harm. Marie was as perky as ever, even without cosmetic surgery.

Sandra played with the edge of the sheets and considered how to answer her sister’s innocent question. She’d reached an uncomfortable conclusion while sitting silently on the airplane. A twenty-six year old woman should know how to talk to a man. Should know, in fact, how to entice him to bed. But not only was Sandra clueless, she also lacked confidence that the word entice could be used around her with anything but humor.

“So, I was thinking,” she began hesitantly. Marie was known for extremes, and Sandra was looking for a subtle change, not a train wreck. “Maybe we could go out shopping.”

Marie clapped her hands and spun in a circle. “Fantastic. A sexy dress for me and…” she stared at Sandra for a moment and then huffed. “Forget it. It’s too depressing to go shopping with you.”

Sandra put her hands on her hips. “That’s not nice,” she said. “And anyway, I was thinking you could help me pick out some new, more, uh, mature clothes.”

Marie snorted. “Mature? God, please don’t tell me you want to replace the headband with a red hat.”

“I’m serious.” Sandra jumped out of bed, filled with purpose. “Tease me all you want, but with or without you I’m going out to find something fun and sexy to wear tonight.”

Marie slowed her with a hand on her arm. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” She sounded amazed and a bit alarmed. “Sandy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, pulling out of her sister’s hold. “I just, I’m tired of being overlooked. I’ve handled the pressure, the expectations, the image for 20 years now. Did you realize that?” she demanded. “I counted it up. For twenty years I’ve been known as the child prodigy. Well, guess what? I’m not a child anymore.”

Marie stood right in front of her and placed both hands on her shoulders. “Sandra, you haven’t been a child in your whole life. Since you were six you’ve never had a tantrum, broken a rule, done anything crazy, other than writing that really weird piece you called Taco.”

“I didn’t know the other meaning of the word, I swear.” Out of steam, Sandra lowered herself onto the bed.

Marie laughed and sat down next to her. “I’m just saying, if changing your clothes makes you act more care-free, then I’m with you a 100%.”

Sandra bit her lip and considered what Marie had said. She was ready for new clothes, maybe even a new hair style. But a new outlook seemed like a bit much.

“How about we keep it at 80%,” Sandra said. The last time her sister had given a 100% to anything she’d disappeared for two months. She still wouldn’t talk about that period of her life, though she’d once mentioned it had something to do with Richard Branson.

“Deal. Go shower and I’ll make some calls.”

Sandra didn’t even want to think about what sort of shopping would require phone calls.

Four hours later, head covered in foil, Sandra wished she’d asked a few more questions and limited Marie’s involvement to 30%.

“If my hair is purple, I swear…”

“I told you, nothing too crazy. You have to trust me.”

Sandra raised her eyebrows skeptically but kept quiet. The hair person had already done something with her hair that required a sharp looking razor and a heated stone. Okay, that last part had been sort of nice. Still, she wondered how much money, and time, it was going to take to revert back to her original hair style.

Marie leaned against the counter, flipping through a fashion magazine. Every now and then she’d hold a picture up for Sandra to judge. So far the pictures had received four head shakes, two emphatic “no’s”, and a laugh so loud the other customers had shot them curious stares.

Confronted by a pair of suspenders made out of fur, Sandra got ready to ask what on earth she was thinking.

“Not that page, dimwit,” Marie said. “This one.”

Sandra stared at the photo of the woman, head down, hair covering the top of the cocktail dress. It was obvious why she’d overlooked it. The photo was meant to be about the large gold watch on the skinny wrist. But taking in the dress Sandra understood what her sister was getting at. The short dress was a bright emerald green and landed in graceful folds above the model’s knees. Peeking from the very bottom edge was a line of light purple lace which hinted at something sexy and forbidden underneath. One purple silk ribbon at the ankle managed to somehow suggest bondage, even in its fragility.

“Yep,” Sandra said. “That would work.”

Marie got a Cheshire cat grin on her face and began to dial again.

If it weren’t for the loud bass in the music pumping through the clothing shop Sandra imagined the song might have been worth listening to. She shifted her weight in front of the dressing room mirror, admiring how the fabric of the newest dress she had tried on slid up slightly as she moved.

“Are you going to let me see?” Marie huffed. “We’ve been shopping for, like, two hours and I’ve seen a total of three dresses on you.”

Sandra considered making her wait for fun, but couldn’t stand the excitement of her sister seeing her in this dress. She stepped out of the dressing room, stomping to the beat of the loud music in spite of herself. At the three way mirror, she executed a perfect turn, placed a hand on her hip and shot Marie a sassy look.

“Well?”

Her sister’s open mouth was enough acknowledgment. This was the dress.

Sandra spun back to the mirror and Marie walked up behind her with a long necklace. She placed it around Sandra’s neck, hooked the clasp, and stepped back. Sandra’s now short, straightened black hair clung to her neck, seamlessly flowing into the metal link chain of the necklace. The look was both hard and sexy at the same time.

“Now for make-up.”

Sandra’s confidence fled and was replaced again by alarm. There was no time to argue. Marie had her paying for the dress and out the door before she could explain that the only time she wore make-up was when a professional make-up artist applied it before a big performance.

Finale

Sandra was glad the club they went to didn’t have any mirrors. Given the amount of black eye-liner Marie had applied she was sure her eyes looked like two smeared half notes. Dinner had been a rotation of tapas spots. Sandra couldn’t remember what she had eaten and had lost count early on of her normal 2 drink limit. She felt nothing like herself, disembodied from the pixie-like rock-n-roll creature that had stared back at her in the hotel room mirror.

           “Over here.” Marie grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the bar, as if either of them needed more sangria. “Two Cosmopolitans,” Marie told the bartender then turned to look out at the night club, people streaming toward a cookie.

“So, who’s Antonio, anyway?” Sandra asked the question she’d wondered about for days.

“Who?” Marie’s eyebrows rose dramatically, and Sandra wondered if that was what hers looked like now that her sister had defined them? “Oh, right, Antonio.” She rolled her eyes as if it weren’t even worth talking about. “Some businessman who thinks he can buy everything.”

The pointed look Marie gave her raised Sandra’s protective hackles. Had the guy hurt her sister?

“I’m fine.” Marie waved away the worry she must have noticed on Sandra’s face. “He should be out of the apartment by the time I return.”

 Sandra made a somewhat drunken note to herself to double check that all was fine when they both went back to reality. Struck by a sudden closeness with her little sis she threw an arm around her shoulder and gave her a kiss.

“Oh yeah.” A disgusting jerk standing near them was practically slobbering on the bar counter.

Instead of getting upset, though, Marie laughed and kissed Sandra on the neck. “Come on babe… let’s find someplace more private.” She grabbed their drinks, hooked an arm through Sandra’s and pulled her away from the bar.

“Seriously, I don’t get how you do that.” Sandra shook her head, taking the drink Marie held out. “Weren’t you at all embarrassed?”

“By what that idiot thought? Right! Now if had been that gorgeous guy standing near the band I’d have been totally embarrassed- that is, embarrassed to be hanging out with my sister.”

Sandra rolled her eyes and glanced over to see what sort of mega-star Marie had set her sights on this time. She nearly dropped her drink. It was the guy from the plane. The one who’d ignored her like she was twelve but who now couldn't seem to tear his gaze from her cat eyes.

“Well, well, well… it appears it’s my big sister who’s 'gonna get lucky tonight.”

“Of course not Marie,” Sandra started. But her sister was already wandering her way back toward the bar. Sandra was happy to note that the pervert had at least left the spot he’d held. She scanned the crowd, debating whether to follow after her sister, or find a quiet spot to hide, and came face to face with the airplane guy.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Brows furrowed he seemed truly perplexed. “Do, I know you?”

She would have laughed at the overused line, if she hadn’t known that, in fact he did know her from somewhere. And it only confirmed what she’d thought… she’d been pretty well overlooked by him the first time around. She decided this time he wouldn’t get off quite so easy.

“Perhaps,” she said, scanning her excellent auditory memory for what he’d said on the phone conversation she’d overheard. “You’re an agent, right?”

Oops, that must have been the wrong direction. His body language changed from interested to closed-off in the blink of an eye.

“Ahhh. I see.”

This time she did laugh out loud. As if she needed an agent. She’d never needed to pursue anyone. Agents, artists, producers, other performers, they’d all thrown themselves at her- or more precisely her mom- since she was eight. Her laughter confused him. Once again he looked at her curiously. The quirk in his mouth gave the impression that he was calculating the odds of being wrong about her. It amazed Sandra how one little muscle could be so expressive.

“What are you drinking? Can I get you another?”

Sandra squinted at her glass, surprised it was almost empty. “It was some sort of cranberry drink,” she said, belatedly realizing the connection with the drink she’d ordered on the airplane. “But I’d rather have water, if you don’t mind. I think I’ve had enough.”

“Huh!” He rubbed his chin and studied her face intently. “Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He turned to walk off then spun back as if to check that she was still there. “Don’t move,” he said again.

Sandra barely took a breath before her sister popped up in front of her.

“Well?”

“So, it turns out I sat next to that guy on the plane here and he never even noticed me. In fact, even now he doesn’t remember who I was. I mean, it was just yesterday,” she huffed.

“Cool, so you have the advantage then.” As usual Marie’s reasoning was both smart and also a little lopsided.

“But, what do I say?”

Marie cocked her head and gave the question serious consideration. “Well, I know what I’d say.”

“Okay, what? Hurry, He’s coming back.” Panic gripped Sandra. She held Marie’s arm so she wouldn’t escape.

Marie smiled. “No… I don’t think my way would work for you. But hey, what if you treated him like a composition? What’s that first part again?”

“A prelude…”

“And you told me a prelude introduces the main movement and sets the theme. Right?”

“Okay, yes.” Sandra tried to return the guy’s smile as he wound his way toward them.

“So, this is your prelude. Your theme isn’t my theme. But if I had to take a guess, it would have something to do with a new stage in your life, something anyone could relate to. Good luck.”

She pulled from Sandra’s death grip and shot her a parting smile and a last piece of advice before gliding out to the dance floor. “Probably you should start with your name.”

Sandra set down the sweating glass and rubbed her palms down the side of her dress.

“So, I’m Sandra,” she said when he got close enough to hear her. “We met yesterday. But I’m not the girl I was then. That’s why you don’t recognize me. What’s your name?”

“I’m Sam.”

He still didn’t recognize her, but that didn’t matter. Sandra realized it gave her the freedom to be whomever she wanted. The thought was as freeing as a lively allegro. A new composition began to circle in her brain, something with sultry tones and a strong beat. Something that sounded like the woman she could be.

 

If you liked this story you can find more by Deanne Wilsted at:

www.deannewilsted.com

Follow Deanne on Twitter @dwilsted

The Timepiece Protector Installment 2

         The streets of London were just as congested as the streets of downtown New York. Sellers

hawking their wares in the streets stood shoulder to shoulder with prostitutes and children left not

other place but to beg on the streets. The noise was almost defeaning. Almost. Even after all the years

Dermot had been "civilized" the super sensitivity of the world around him was apparent.

      The clip-clop of metal shod hooves mixed with some sort of machine that spit out white smoke

and made rumbling noises as Alstronia lead him to the shopkeeper who traded her the pocket watch.

His father's pocket watch. A small grubby hand reach toward Alistronia. On instinct Dermot grabbed

the small thin wrist.

      "Didn't mean no harm, gov. 'ave a message for the lady."
     
      "For me?" Alstronia turned around her pale skin even paler in the weak afternoon sunlight. "From

who?"

      "Don' know, miss. 'e was hidden in shadows."
  
      "Oh. Ummm.... thank you."

      Alistronia reached forward to take the note with shaking fingers, but Dermot snatched it out of the

boy's grubby fingers first. He slit the black wax seal watching with narrowed eyes as the boy ran off

down an alley. Looking back down at the masculine scrawl across filthy paper, he grunted.


    "What is it?" She stepped closer to him biting her bottom lip.


     "Nothing to worry about. A fear tactic."


      Alistronia's swallow was loud in an even louder world. "What did it say?"


     "She's fine. Continue on."

      For a second she hesitated then finally nodded and turned back towards the row of brick buildings

ahead of them. Shaking his head at the stupidity of criminals he slipped the paper into the inside

pocket of his great coat. The bastard had made the biggest mistake of his life. He must be getting

desperate. Not only did he have a gender, but judging by the script and wording he was well

educated. Which took much of the work of him hunting down in the hells of London.

     "Are you sure this is place?"

      The building they stopped in front of was an everyday run of the mill brick building with a shop

front on the first floor, apartments on the second floor and more than likely storage on the third. The

shop two shop windows on each side of the door showcased ready-made clothing for the average

working man, a few toys and a very pretty party dress for a little girl. He'd seen so many similar

displays in America he was actually surprised to find it in downtown London.

     "Of course I am. I've been here several times before yesterday. Occasionally the owners received

some interesting things from the orient. Not often, hence I'm not a regular customer." She paused

trying to peer through the curtains behind the displays. From his knowledge it usually meant the

owners were not opening for the day.

     "There hasn't been any rumors that they went on holiday. How strange."

    "There would be such rumors?"

     "Of course. We shop owners are a close-knit group. We look out after each other whenever

possible."

     "Back door?" Alistronia scowled spinning around to face him. He sighed. "Is there a back door?"

     "Oh! Yes. In the alley." She pointed to the corner of the building.

     "Stay here."

     "Sorry, but until I get Bronwen back in my arms, where you go I go."

      Dermot snorted then coughed quickly hoping to cover the blunder. She wrinkled her nose at him.

swallowing the need to kiss the tip of her nose he turned towards the alley. He didn't know what it

was about her that made him feel comfortable. The rustle of her black cotton skirts filled the alley

blocking out what he knew to the scurrying of rats. She gasped a couple times telling him she'd

noticed them as well. The scent of decay poured out of the back of the building. He shook his head

but the stench was there to stay for at least the rest of the day.

     "What is that smell?" she coughed.

     "Something decayed."

     "In a matter of one night and morning? What could do that so fast?"

      He glanced at her over his shoulder reaching to grasp the knob. "You're certain the woman who

traded with was the woman who worked this shop regularly?"

       "Of course. You can ask anyone in this neighborhood. She never goes anywhere. I think she's

afraid of her husband. He can be a real mean person." She pulled out a handkerchief from her reticule

and pushed it against her nose. He could tell by the wrinkling of her nose it didn't do anything to keep

the smell from her.

      "Has he ever raised a hand-"

      "If he has he's never marked anywhere uncovered. Do you think someone died and that's why it

smells so bad?"

       Dermot shook his head. Even on the battlefield he hadn't smelled anything so foul.

      "This isn't a dead body. At least nothing I've ever encountered. I've never smelled anything so

bad. You should probably stay here. There's no telling what I'll find inside."

       "I told you. Where you go, I go."

      "Are you always so stubborn?"

      Alistronia shrugged. Grumbling under his breath he swung back to the shop door. She slipped up

behind him practically pressing her front to his back. His fingers itched for the pistol he'd forgotten

back at Tremayne's place. Thrusting one hand back Dermot grabbed a fist full of her skirt just to be

sure of where she was standing at any given point. Her small gasp went straight to his groin. Damn!

     "Stay right behind me and be quiet."

     "I'm not going anywhere else."

      Dermot wasn't sure this was a good idea, but getting a law enforcement agent would take too

long. The last thing he needed at the moment was to loose the lead on what happened to his father all

those years ago, and on the whereabouts of Alistronia's God-daughter. The swung open the door

choking on the bile that threatened to come up at the overwhelming smell. After a few seconds to

gain his composure, he stepped over the threshold very aware of ever step she made behind him.


                                                             ***

     Dermot's hand gave off the only heat in the darkened smelly building. He said it wasn't the smell

of death and it certainly wasn't food rotting. She didn't know of anything that could decay that fast.

The acrid scent burned her nose and threatened to cause her stomach to revolt.

      "Can you see anything?"

     "Didn't I tell you to be quiet?"

     "I can't see anything."

      Dermot sighed. "Stay."

      He released her skirt. His footsteps thudded softly on carpet away from her. A match struck and a

flare of light illuminated the small back room. Her breath caught in her chest and it had nothing to do

with the smell.

      "Happy now?"

     "Not really." she croaked closing her eyes through unable to scrub the image burned into her lids.

      "Aw fuck."

      Bubbles tickled her nose as she tried to keep from crying.

      "Don't move Miss Parker."

      "Ali. Call me Ali." she whispered. She wasn't a hundred percent certain they should be on first

name basis, but at this point hearing such an intimate thing was welcomed. She jumped when

Dermot's warm hand wrapped around her trembling shoulders. She dared not open her eyes for fear

she'd see even more horrendous images.

      "I'm going to walk you back outside along the same path we took coming in. Only more when I

nudge you."

     "Do I have to look?"

     "It'd be best if you kept your eyes closed. You already say more than you should have."

      She let her breath out. She should have agree with him and waited outside. His front pressed

against hers. Every definition of muscle rubbed against her soft feminine parts. Her heart pounded

while her breath sawed in and out of her corseted torso. If she hadn't been in such a predicament she'd

swear the reaction was from his closeness. Shaking her head just a little she pushed the thought from

her mind. His arms wrapped around her waist his fingers spreading across her lower back.

      "Right foot straight back." His heated moist breath whispered in her ear while slightly

pushing with his body. Slowly he guided her back to the threshold and out into the alley.

     Timidly she cracked her eyes open. The door was mostly  closed hiding the carnage. She sighed.

      Dermot cleared his throat sliding his hands from around her waist. She shivered.

     "Better?"

      She nodded trying to look everywhere else except his brown gaze and husky voice. "Yes. Thank

you."

     "Seeing as what we had tripping into I think it would be best to round up a constable and report

this."

      "Oh...ah...yes. Yes, your right." she shifted looking back down the alley.

      "Why don't you go summon one while I make sure the scene stays undisturbed."

       "It might be a few minutes. I don't usually see one around this time of the afternoon."

      "I'll be here."

      Ali nodded. Grabbing up her skirts she fled down the alley praying there would be a constable not

too far away. Of course luck wasn't with her. She had to go down five blocks and took close to half

an hour before she found someone. He debated her story at first but once she threatened to go to the

papers with their incompetence he quickly followed her back.

      Dermot leaned against the wall next to the back door riffling through a stack of papers. He

nodded to the constable but didn't bother coming to attention. The constable took one step inside

before turning around and vomiting. Ali jumped back thankful for her quick thinking for the vomit

had just barely missed her new boots.

       "Better?"

      Ali wanted to smack the smirk off Dermot's face. The poor constable hadn't been prepared.

      "Stay here. The Captain will want your statements." The constable stumbled down the alley

wiping his mouth.

      Ali turned watching him completely stunned. She had expected him to go inside and look for

survivors. At the very least.

      "No one has been inside there for several days."

      Ali spun back around. Dermot held a piece of paper up to the light as he spoke.

      "I told you the shop owner's wife traded me the watch for one of my summer hats specially

designed for her."

      "And once again. Are you one hundred percent sure it was the shop owner's wife?"

      "Why would you ask that?"

      "Just answer the question."

      "As sure as I can be. It wasn't like I came in here every single day, or even every week. She

looked and sounded the same."

       "And yet that..." he waved tot he door, "is not from one night and one morning. That is weeks if

not months worth of time from several people."

      "I...I'm going to wait on the corner. I need some fresh air." Ali stomped off.

      "Wait! Ali, please stop."

      "I don't want to hear it Mr. Harken. I am not a feathery minded woman who can't remember

someone she's worked with before."

      "Dermot grabbed her arm and swung her around. She landed against his chest her own heaving at

the hurt. Hurt? Yes. Hurt. It hurt that he thought so low of me Why? It never bothered me before

when men thought of me. The only man's opinions that had ever mattered had been Lord Gray,

Bronwen's father. Ali notched her chin up determined to push the wayward emotion away. His eyes

caressed her face and when he spoke his voice was softer. Gentler.

      "I didn't intend to imply any such thing." he pulled back handing her a single sheet or parchment

paper. "Read this and tell me what you think."

       Ali frowned. The paper trembled as her fingers locked around the greasy item. Dread filled her 

chest. whatever was on this paper wasn't going to be good news. Pulling her gaze from his concerned

one she saw the paper was a piece of a ledger. Inventory in, inventory out with the amount it sold for.

Nothing unusual in a shop, except for the names of the items.

      "These are female names. Why?" She glanced up at him the feeling getting worse.

      "My guess... this shop was used as a purchasing point for the white slave trade."

      Ali frowned. She understood the concept behind slavery. She read the newspaper. It was the

very important in the American South, but here in England it wasn't important. She'd never given any

thought to owning another person. But weren't slaves usually of African descent?

     "What is a white slave?"

      Dermot scowled. "How sheltered are the women in London? Surely you've at least heard the

term?"

Ali shook her head. "White slavery is...they take women, preferably young, and sell them to anyone

willing to pay their price."

      "What do they do with them?"

      "Slavery. What does that imply? Anything their masters' decide. Usually it's sex, procreation..."

Her face went hot than all the blood drained. As she scanned the ledge her gaze stopped on the very

last name on the list. Bronwen. The world tilted. Her legs went weak. The last thing she remembered

seeing was the same masculine scrawl of Bronwen's name waiting to be sold.


Copyright Mae Pen 2013
www.maepen.weebly.com

An Ill Advised Experiment

 By Sarah Raplee

Dr. Franklin Stein peered over the rim of his spectacles and squinted at the display on his latest invention, a Physio-Energetic Transposer, or PET, device. The numbers and needles on the dial were a blur, as if they were swimming in lard. Frustration expanded his chest as though it were a balloon on the brink of bursting. He slammed a fist on the laboratory bench and let loose a string of expletives not meant for delicate ears.

He could not work, and it was his own bloody fault! How could he have neglected to order new spectacles? How could he tell President Grant about the delay?

The President would not be pleased with the man his Cabinet members had nicknamed Pet Scientist in Chief. Franklin hated to disappoint the one man who had staunchly supported his wide-ranging research efforts over the past five years.

A soft rap on the door made his stomach clench. He’d believed his new bride, Prudence, to be outside in the garden when he had given into his frustration. Had his coarse language offended her? If only his unique intelligence allowed him to navigate the intricacies of human society with a modicum of grace. But he was the metaphorical bull in the China shop of Society.

Heaving a sigh, he crossed the laboratory in two long strides and flung open the door. The sight of Prue’s beatific smile eased the tension in his shoulders. She seemed unaware of his recent fit of temper. She wrapped her arms around his neck, rose onto her tiptoes and then kissed him with lips as soft as butterfly wings.

As always, she took his breath away.

When she pulled back and gazed up at him through her lashes, laughter danced in her lovely violet eyes. “May I be of help, husband?”

She pressed her lips together instead of smiling, which confused him. Sometimes he felt completely at a loss with her, as if they spoke different non-verbal languages.

Several tendrils of chestnut hair had escaped her chignon to curl alongside the white column of her neck. Franklin found himself imagining what it would feel like to lift them away and kiss her where they had caressed her soft skin. Then he would sweep her off her feet and carry her into the library—

Prue tipped up her chin and raised her brows. “What in the world are you thinking, sir?”

He grinned. “Scandalous thoughts, m’dear, scandalous thoughts.”

Color rose in her cheeks. She folded her arms across her breasts and gazed at him askance. “I only wanted to help, not to distract you.”

He pulled her close, inhaling the calming scent of her flowery perfume. Lord, what did I do to deserve such a woman? She was not a typical female, frail of sensibilities and faint of heart. She helped him when his faults were a hindrance. Otherwise, she overlooked them. No longer a girl like the silly chits who’d hoped to wed him, she had come to his bed with an eagerness and generosity that had astounded him. One taste of her and he was lost forever.

“Well?” Prue said.

Franklin sighed. “I cannot read the transposer dial. I should have ordered new spectacles before the wedding.”

She smiled. “Then I can be of help. I’ll read the instruments for you so your work will not be affected. You can order the spectacles this afternoon.”

He opened his mouth to protest the need to run the errand today, but Prue’s smile melted his thoughts the way sunlight melts butter. Besides, his bride was not afraid to reveal her iron backbone when his wellbeing was at stake. There was no point in arguing about the spectacles.

She looped her arm through his and they walked toward the PET. Prue stopped unexpectedly and cast a puzzled glance up at him. “What happened to your seawater desalinization project? President Grant expects the results in three days.”

Franklin smiled. He enjoyed having someone intelligent with whom to discuss his work. “Not to worry, my dear. I perfected the process two days ago. The President already has my report.”

Her expression cleared. “I must visit the laboratory more frequently. What is your latest project, then?” She bent down to peer at the dial and switches on the PET’s central unit. Bundles of insulated electrical cables protruded from either side of the box for more than a yard before ending in shiny silver helmets.

“I call my new invention a Physio-Energetic Transposer, or PET. The basic idea came to me while I studied at Yale, but my experiments failed repeatedly. I needed a chemical compound with the proper biological and energetic properties for test subject preparation in order to be successful. Unfortunately, I failed to find one at that time.”

“But you’ve discovered one?” Prue said, her eyes shining.

He nodded. “The recent measles outbreak in Baltimore induced me to investigate Native herbal remedies. While searching for a plant to strengthen a person’s resistance to illness, I stumbled onto an herb known as datura. Priests and priestesses of the Indian tribes who live at the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers use datura to allow their spirits to roam free of their bodies. I believe datura weakens what I call the physio-energetic bond. This may be what I need to transpose minds.”

His excitement dimmed in the face of her shocked expression. He replayed their brief conversation in his head, but could recall nothing to explain her apparently negative reaction. His shoulders slumped. “What is it?”

Prue composed her features into a smile and laid her palms against his chest. Her warm brown eyes peered up into his. “I’m sorry; I thought you said you were going to transpose minds.” She laughed as if she had told a joke.

In response to Prue laying her hands on his chest, he slid his arms around her supple waist. This was a ritual they had developed to ease them through impending disagreements. The close physical contact helped him to remain calm when he felt confused.

In this case, her reaction to his invention was not at all what he had expected. What the devil did it mean? “That is exactly what I said. The president believes the ability to transpose minds between bodies may serve the country well. That is a direct quote.”

Prue blinked. She studied him for a moment and then shook her head. “Politicians are ambitious men, which sometimes makes them shortsighted.”

Franklin blinked. His fingers tightened on her waist. It had never occurred to him that the President of the United States of America might have faults like any other man. The implications were mind-boggling. His lungs compressed.

Prue cupped his jaw in her warm, soft hand. “Don’t look so horrified, Franklin. Only God is perfect.” She dropped her gaze to the rise and fall of his chest for a moment. “You must remain calm, my dear. Breathe slowly and deeply.”

He did as she instructed. His chest gradually opened up.

She grinned, and he knew she had thought of a way to help him understand her concerns about his project. He relaxed a little.

“Better?” she said, still smiling.

He hadn’t a clue as to what was coming next, but her smile was reassuring. He smiled back. “Much.”

“Help me to understand why you want to transpose minds, other than that the President is in favor of your research. What specific good do you foresee will come of it?”

Prue would wait patiently for his answer. She understood that these sorts of questions were difficult for him to answer. He thought back to the beginning of his quest, back to his time at Yale. He couldn’t remember ever giving the outcome of his work any thought. Why was that? “Predicting the effects of my work in society is impossible.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I disagree. You may find yourself ill-equipped to do so, but I believe I can safely predict little if any good will come of these experiments.”

Franklin didn’t know how to respond. He lifted his gaze to the blank wall and processed her words. Prue believed his work would cause only harm. It was logical to assume she wanted him to quit the PET experiments—forever. The thought alone made him break into a cold sweat. Once he began a project he was like a dog with a bone until he had his answers. He could not bring himself to give up the quest when he was so close to accomplishing his goals. Could he?

Franklin searched his wife’s loving eyes for an answer. Prue had never interfered in his work until today. Nor had she given him bad advice or claimed to have skills or knowledge she did not possess. She must feel strongly about this. She loved him, therefore she wanted what was best for him. “What do you suggest?”

“How far along are you in your research?” In a rare indication of nerves, she briefly worried her full lower lip.

He focused on her mouth while he considered her question. “I have determined the PET is safe to use on guinea pigs. They seem to suffer an hour of confusion before settling in to their usual patterns of behavior. But that doesn’t prove their minds were actually transposed. Guinea pigs are very similar in their general behaviors.”

The pink tip of her tongue darted out to lick her lips. He lost his train of thought.

“I suggest we purchase two dogs of differing breeds with very distinct behaviors, one well-trained to follow commands and one totally undisciplined. After we take time to become familiar with the dogs, you may attempt to transpose their minds. If you are successful, their behaviors will offer proof of success. And I have no doubt you will find my negative prediction has been verified”.

He frowned. “But you don’t approve of the PET experiments.”

“I want you to trust my judgment in these matters without reservation. Only hard experience will enable you to accept my advice. Besides, once you’ve begun a project, I am convinced you will fall ill from curiosity if not allowed find the answers you seek.” With an affectionate smile, Prue brushed a lock of his hair off his forehead. “I have only one request, Franklin.”

“Of course.”

“When you realize the wisdom of my prediction, will you destroy the PET device along with your notes, and then report that the experiment was an utter failure?”

He drew his brows together. “You want me to lie to the President?”

She shook her head. “If transposing minds causes nothing but problems, then the experiment is a failure for all practical purposes, don’t you see? Just because mankind can do something doesn’t mean we should.”

Prue’s explanation left Franklin breathless, as though he were on the brink of an epiphany but couldn’t see the next step. He was certain of only one thing. He could not stand for her to be unhappy.

“I will do as you ask. You have my word.”

Her eyes shone. “You are the dearest, sweetest man God ever put on this earth.” She pulled his head down for a kiss that burned away all logical thought.

#

A month later, Franklin waited in the laboratory for Sparky and Bruno, the dogs he and Prue had purchased three weeks before, to awaken from anesthesia. Each dog slept on his own pillow on the laboratory floor. Each wore a collar and chain attached to a ring set in the stone wall. They would be able to see each other, but not reach each other.

After completing the transposition, he had removed the silver helmets and tried to make the dogs comfortable. His Physio-Electric Transponder readings had indicated the datura loosened the mind-body connection in both dogs enough for the transposition to be successful. Things seemed to have gone smoothly. Only time would tell.

A soft rap on the door announced Prue’s arrival. Franklin opened the door.

His lovely wife swept into the room bearing a silver tray holding two cups of fragrant tea and a small plate of cookies. She set the tray on a workbench and then handed him a steaming cup. ““I’m so excited I can hardly breathe. Perhaps the tea will calm my nerves.”

Prue chattered when she was nervous.She had told him so.

“What about you, Franklin?” she said, smiling at him over the rim of her teacup. “Are you excited to find out if the transposition worked?”

He considered the question. His stomach was queasy. His muscles felt wound up as tightly as clock springs. His gaze dropped to Sparky’s small, inert form. His heart skipped a beat. What would the incorrigible terrier be like when he awakened?

He had never before owned a dog. The animals' companionship had been enjoyable. He and Prue played fetch with them every morning after breakfast. Bruno was the calmer of the two, obedient and prone to napping. Franklin found stroking the mastiff’s smooth coat quite soothing. Sparky’s antics made him laugh, and the little rascal had turned out to be a champion ratter. Their groom was delighted to have the terrier visit the stables.

Soft fingers grazed his cheek. He started, then offered his wife a sheepish smile. He had become lost in thought and forgotten to answer her question. “I don’t think I’m excited. I feel—twisted up inside.”

Prue sighed. “You’re worried, Franklin,” she said. “You’ve grown attached to the dogs.”

Before he could formulate a response, Bruno’s paws began to twitch.

#

Twenty minutes later both dogs were awake and pulling at the ends of their chains. Bruno, no longer obedient, would not stop barking and jumping around. Franklin wished he had used a larger gauge chain to secure the big dog. This one might not hold much longer..

Little Sparky had staggered around for a few minutes, stopping periodically to blink at Franklin with what felt like reproach. Then he flopped on his side on his pillow and closed his eyes.

Prue laid a hand on Franklin’s arm. She had to shout to be heard over Bruno’s barking. “I believe we have enough behavioral evidence to prove the PET device worked. The noise in here is giving me a headache. Let’s go sit in the garden.”

Franklin let her lead him outside. They sat on a warm stone bench. The air was infused with the scent of roses. Bruno’s muffled barks were clearly audible, but at least he could think again. He removed his spectacles and scrubbed his face with one hand.

Prue’s prediction had been accurate. He would never again doubt her advice. Switching the dogs between bodies was possible, but inadvisable. Dog’s emotions were relatively straightforward and thus easy for him to read. The animals were obviously unhappy. Knowing that made his heart ache. They were also ill-suited for their new bodies. Sparky-the-terrier was an incorrigible mite, while Sparky-the-mastiff was a danger to himself and others. He shuddered to think what might happen if the mastiff got loose.

Transposing people was no doubt possible, but the end result would at best break their spirits. At worst it would drive them insane. He no longer felt driven to continue with these experiments. He did not want to hurt anyone.

He donned his spectacles and then turned to his wife. The love that shone in her eyes made him feel that everything would come out alright. “I would appreciate your assistance in choosing future projects,” he said gravely.

Prue grinned. She began to unpin her hair. To his surprise, he knew exactly what she was thinking. As her hair came down, his blood heated. When the last pin came out, she rose and offered him her hand. “Transposing Sparky and Bruno back into their own bodies can wait until tomorrow. I suspect they need some rest before undergoing a second procedure. Let’s have a lie-down before dinner.”

He kissed the back of her hand, pretending he had misunderstood her intent. “You never take naps.”

She arched her brows at him and slowly unbuttoned the high collar of her white blouse, then the next button, and the next. Franklin swallowed. He could see the shadow of her décolletage and hear his blood rush in his ears.

“I do not plan to sleep,” she said.

He surged to his feet. “Neither do I.”

With that, he swept her into his arms. Her smile swelled his heart to bursting with love. As he carried her to the French doors that led to the library, he kissed her nose, her eyelids, her chin. After opening the doors, he carried her inside and deposited her on the brocade-covered settee. The air was heavy with the odors of leather and old books. He closed the doors and the heavy drapes for privacy.

“Why Dr. Stein,” Prue said from the shadows. “I do believe you have compromised me.”

“Not yet,”he said, “but I am about to, Mrs. Stein.”

The Timepiece Protector

Chapter One

"It's a lovely piece."

The saleswoman's sugary sweet voice irritated him. The crunch of cheap tin crumpling pulled his gaze from the woman browsing the front counter. He ground his teeth as he realized he'd just crushed the small tin solider toy. He'd have to spend extra money to buy the stupid piece. He needed the watch. He glanced up through his lashes. The exact one the blasted saleswoman was trying to pitch to the somewhat familiar woman. He slipped the tin solider into his pocket and sidled his way to her other side pretending to look at a set of cufflinks.

Wasn't much to anything in the shop. Except for the intricately engraved pocket watch glinting gold in the gas lamp light.

"How much?"

"Ninety pounds."

Steep. He might still have a chance. Perhaps his hands wouldn't get dirty on this one. Then again... He felt the grin slide across his lips. No! Stay in character. Killing will come later. Much later. He needed that watch. Now. His fingers twitched.

"As lovely as it is, that is much too steep for me." She began to hand it back.
The saleswoman looked around. More than likely looking for her husband, who owned the establishment. She leaned in lowering her voice.

"You're the milliner that designs those fabulous hats for the royal family for the Ascot races, aren't you?"

"Uh...I suppose, though I do more than the Royal family. I've designed for the ambassadors and other ladies. Though I do prefer to keep names to myself. You know how it is with the higher ranks."

The saleswoman blushed. "Of course. Would you consider a trade?"

The customer pulled back frowning. "What sort of trade?"

"The pocket watch for one of your lovely creations? It's been my dream for five years to own one of

your hats." The saleswoman sighed.

He clenched his hands holding his breath. He wanted to swing in between the two women and snatch the timepiece from the woman. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out. Just because she gets the watch doesn't mean he can't retrieve it within the next couple days. Damn! Just three days to the full moon and the secret initiation of the Hellfire Club. He had to have that piece!

"I suppose that would work. If you're not wanting this on your hat."

"No...no...no. That would just be inviting thieves to attack. No. Just one of your lovely summer hats."

"Deal."

He ground his teeth as the women shook hands. Bile pushed up the back of his throat. He quickly paid the woman for the broken tin solider before racing out of the small shop after the milliner. Ah! There she was, strolling down the cobblestone street. Probably heading back to her own shop. She paused craning her neck to look behind her. He dashed into an alley peeking around the corner of a building. She shrugged and moved on. This one would be tricky. But he would have that pocket watch and his revenge on the Royal family. Even if it killed him.

*   *   *  

Ali huddled deeper into her caped black wool jacket. The misty fall morning left a chill similar to snow melting down the back of her neck. She shivered and hunched further in. Her hands would be stiff with the weather by the time she got to her shop seven blocks from her flat.

"S'cuse me, miss?"

Ali froze. Despite the temperature sweat beaded across her forehead. She glanced to the entry way of the alley she was crossing. A young boy of about ten sat huddled against the brick building.

"Yes?"

"Got any food?"

Her stomach dropped. He held out his filthy hands turning red with the bite in the air. She shook her head but pulled out a coin.

"I don't have food, but here. There's a lovely bakery on the other side of this alley. Tell her Alistronia sent you and she'll see that you fill your belly." Ali held out the copper coin.
His eyes went large as he jumped to his feet. His fingers barely touched hers as he snatched the coin from her fingers. She blinked and he was already a quarter of the alley from her. Shaking her head she turned away from the street urchin.

If she hadn't taken on the care of her God-daughter Gods knew what would have happened to her with no other family to care for her. She smiled at the thought of her young charge. Though she wasn't so young anymore. Bronwen would be turning seventeen in a couple months. Just before Christmas. She was a good girl. Bright in her studies, very helpful in the shop but eager to go off on her own. Well, eager to have the season her father   had promised in his will. Bronwen had saved every little penny she earned to help pay for her coming out ball.

Ali paused on the corner where her shop stood proudly smashed between a seamstress and a tailor. She sighed letting the tension of the rough night flow off her. Bronwen hadn't come home last night, though that wasn't unusual when she was working on a new hat. The creativity tended to take over and she lost track of how much time has gone by. Ali pulled the key to the front door as she crossed the cobblestone street. Bronwen had to be there. She hadn't met any boys she was interested in. At least not that she had ever mentioned to her.

Ali stopped just in front of the door. The breath froze in her chest. The door stood slightly ajar, not in a welcoming way. Her heart sped up causing her to start to tremble. Bronwen knew to keep the doors locked at all times until she was there. On shaking legs Ali pushed the door open further with her index finger. She gasped clapping her hands over her mouth as the front of the shop came into view.

"Bronwen!" She screamed running into the destroyed room. Only silence met her cry of terror.
"Bronwen! Please answer me!" She pushed through the overturned countertop not caring that all of their hard work lay shredded and torn apart on the floor. Still only her movements filled the eerily silent building.

Her throat closed as she entered the sacred back room. The back room was their creative space normally organized with trims, frippery, and hat forms. Now it was shambles of a trash heap. Every drawer had been pulled out and dumped onto the floor. Books had been opened and papers torn out. Cushions Bronwen had designed and sewn were shredded the goose feathers all over.

"Bronwen?" She hiccuped. "Please. Please answer me."

She raced up the spiral wrote iron stairs to the small second story. Bronwen was nowhere to be seen. She slid on papers strewn across the floor as she stepped further into the room. Perhaps Bronwen had gone to market or somewhere else and left a note on her desk. She glanced to the large roll top her father had left her as a child. Even the cubbies had been empty and thrown across the room. As her gaze slid across the room and the helplessness start to slink in she spotted a piece of paper stuck against the single window. Hope flared as she slid and tottled her way to the only piece that looked like it had been purposefully placed there.

Her stomach dropped. It wasn't a note from Bronwen. The writing was a man's elaborate scrawl. A ransom note.

*   *   *

"What do you mean the police won't help you? Isn't it their job to retrieve kidnap victims?"
Ali shook her head hiccuping into her handkerchief.

"They say they have too much on their hands to worry about a runaway who staged her escape. They won't listen to me. They wouldn't send anyone out to look at the destruction done at the shop."

"How awful! That's just... just..."

Tristan hugged her close. It was just like her sister to offer comfort when Ali needed advice not love. Hugging wouldn't help her get her god-daughter back.

"Let me see that note again. Perhaps I can figure something out."

"I don't see how, but here." Ali pulled it out of her simple black reticule.

"Tremayne will be home shortly. He might know someone on the force that will help."
Ali sniffled pulling the blasted pocket watch from the same pouch. She'd spent the morning looking over the piece wondering what was so important about it that someone would kidnap a young woman in order to get it back. She'd even stopped by the general store who'd traded it, but no one had been there. The shop stood in silent darkness. Had she known the trouble it was worth and traded it to be rid of it? Was Bronwen alright? Had the kidnapper hurt her or Gods forbid done something irreparable to her?

The front door slammed. She wanted to take her eyes off the clock face peaking through the intricately carved gold filigree of the outer case, but it seemed to hold a mesmerizing effect on her. Tristan's silk skirts rustled as she left the sitting room to meet who Ali could only assume was her husband, Tremayne.  Men voices mixed with Tristan's softer words. The door of the sitting room opened finally drawing her gaze away from the clock.

Embarrassed to be caught still staring at the prized ransom item, she quickly stuffed it into her reticule. Tristan glided in. Sometimes Ali felt a pang of jealousy watching her sister. As far back as she could remember she moved with a grace Ali had never found. Not to mention Tristan had actually found a man who loved her as much as she loved him. Unlike the man her stubborn heart had chosen all those years ago. She sighed.

"It'll be alright, Ali. Tremayne said he might know someone who would be willing to help."

"Really? I don't have very long. When can I meet him?"

Tristan looked back over her shoulder. "Sooner than you think."

"Miss Parker. Even though this is such a horrible time for you I am glad to see you. It has been awhile since you visited our home." Tremayne sauntered into the sitting room holding his hands out to her.

Ali stood up accepting his warm hands. He pulled her into a large hug encouraging her to sink into him. The comfort of his hold had never felt wrong. He had always made her feel like the treasured little sister he'd never had. A throat cleared behind them. Tremayne smiled setting her a little away and stepping to the side still holding her right hand.

"Alistronia Parker, I'd like to introduce you to my best friend recently of New York America, Dermot Harken. Dermot, Alistronia Parker, my sister-in-law."

Ali couldn't help staring at the man standing before her. He was tall, taller then Tremayne by a few inches, and Tremayne had been the tallest man she knew. The simple black riding jacket fit his body to perfection making her realize he didn't need the disguise of padding to look healthy. His dark hair hung loose against his collar bringing her gaze to the creases in his face. He looked like he had spent endless hours in the sun.

"It's a pleasure to meet you ma'am." He held out his hand.

Without conscious thought Ali slipped hers in his hold. His hands were rough with callouses and strong. Very strong, yet so gentle. Her pulse thumped against her skin as she drew back quickly.

"Likewise I'm sure." Ali turned back to Tremayne. "Do you really think you can help? Bronwen is -"

"Important, I know." Tremayne settled a hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly.

Ali nodded and fought the urge to crumble into a new sobbing fit. She squeezed her handkerchief in her left hand.

"Why don't we sit down and go over the details."

Tremayne escorted her to the settee she'd been crying on minutes earlier. Tristan sat down next to her while Dermot sat across from Ali. Ali glanced down at her hands hiding the frown marring her forehead. How could she call him by his first name? She'd never felt comfortable with men, yet this man had her relaxing into the cushions.

*   *   *

Alistronia. Such an unusual name. She fit exactly as Tremayne had described her. Except for the red puffy eyes and the tearful blue trying to avoid his gaze. Having known Tremayne since they were toddlers he hadn't been surprised at how much he cared for his sister-in-law, but seeing her personally, Dermot could see the fragility in her. As Tremayne poured them all drinks she worried the delicate lace edge handkerchief. Her gaze darted from him to the letter now sitting on the side table to her reticule attached to her pale wrist.

He breathed in silently. He shouldn't be feeling anything for anyone. He had been sent to England for recruitment and to investigate a location for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Mr. Pinkerton was hoping to spread his agents all over the world, and London was the premiere spot. He'd just happened to believe he could kill two birds with one stone. He'd immediately pulled up Tremayne's address and made contact.

"Now, my dear sister. Tell us what has happened."

She sighed her shoulders turning inwards.

"I don't know what happened. Honestly-"

Dermot took her right hand between his. Once a client is comfortable with you they will tell everything. He'd always been good with the women clients. It was one of the aspects of his personality that Mr. Pinkerton had loved about him.

"Why don't you start from the beginning?"

She frowned shaking her head. "I don't know where-"

"When did you receive this note?"

"This morning. I went to my shop like I do every morning..."

"Shop?"

"My millinery. Bronwen hadn't come home last night. Sometimes she looses track of the time and will work all night. When I got there... the door was open...the shop destroyed..."

Alistronia began to tremble. He rubbed her hand trying to pour some of his body heat into her.

"So you're assistant was missing and your shop destroyed?"

"She's not my assistant. She's my God-daughter. Gods, if anything happens to her..."

"If she's anything like her God-mother I'm sure she'll be fine." Tristan spoke sliding an arm around

her shoulders.

"That's not the point, Tristan. I gave my word-"

"To a dead man." Tristan sighed. "I know. I know. What I don't understand is why someone would take Bronwen. It's not like she's from a wealthy family."

"What does the kidnapper want in exchange of her safe return?"

Alistronia hesitated for a minute before finally digging into her reticule. He found himself fascinated as she pulled a gold object from the black silk bag. She held her hand out. Her fingers unfurled. In the center of her palm lay an intricate gold filigree pocket watch about the size of the American Half-dollar. Chills chased up his spine leaving in it's wake chill bumps. His mouth dried as he stared at something he thought he'd never see again. With shaking hands he reached forward. Her skin was smooth against his rough fingertips. She in hailed.

He dragged his gaze from the pocket watch up to her blue gaze. She frowned as if her reaction had confused her. Her fingers closed over the pocket watch trapping his fingers in her fist.

"I would prefer not to let this go. It's my only bargaining chip."

"I can understand that. Where did you get it? When did you purchase the watch?"

"I received it in trade. Yesterday evening."

Dermot moved so that he sat on Alistronia's right side. His leg pressed into hers as he pulled her hand towards him. If she wasn't going to let the watch out of her hand he'd look at it in her hand. If it was the one his father had put together, he'd be damned if he let her give it up to some monster who more than likely would kill her as return her God-daughter.

Her breath hitched as he unfolded her fingers. Sending her a glance from under his lashes he couldn't help but notice her pupils had dilated. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip before biting it between perfect white teeth. He in hailed. Pulling his gaze away from her tempting mouth he cursed the timing. He couldn't afford a fling at the moment.

"What do you suppose the kidnapper wants with a watch? As pretty as it is, surely it can't be worth a life?"

"I suppose it depends on the importance of this piece to the kidnapper. I'd move heaven and hell itself to keep you with me, my love." Tremayne spoke to Tristan sliding fingers across the back of her neck. She smiled up at him.

"Everyone has their price." Dermot told Tristan without taking his gaze from Alistronia.

*   *   *

Ali pulled her gaze away from Dermot's intense bronze one. He was clearly warning her about something, but at the moment she couldn't make heads or tails what it was. He pushed the knob on the top and the filigree front popped open. The elegant roman numerals glowed black against the mother-of-pearl face.

"It's very beautiful." She found herself whispering.

He looked up for a second with a soft smile.

"It's very well crafted. I'd say by a master clockmaker."

"So why is it important? Why hold someone for ransom?"

"How did it come into your possession again?"

"I traded for it. The shopkeeper wanted something I provide."

"A trade?"

"Alistronia is very sought after. She is one of the best milliners in London. She's serviced the Royal family." Tristan spoke with pride.

"Tristan. I've created hats for many others besides the Royal family. Besides, the Royal family is very large and complex."

"So you traded one of your creations for this?" Dermot asked. Expecting skepticism Ali was thrown off that he sounded more intrigued. She nodded. "Do you know where the shopkeeper got the watch?"

"No. She never said, but she did seem in a hurry. She offered to sell it to me, but I wasn't willing to pay ninety pounds for it. That's when we struck the trade."

Tremayne whistled. "Ninety pounds? Pretty high cost."

Dermot flipped it over. "Though not as much as it should of been. This quality of work would cost several thousand if I know anything about clockmaking."

"Oh yes. Your father."

"My father. Have you dealt with this shopkeeper before?"

"Oh several times. She runs a general store with her husband just a couple blocks from my own."

"Are you willing to introduce us?"

"I don't understand."

"Dermot works with the Pinkerton Detective Agency is America. He's very skilled in this sort of

thing, Ali." Tremayne set his glass down on the mantle. "We grew up together, fought together and saved each other's lives on more than one occasion. You can trust him to bring Bronwen home."

"Why can't I just meet him where he wants and hand over the watch?"

"Do you really think that will work?" Tristan stood up. "You know these types of men just as well as

I do, my dear. You know Bronwen won't come home. And neither will you. Please let, Mr. Harken to help."

"I have plenty of experience and can give you my word I will bring your God-daughter home safe."

Ali sat nearly in his lap trying to figure out what his goal was. He had a hard time letting go of the watch even when she tugged it away. He seemed connected to the watch in some way. She frowned. Was it too much to ponder if he was the kidnapper? She swept a glance at Tremayne. No, he couldn't. Tremayne would never be friends with someone like that. But his willingness to "help" and his clinginess to the watch told a different story.

"I insist, Alistronia. As the head of the family, I'm hiring Dermot to bring Bronwen home safe."
Dermot wrinkled his nose. "I don't need to be hired. Besides, I'm here on an assignment."
Tremayne grabbed Dermot by the arm and dragged him out of the sitting room.

"You know once Tremayne gets something in his head he won't let it go."

Ali sighed. "I know. I suppose I'm stuck, aren't I?"

"What a way to be stuck? He's very handsome. Tremayne says he's very kind and generous. You couldn't do worse."

"I suppose not. At least he's willing to listen unlike the bobbies."

Tristan turned towards the door smiling. Ali's stomach jumped. She knew exactly what her sister was planning. It wasn't the first time she'd tried to set her up with a man. And probably wouldn't be the last. Despite her continued arguments that she's happy as she is, Tristan didn't believe her.

"Will you truly give up that watch to the kidnapper?"

"If it means getting Bronwen home, yes. I'll do anything to keep her safe."

Tristan spun around. "Even kill?"

Ali looked up locking gazes with her older sister. "Anything.”

Next Chapter will be posted October 4, 2013

Copyright Mae Pen 2013

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