fringe. Just as she
reached her slender arms up, a piece of moon came from between clouds with
perfect timing to give small back light to her silhouette. It made her woolly
mane into a nimbus of ringlets about her face and shoulders. A damn fine sight.
"Look!" she said suddenly and pointed over their fire
toward the dark sky.
Distinct, black silhouettes crossed the glow overhead. It was a
small flock of long-necked birds. They glided across the sliver of moon for a
single stroke of wings, then were swallowed up again by the black sky.
"The Queen's swans," she said.
"Swans?"
"Yes. Queen Victoria owns all of
the swans in England . The royal
birds. Once a year, she counts them. Swan upping, it's called."
"Swan upping," he repeated. He looked at her.
"Isn't there a fairy tale about a black swan?"
She thought a moment, huddling into her shawl and petticoat. She
looked like a mound of clothes with a head on top. "Not that I know
of."
He studied her, watching the way the firelight flickered over her
face and hair. "You remind me of that somehow. I can't think which legend.
But a dark swan." He laughed. "A dark horse."
"I'm not sure I'm flattered."
"I mean it flatteringly; I do. The black swan was
enchanting." He frowned. "Or enchanted, I'm not sure which." He
clarified, "Beautiful." Then wished he'd shut up.
She fixed a look on him, one that tried to measure intent. Then
she pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms, shawl and all, around them, and set
her chin on her knees, hugging herself tight. As she stared into the fire, she
said, "The gin is getting to you."
He nodded, dropping his gaze. Something was sure getting to him. Enchanting . Beautiful . And, not to forget, underpleasured . Gin was as good a
name for it as anything. Where was that bottle, anyway?
He asked, "You tired?"
She nodded.
"You ready to sleep then?"
She nodded again.
He voiced the big question. "You want me to bed down over
here or you want me to come over there where we can keep each other warm?"
She rocked back, then bent her head and rocked forward, her mouth
to her knees. She became just eyes and wild hair as she stared straight at the
glowing ashes.
Right. He thought about telling her how she'd be safe, but then
didn't. She liked to think the worst of him; let her. "Suit
yourself," he said.
He pitched another rock or two from his spot, making it as unlumpy
as possible, then slid his hat down over his eyes, folded his arms behind his
head, and stretched out. He guessed they'd both just get cold then.
He was dozing when he felt something fall over him. A woman's
lightweight shawl. It was soft – cashmere or camelhair, something really nice –
and inundated with the smell of Liddy Brown, ginger, lemons, flowers, water
lilies … the particular scent and oils from the skin of her arms, shoulders,
hands, wherever the shawl had touched.
Her pale, delicately boned hand came across him, arranging the
cover over his chest and shoulder. Then she turned over and slid under the
shawl herself, up against his back.
*
It
was a long night. Lydia began it
curled on her side, her back against Sam's arm and hip. She lay rigid, not sure
how to behave: unsettled, cold, and faintly tipsy. While Sam seemed to go right
to sleep.
At some point, she must have dozed, because she awakened with a
start to the strange realization that someone was shifting his position beside
her. In the next instant, she felt his hand – the backs of his fingers as he
rearranged their shawl covering – inadvertently brush her hip. Without intent
or volition, she arched in response, her buttocks finding the side of his
thigh. The movement was unplanned; it meant nothing, just a … an odd reaction.
After a second, though, he lifted the leg she pressed against – he
lay on his back – planting that foot on the ground, his knee in the air. This
left a kind of ghost sensation on her backside; she could have traced the place
where his thigh had been. What a feeling.
She dropped
reached her slender arms up, a piece of moon came from between clouds with
perfect timing to give small back light to her silhouette. It made her woolly
mane into a nimbus of ringlets about her face and shoulders. A damn fine sight.
"Look!" she said suddenly and pointed over their fire
toward the dark sky.
Distinct, black silhouettes crossed the glow overhead. It was a
small flock of long-necked birds. They glided across the sliver of moon for a
single stroke of wings, then were swallowed up again by the black sky.
"The Queen's swans," she said.
"Swans?"
"Yes. Queen Victoria owns all of
the swans in England . The royal
birds. Once a year, she counts them. Swan upping, it's called."
"Swan upping," he repeated. He looked at her.
"Isn't there a fairy tale about a black swan?"
She thought a moment, huddling into her shawl and petticoat. She
looked like a mound of clothes with a head on top. "Not that I know
of."
He studied her, watching the way the firelight flickered over her
face and hair. "You remind me of that somehow. I can't think which legend.
But a dark swan." He laughed. "A dark horse."
"I'm not sure I'm flattered."
"I mean it flatteringly; I do. The black swan was
enchanting." He frowned. "Or enchanted, I'm not sure which." He
clarified, "Beautiful." Then wished he'd shut up.
She fixed a look on him, one that tried to measure intent. Then
she pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms, shawl and all, around them, and set
her chin on her knees, hugging herself tight. As she stared into the fire, she
said, "The gin is getting to you."
He nodded, dropping his gaze. Something was sure getting to him. Enchanting . Beautiful . And, not to forget, underpleasured . Gin was as good a
name for it as anything. Where was that bottle, anyway?
He asked, "You tired?"
She nodded.
"You ready to sleep then?"
She nodded again.
He voiced the big question. "You want me to bed down over
here or you want me to come over there where we can keep each other warm?"
She rocked back, then bent her head and rocked forward, her mouth
to her knees. She became just eyes and wild hair as she stared straight at the
glowing ashes.
Right. He thought about telling her how she'd be safe, but then
didn't. She liked to think the worst of him; let her. "Suit
yourself," he said.
He pitched another rock or two from his spot, making it as unlumpy
as possible, then slid his hat down over his eyes, folded his arms behind his
head, and stretched out. He guessed they'd both just get cold then.
He was dozing when he felt something fall over him. A woman's
lightweight shawl. It was soft – cashmere or camelhair, something really nice –
and inundated with the smell of Liddy Brown, ginger, lemons, flowers, water
lilies … the particular scent and oils from the skin of her arms, shoulders,
hands, wherever the shawl had touched.
Her pale, delicately boned hand came across him, arranging the
cover over his chest and shoulder. Then she turned over and slid under the
shawl herself, up against his back.
*
It
was a long night. Lydia began it
curled on her side, her back against Sam's arm and hip. She lay rigid, not sure
how to behave: unsettled, cold, and faintly tipsy. While Sam seemed to go right
to sleep.
At some point, she must have dozed, because she awakened with a
start to the strange realization that someone was shifting his position beside
her. In the next instant, she felt his hand – the backs of his fingers as he
rearranged their shawl covering – inadvertently brush her hip. Without intent
or volition, she arched in response, her buttocks finding the side of his
thigh. The movement was unplanned; it meant nothing, just a … an odd reaction.
After a second, though, he lifted the leg she pressed against – he
lay on his back – planting that foot on the ground, his knee in the air. This
left a kind of ghost sensation on her backside; she could have traced the place
where his thigh had been. What a feeling.
She dropped
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