Dancing in Red (a Wear Black novella) by Heather Hiestand, Eilis Flynn

Chapter One: The Prettiest Wren
     
    July 27, 1861 Kildare, Ireland
    “It is rather ironic. He has all the
money in the world. Everyone wants to meet him, yet, despite the charm, he’s
the most inexperienced lad you’ll ever meet.” The next sentence out of the
soldier’s mouth disappeared as he pulled his stool closer to the table.
    Look at me! Nellie Clifton
wanted to shout to the subaltern. If there was a new soldier with wealth and
charm, she wanted to meet him. She hadn’t come to the Curragh intending to
settle in for the rest of her life. Most of the girls here lasted less than a
decade. The smarter ones came just for the summer, leaving before the snows
covered the plain. That way, the experience felt like more of a lark and less
like work.
    “I can’t imagine how Her Majesty thinks
he’s going to be able to command a battalion by August. Why, I couldn’t do it,”
said another subaltern, who looked a couple of years younger than the first one
who’d spoken. This lad hadn’t even tried to grow a mustache. “Could you,
Mills?”
    At the lad’s words, Nellie discarded her
intention of displaying herself to the rest of the room. Higher-ranking officers
were dotted around the tables near the empty fireplace in the pub’s main room,
but these youngling’s aristocratic drawls had her attention piqued.
    “He’s the Prince of Wales, not an
ordinary man,” said Mills. He lifted his arm and waved a hand at Mairead,
demanding another round.
    It seemed all the action in the room
slowed as Nellie heard that comment. Sure, she’d heard rumors that the prince
had been at the Curragh since last month, but no one had seen him. They said he
was kept busy with dinners and study. He never came out to the pubs, shops, or
the wrens’ nests bordering the camp. She made her move as the barmaid arrived
with a fresh pitcher, swinging her hips under her thin cotton gown. If she
could land a prince as her protector, perhaps she could earn enough to keep her
young sister Dulsine from this life. Her parents, back in Dublin, had been
making noises that they couldn’t afford to keep the girl in school anymore.
    Mairead, one front tooth missing and
with a slight limp, gave Nellie a dirty look for not rushing in, and grabbed
the empty pitcher, leaving a nimbus of slopped ale, before walking toward her
next patron. He’d just spilled his ale entirely. The girl was too religious to
offer her favors to soldiers, but wasn’t Christian enough to wish well to the
girls who made different decisions. But Nellie hadn’t wanted to reach for the
pitcher and then walk away with it. She wanted a chat.
    She pulled a vial of Irish Patent
Cleaner from her apron pocket and let one drop fall on the subalterns’ table, then
gave it a swipe with her rag. The substance dissolved the ale, leaving a
vaguely lemonish scent in the air for a moment before it vanished as quickly as
the puddle. The influenza that was running through other parts of Britain had
supposedly started in Ireland, and she wasn’t going to let any of these young
soldiers get sick. She had a living to earn, and using the various concoctions
and gadgets that were getting so much notoriety for their effectiveness would
make sure that the pub kept its reputation for cleanliness.
    Nellie, after all, had plans. She didn’t
want to be a barmaid any more than she wanted to be a wren. Well, you did what
you had to. “Hello, boys,” she said in her naturally low-pitched voice. She let
her thick curly black hair slide down one arm, provocatively.
    “And who might you be?” the younger
subaltern said, with an unfocused grin.
    She noted his voice had started to slur
ever so slightly. Cocking her hip, she folded her arms under her breasts,
plumping them up. “Nellie. I’m an actress.”
    “Shakespeare, I assume,” said the older
one, still sober. He smirked knowingly.
    She forced a light laugh and half
turned, allowing her starched petticoat to bell out gracefully. “There