Second Act by Marilyn Todd

blinked. And blinked again. There, in the middle of the street, a woman was… dancing. Not a drunken sway, or some spontaneous burst of emotion expressing itself in a quick tap of the feet followed by a spring in the air and maybe a click of the heels. This was professional choreography at work. He paused. There was something vaguely familiar about the sinuous Egyptian ballet. About the plaited Cleopatra wig, the silver breast band and tight fringed skirt that barely covered her modesty, the shapely legs that seemed to go on for ever. Then he remembered. Two nights ago, at his cousin’s house, this girl had been hired to dance for the all-male party.
    ‘It’s Angelina, isn’t it?’ He vaguely remembered his cousin introducing them.
    The dance stopped abruptly. In the light of the torches that burned in sconces either side of his front door, the beads in her black wig shone like jewels.
    ‘Marcus!’ She was breathless after her routine, making her pretty breasts heave in a most interesting rhythm, and he couldn’t help noticing the effect the cold air had had on her nipples.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ He glanced around, noticed her cloak rolled up against his doorstep and flung it round her shoulders.
    ‘Well, I was rather hoping you were going to invite me inside.’ Her eyes were bright, either from cold or excitement, and he had a sinking feeling as to which of the two was the culprit.
    ‘I, er—’
    Debating whether the offer of money would offend her, Orbilio was saved the bother. She pulled off her wig, shook her head and a cascade of honey-coloured curls frothed around her ears like a halo. Mother of Tarquin, the pixie!
    ‘You stood me up last night, you naughty boy.’ She combed her fingers through her hair with professional ease. ‘I had dinner waiting and everything, but you didn’t even send me a note.’
    Shit. ‘It was the same thing tonight,’ he said truthfully. ‘I didn’t finish until midnight.’
    ‘Yes, I know, you poor pumpkin.’ Angelina linked her arm with his and tousled his fringe. ‘You’re working on those halcyon rapes. I heard. That’s why I came to you, instead of you having to trail over to my place. Makes more sense, doesn’t it?’
    ‘Angelina—’
    He remembered chatting to her at his cousin’s house, where one thing had obviously led to another and, fuelled by wine, he’d ended up in her bed. But what, for him, had been a one-night stand clearly meant more to her.
    ‘Angelina, we need to talk.’ Not inside his own house, either. ‘There’s a tavern three streets away with a crackling log fire, we can warm you up there and, er… ’
    He let the sentence trail. Milo’s tavern would be quiet tonight, without the delivery trade. Orbilio would be able to let her down gently over a meal as well as anywhere, he supposed.
    ‘That sounds absolutely wonderful, darling.’
    Angelina stood up on tiptoes and planted an affectionate kiss on his cheek. This, he realized dully, wasn’t going to be easy. And he had to be up early, as well. Personally, he blamed the wink. Women obviously did like that sort of thing.
    *
    The sound of dogs barking across the street woke Claudia from sleep. Any other time and she would not have heard them. The clatter of delivery wagons, the crack of bull-whips, the shouts of the drivers, the braying of mules would have muffled any complaints by angry dogs, and noise was a lullaby to Claudia. Without it, the night was eerily quiet. Unnatural in this city of chaos and turmoil. But even beasts of burden deserve a holiday, she supposed. And slept fitfully as a result.
    The barking grew louder. More urgent. Then other dogs joined in, as dogs always will, including the mastiff next door. Claudia slipped out of bed, pulling the warm blankets up round her shoulders. Something was up. And now a different sound had joined in the chorus. A metallic clamp-clamp-clamp, the jangle of armour, the sharp bark of military orders. A blast of bitter cold air