Britannia Theater on Hoxton Road, hands jammed into the pockets of his overcoat, scrutinizing the poster pasted to the wall.
Direct from Germany! The Teutonic Marvel of the Age! Be astounded as Markus Mesmer and his amazing Hypno-Array lay bare the very secrets of THE MIND ITSELF!
A raucous crowd was already filing into the Britannia, full of gin and high spirits, young men catcalling and groups of women shouting back.
“See you after the show!” yelled one tall youth in a derby pulled over his eyes as he waved at a knot of girls, the bottoms of their dresses wet with slush.
“Not unless you’re buying the drinks,” riposted one of the young women.
“Eh, paying for it’s not allowed anymore, even in alcohol! Haven’t you read the newspapers? Lizzie Strutter’ll cut off your doodle!” another man bellowed, and the crowd rang with peals of laughter.
Close by, a voice cut through the chatter, as though for his ears only. “Lost, handsome.”
He hadn’t noticed the woman sitting with her back to the wall, a small folding table covered by a silk scarf in front of her. At first he thought she was old, due to the gray rat-tailed, dreadlocked hair tied with bright scraps of rag. But the eyes in her coal-black face were shining and bright, the shoulders exposed to the biting cold smooth and thin.
“No, I am not lost, thank you for asking.”
She smiled, a gold incisor flashing among her gleaming white teeth. “It wasn’t a question, handsome. It was a tell.”
She indicated the bones—rat, perhaps, or bird—scattered on the silk scarf covering the table. Gideon nodded. “You’re a fortune-teller.”
She shrugged those immaculate shoulders, her breasts rising from the patchwork dress she wore. “Fortunes, futures. Fates.” She locked her white eyes with Gideon’s. “Possibilities. All for a farthing.”
Gideon sat down on the crate before the folding table, handing over the coin. The woman spirited it away and snatched up the white bones, shaking them in her cupped hands and whispering into them before casting them on the faded silk. She studied the pattern of their falling.
“A lost father dies,” she announced.
Gideon smiled sadly. Too late. Arthur Smith was dead these five months, lost beneath the claws and teeth of the rampaging Children of Heqet, his bones picked clean in the caves beneath the Lythe Bank promontory near Sandsend, where Gideon and his father had lived.
“That’s the past,” he told the woman. “I thought you told the future.”
She heaved those shoulders, that chest. “Possibilities, I said.”
“Who are you?” asked Gideon.
She looked from beneath plucked brows, her eyes cold as diamonds. “Names, or at least the knowing of them, are powerful things, not to be traded lightly.” He stood to go, and she said, “Be careful, Gideon Smith. Don’t get lost.”
Gideon was looking to the lines now heading into the theater when he wondered how she knew his name. But when he turned back she had gone, crates and table and all, disappeared into the crowd.
Gideon joined the flow into the theater and purchased a ticket for the stalls at the box office, ignoring the woman with a basket of rotten fruit for sale, three items for a ha’penny to throw at acts that didn’t come up to scratch. The performance was due to finish at nine thirty; plenty of time for him to get back to Grosvenor Square and …
And what? His approach to Maria after her return from Bodmin Moor had been clumsy and awkward, and had Bent witnessed it he would have put his head in his hands. Eventually, Gideon had managed to stammer that he wished Maria and himself to have a closer relationship, and that although he had to go out on business he would not be averse to returning to find her in his bed, should she think such a thing was appropriate or indeed desirable, the latter being something that he himself considered her to be. Eventually he had brought his anguish to an end and fled to his room to
Direct from Germany! The Teutonic Marvel of the Age! Be astounded as Markus Mesmer and his amazing Hypno-Array lay bare the very secrets of THE MIND ITSELF!
A raucous crowd was already filing into the Britannia, full of gin and high spirits, young men catcalling and groups of women shouting back.
“See you after the show!” yelled one tall youth in a derby pulled over his eyes as he waved at a knot of girls, the bottoms of their dresses wet with slush.
“Not unless you’re buying the drinks,” riposted one of the young women.
“Eh, paying for it’s not allowed anymore, even in alcohol! Haven’t you read the newspapers? Lizzie Strutter’ll cut off your doodle!” another man bellowed, and the crowd rang with peals of laughter.
Close by, a voice cut through the chatter, as though for his ears only. “Lost, handsome.”
He hadn’t noticed the woman sitting with her back to the wall, a small folding table covered by a silk scarf in front of her. At first he thought she was old, due to the gray rat-tailed, dreadlocked hair tied with bright scraps of rag. But the eyes in her coal-black face were shining and bright, the shoulders exposed to the biting cold smooth and thin.
“No, I am not lost, thank you for asking.”
She smiled, a gold incisor flashing among her gleaming white teeth. “It wasn’t a question, handsome. It was a tell.”
She indicated the bones—rat, perhaps, or bird—scattered on the silk scarf covering the table. Gideon nodded. “You’re a fortune-teller.”
She shrugged those immaculate shoulders, her breasts rising from the patchwork dress she wore. “Fortunes, futures. Fates.” She locked her white eyes with Gideon’s. “Possibilities. All for a farthing.”
Gideon sat down on the crate before the folding table, handing over the coin. The woman spirited it away and snatched up the white bones, shaking them in her cupped hands and whispering into them before casting them on the faded silk. She studied the pattern of their falling.
“A lost father dies,” she announced.
Gideon smiled sadly. Too late. Arthur Smith was dead these five months, lost beneath the claws and teeth of the rampaging Children of Heqet, his bones picked clean in the caves beneath the Lythe Bank promontory near Sandsend, where Gideon and his father had lived.
“That’s the past,” he told the woman. “I thought you told the future.”
She heaved those shoulders, that chest. “Possibilities, I said.”
“Who are you?” asked Gideon.
She looked from beneath plucked brows, her eyes cold as diamonds. “Names, or at least the knowing of them, are powerful things, not to be traded lightly.” He stood to go, and she said, “Be careful, Gideon Smith. Don’t get lost.”
Gideon was looking to the lines now heading into the theater when he wondered how she knew his name. But when he turned back she had gone, crates and table and all, disappeared into the crowd.
Gideon joined the flow into the theater and purchased a ticket for the stalls at the box office, ignoring the woman with a basket of rotten fruit for sale, three items for a ha’penny to throw at acts that didn’t come up to scratch. The performance was due to finish at nine thirty; plenty of time for him to get back to Grosvenor Square and …
And what? His approach to Maria after her return from Bodmin Moor had been clumsy and awkward, and had Bent witnessed it he would have put his head in his hands. Eventually, Gideon had managed to stammer that he wished Maria and himself to have a closer relationship, and that although he had to go out on business he would not be averse to returning to find her in his bed, should she think such a thing was appropriate or indeed desirable, the latter being something that he himself considered her to be. Eventually he had brought his anguish to an end and fled to his room to
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