plunged along. Oscar attempted to support himself, hands braced against the sides of the vehicle, feet braced against the opposite seat, while the darkened city of Denver hurtled by the windows. Dry goods stores, blacksmithsâ stables, laundries, warehouses, small obscure factories, even a church or two skittered past. Conceivably, someone out there witnessed this mad dash through the empty streets; but no one called out, no one tried to save him.
At last, in a dark and dismal neighborhood of small, mean wooden houses shouldering each other along the narrow street, the carriage began to slow. Frowning out the window at the desolation around him, Oscar rearranged his cravat.
The vehicle stopped before a house that seemed somewhat larger than the rest, a two-story building looming up out of the starlit shadows. Its windows unlighted, its facade dark and blank, the place appeared abandoned.
Which showed, Oscar felt, excellent judgment on the part of the abandoners, whoever they might have been.
The carriage dipped as the driver vaulted to the ground. Peering out the window, Oscar saw the manâs dark form glide through the gloom to the front door.
There must be some mistake. Surely Elizabeth McCourt Doe would never orchestrate a meeting in a place like this.
Suddenly a pale yellow strip of light pitched across the weedy lawn. Silhouetted against the opened door, the driver waved an impatient, beckoning arm.
Once again, Oscar hesitated.
The place could be thick with desperadoes. Thieves, thugs, cutpurses and, worse, cutthroats.
And if she were there? Surrounded by assassins, gunmen, skulking felons?
Enough of this.
Perhaps these louts imagined that an Irishman, and a poet, would be easy pickings. They deceived themselves. The blood of Cuchulain surged in his veins. And he knew a thing or two about the Manly Arts. Self-defense was something a poet quickly learned in an Irish public school.
He did rather wish, however, that he possessed somewhere on his person a small but powerful handgun.
He unlatched the carriage door, pushed it open, stepped down. Head held high, he stalked across the lawn to the house.
The driver watched him approach, then turned and entered the building.
Oscar trailed resolutely behind.
Just to the left of the door, startling Oscar by his presence, stood a small Chinese man in sandals, black silk pants, a black silk top, and a round, black silk skullcap. He might have been thirty years old; he might have been fifty. Grinning with enormous enthusiasm, bowing as rhythmically as a metronome, he shut the door behind Oscar and gestured for him to follow the driver.
Oscar did so, feeling as disoriented as if he had somehow entered into another universe. The hallway was broad and airy. The floor was oak, spotlessly clean, draped along its center with a runner of Oriental carpet, black and scarlet, so perfect in its elegance and simplicity that it must be authentic. Brass sconces along the walls provided a soft gentle light. The walls themselves, unadorned, were wainscoted with some dark, rich wood, teak or mahogany.
There was a smell in the air of jasmineâincense, doubtlessâand of something else, something darker, heavier, more penetrating.
Oscar followed the driverâs back. The hallway ended where it met, perpendicularly, another passage. Here a small alcove set into the wall held a wonderfully wrought bronze Buddha.
The man turned to the right, down a hallway longer than the first. His boots thumping on the carpeting, the driver passed several closed doors, stopped at one, opened it, and stepped inside.
Behind him, Oscar entered the room.
It was a large, uncluttered space. White walls, white ceiling, a gaslight softly glowing overhead within a white paper globe. Bleached oak floors, a strategic scattering of Oriental carpets in subtle shades of cream and pearl. Against the far wall, where the window might be hidden, a tall and broad Chinese screen displaying painted vistas
At last, in a dark and dismal neighborhood of small, mean wooden houses shouldering each other along the narrow street, the carriage began to slow. Frowning out the window at the desolation around him, Oscar rearranged his cravat.
The vehicle stopped before a house that seemed somewhat larger than the rest, a two-story building looming up out of the starlit shadows. Its windows unlighted, its facade dark and blank, the place appeared abandoned.
Which showed, Oscar felt, excellent judgment on the part of the abandoners, whoever they might have been.
The carriage dipped as the driver vaulted to the ground. Peering out the window, Oscar saw the manâs dark form glide through the gloom to the front door.
There must be some mistake. Surely Elizabeth McCourt Doe would never orchestrate a meeting in a place like this.
Suddenly a pale yellow strip of light pitched across the weedy lawn. Silhouetted against the opened door, the driver waved an impatient, beckoning arm.
Once again, Oscar hesitated.
The place could be thick with desperadoes. Thieves, thugs, cutpurses and, worse, cutthroats.
And if she were there? Surrounded by assassins, gunmen, skulking felons?
Enough of this.
Perhaps these louts imagined that an Irishman, and a poet, would be easy pickings. They deceived themselves. The blood of Cuchulain surged in his veins. And he knew a thing or two about the Manly Arts. Self-defense was something a poet quickly learned in an Irish public school.
He did rather wish, however, that he possessed somewhere on his person a small but powerful handgun.
He unlatched the carriage door, pushed it open, stepped down. Head held high, he stalked across the lawn to the house.
The driver watched him approach, then turned and entered the building.
Oscar trailed resolutely behind.
Just to the left of the door, startling Oscar by his presence, stood a small Chinese man in sandals, black silk pants, a black silk top, and a round, black silk skullcap. He might have been thirty years old; he might have been fifty. Grinning with enormous enthusiasm, bowing as rhythmically as a metronome, he shut the door behind Oscar and gestured for him to follow the driver.
Oscar did so, feeling as disoriented as if he had somehow entered into another universe. The hallway was broad and airy. The floor was oak, spotlessly clean, draped along its center with a runner of Oriental carpet, black and scarlet, so perfect in its elegance and simplicity that it must be authentic. Brass sconces along the walls provided a soft gentle light. The walls themselves, unadorned, were wainscoted with some dark, rich wood, teak or mahogany.
There was a smell in the air of jasmineâincense, doubtlessâand of something else, something darker, heavier, more penetrating.
Oscar followed the driverâs back. The hallway ended where it met, perpendicularly, another passage. Here a small alcove set into the wall held a wonderfully wrought bronze Buddha.
The man turned to the right, down a hallway longer than the first. His boots thumping on the carpeting, the driver passed several closed doors, stopped at one, opened it, and stepped inside.
Behind him, Oscar entered the room.
It was a large, uncluttered space. White walls, white ceiling, a gaslight softly glowing overhead within a white paper globe. Bleached oak floors, a strategic scattering of Oriental carpets in subtle shades of cream and pearl. Against the far wall, where the window might be hidden, a tall and broad Chinese screen displaying painted vistas
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