reality, Gabriella found a few stingy hours of
peace.
* * * *
Raith stood amid the swirling fog, his high
coat collar flipped up, watching the dark shapes as the last of the
barges pushed off from shore. When he could see them no more, he
turned, keeping to deep shadows. He made his way to Fleet Street.
There, he took rear stairs at a narrow building and knocked on the
door of the garret. An elder man opened it, holding a sputtering
candle.
With few words exchanged, Raith handed him a
sack of coins, advising, “There’s a ship for the Indies leaving in
the hour, and I’d suggest you board it.”
“I intend to, milord. I have no use for the
deed. You’ll find it under the floor boards there.” His head nodded
toward a corner.
Tossing him extra coin, Raith left shortly
after carrying several wrapped bundles. Yet another hour later,
businesses, and doors on several streets had leaflets stuck in the
cracks or slid under the bottom. In the better addresses, he left
them the same, and addition, in parks, as well as under the doors
of the clubs, coffeehouses, and shops.
The fog was soupy, thicker, when
empty-handed, he stood gazing up at the back of Stratton’s
residence. Reaching in his coat for his flask, he drank deep, once,
twice, wiping his mouth with his fist as the emotions began to grip
him. All the years of planning, waiting, was for this. Soon. Very
soon.
Despite the pre morning chill, a bead of
sweat ran down his temple and more mingled with foggy dampness on
his hair. He finished the flask, the whiskey burning through his
blood with every heartbeat.
Seeing a faint light in one of the windows of
the second floor, Raith’s guts tensed. Was she in that little room
she called a box? Was Stratton abusing her?
Other, clearer images came, swimming within
the intoxication from the whiskey, the corpse bloated and
muddy…brown eyes…no. He shook his head, Suzette’s eyes were not
brown, Gabriella’s were. The hair flowing outward and matted with
debris…black with burgundy lights….
Bloody hell. Raith felt a wave of dizzy heat.
His mind’s eye warping an image of semi full red lips, of a woman
lying on a bed, first Gabriella, then Suzette’s body, then
Gabriella began to transform, to take on an ashen hue. Her skin
swelled, blackened, and burst.
“Christ.” He swiped his hand over his face to
clear his head and banish those awful sights. The worst kept coming
until he turned, groping for something to steady himself, the
whiskey rising from his gut upwards. Finally, his hand grasped
solid surface, but the spew erupted from his lips. Shuddering,
moaning, Raith eased down on his haunches, heaving violently, until
nothing remained in his stomach.
This never happened. Never had he confused
the two. The dirty, thin, waif, he took in off the streets. The
hollow and yet steel eyed young girl who he fed and clothed, who
absorbed his instructions like a sponge. There was no confusing the
two. Suzette was fair, small and wispy, an innocent Rector’s
daughter with no knowledge of the world, no concept of evil save
what her father taught in scripture. Suzette was pure and trusting.
Gabriella was… she was wounded, bruised, and alone, but sharp,
cynical, determined.
Sweat issued through his pores. His hand
trembled wiping it away. Taking a moment to lean forward, he
pressed his forehead against the cool object under his hand, having
a brief, merciful respite. Floating, as a kind of fever took him,
he saw Gabriella in a crimson gown, her hair tumbled over her
shoulders, and head back in abandon, her hand between her creamy
thighs. He saw himself as he sat in the shadows, forgetting to
speak, robbed of it, both loathing himself and helpless in that
moment. Betraying Suzette in a moment he had forgotten to shut
down, helpless to do so. His body had come alive for the first time
in years, his heartbeat, his loins warmed and thickened. Moreover,
he saw beauty, passion, and life— instead of death.
He tried to blot
peace.
* * * *
Raith stood amid the swirling fog, his high
coat collar flipped up, watching the dark shapes as the last of the
barges pushed off from shore. When he could see them no more, he
turned, keeping to deep shadows. He made his way to Fleet Street.
There, he took rear stairs at a narrow building and knocked on the
door of the garret. An elder man opened it, holding a sputtering
candle.
With few words exchanged, Raith handed him a
sack of coins, advising, “There’s a ship for the Indies leaving in
the hour, and I’d suggest you board it.”
“I intend to, milord. I have no use for the
deed. You’ll find it under the floor boards there.” His head nodded
toward a corner.
Tossing him extra coin, Raith left shortly
after carrying several wrapped bundles. Yet another hour later,
businesses, and doors on several streets had leaflets stuck in the
cracks or slid under the bottom. In the better addresses, he left
them the same, and addition, in parks, as well as under the doors
of the clubs, coffeehouses, and shops.
The fog was soupy, thicker, when
empty-handed, he stood gazing up at the back of Stratton’s
residence. Reaching in his coat for his flask, he drank deep, once,
twice, wiping his mouth with his fist as the emotions began to grip
him. All the years of planning, waiting, was for this. Soon. Very
soon.
Despite the pre morning chill, a bead of
sweat ran down his temple and more mingled with foggy dampness on
his hair. He finished the flask, the whiskey burning through his
blood with every heartbeat.
Seeing a faint light in one of the windows of
the second floor, Raith’s guts tensed. Was she in that little room
she called a box? Was Stratton abusing her?
Other, clearer images came, swimming within
the intoxication from the whiskey, the corpse bloated and
muddy…brown eyes…no. He shook his head, Suzette’s eyes were not
brown, Gabriella’s were. The hair flowing outward and matted with
debris…black with burgundy lights….
Bloody hell. Raith felt a wave of dizzy heat.
His mind’s eye warping an image of semi full red lips, of a woman
lying on a bed, first Gabriella, then Suzette’s body, then
Gabriella began to transform, to take on an ashen hue. Her skin
swelled, blackened, and burst.
“Christ.” He swiped his hand over his face to
clear his head and banish those awful sights. The worst kept coming
until he turned, groping for something to steady himself, the
whiskey rising from his gut upwards. Finally, his hand grasped
solid surface, but the spew erupted from his lips. Shuddering,
moaning, Raith eased down on his haunches, heaving violently, until
nothing remained in his stomach.
This never happened. Never had he confused
the two. The dirty, thin, waif, he took in off the streets. The
hollow and yet steel eyed young girl who he fed and clothed, who
absorbed his instructions like a sponge. There was no confusing the
two. Suzette was fair, small and wispy, an innocent Rector’s
daughter with no knowledge of the world, no concept of evil save
what her father taught in scripture. Suzette was pure and trusting.
Gabriella was… she was wounded, bruised, and alone, but sharp,
cynical, determined.
Sweat issued through his pores. His hand
trembled wiping it away. Taking a moment to lean forward, he
pressed his forehead against the cool object under his hand, having
a brief, merciful respite. Floating, as a kind of fever took him,
he saw Gabriella in a crimson gown, her hair tumbled over her
shoulders, and head back in abandon, her hand between her creamy
thighs. He saw himself as he sat in the shadows, forgetting to
speak, robbed of it, both loathing himself and helpless in that
moment. Betraying Suzette in a moment he had forgotten to shut
down, helpless to do so. His body had come alive for the first time
in years, his heartbeat, his loins warmed and thickened. Moreover,
he saw beauty, passion, and life— instead of death.
He tried to blot
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