A glad cry from Mr. Pilldorff at the front of the shop distracted everyone. Petunia and Dimity, plus the other shoppers, moved in his direction. He had a new delivery from Paris. Even Agatha was tempted. Or perhaps she wanted to give Sophronia time alone to think. Agatha could be thoughtful like that.
The distraction was, of course, something Sophronia found suspicious. Instead of gravitating toward the yelling, she looked around the shop—was someone trying to steal something? Perhaps Agatha was right and she saw conspiracies everywhere, but this was her training, and she couldn’t shake it.
A tall young man materialized out of the workroom at the back of the shop. He brushed aside the curtain as if he had been there, milling hats, all this time. He was dressed elegantly in a cutaway jacket, buckskin breeches, and a modest top hat, with a single fall of emerald silk at his throat. Not quite a dandy, but certainly a man of fashion. He would have been nondescript, any one of a hundred gentlemen shopping on Bond Street, except that his skin was a dark mahogany color unheard of in society.
Sophronia almost didn’t recognize him. Not because of time, for it had been only nine months, but because of the clothing and the way he moved. Before, he had been gangly, muscled and strong, but suffused with the awkwardness of nascent adulthood. Now his movements were liquid and his pace predatory, not all that surprising considering he was a werewolf.
“I didn’t know the sun had set,” said Sophronia.
“You’ve been here for ages. I was waiting for you to come out, but began to suspect you never would.”
“Is that your doing?” Sophronia gestured to the chaos at the front of the shop.
“Of course.”
“Beautiful work.”
The pause was awkward, full of unsaid truths and impossible actions. Sophronia’s brain swirled with options: apologies, confessions, caresses—so many possibilities that she froze with indecision. She had a wild desire to throw herself against him in a manner that would give her sister—and possibly Mr. Pilldorff—histrionics. Instead, her back snapped straight, inspired by thousands of lessons in posture. She held her hands stiff to her sides.
Finally he spoke. “You smell like lemon and roses.”
Impressive. Her bottle of tincture was with her, of course, but tightly shut. “It’s so good to see you again, Soap.”
“I might better have believed that if you’d come to call when you first entered London.”
“Be reasonable. I’m staying with my sister.”
“Reasonable would remember you are trained in the art of subterfuge. How challenging is it for you, of all people, to sneak out of a town house?”
“Touché.”
“So? It is Lord Mersey after all?”
“Felix? Don’t speak gammon. His father is a Pickleman.” Surprise shook Sophronia out of her stillness. She looked directly into Soap’s eyes. His face hadn’t changed much, though he clenched his jaw more.
“His father always was a Pickleman.”
“Yes, but once I thought he might rise above that. Now I know he can’t.” Why are we talking about Felix?
“Because he betrayed you on the tracks?”
“Because he betrayed all of us, and you were killed because of it.” Sophronia allowed a little of her frustration to leak into her words. Why is he simply standing there?
“Oh, I remember that part.” Soap moved finally, so that they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, like spectators, watching Mr. Pilldorff and the ladies unpack and exclaim over the box of goodies. The ladies vied with one another to try on scarves, to compliment each other on such exquisite taste. Dimity and Agatha might have noticed Sophronia’s visitor, for they seemed intent on keeping Petunia occupied.
“So, why haven’t you come to see me, then?” Soap spoke in one breath.
He sounds… what? Frightened? “I didn’t know if I would be welcome.” Sophronia didn’t care for artifice with Soap. She never had. He was the only one granted the privilege of complete honesty. I wonder if he realizes that.
“You bargained your freedom for my life. I can’t”—Soap paused, almost choking on his words—“I can’t ever repay that.”
“You see? There it is. I don’t want debts owed between us.” She shifted infinitesimally closer to him and put two fingers very gently on his forearm where it curled at his waist.
He looked down at her touch, then quickly up again. “Then what do you want between us?”
“Friendship would be a start.”
“No, miss, friendship would be a finish.”
AN INVITATION TO DINE IN OR ON?
Soap’s tone of voice was no longer servile, but colored with the attitude of an equal. He was now an immortal, and he had the superiority of time on his side. True, he would have to fight for that privilege against other werewolves. Much as he had to fight against madness for his soul every full moon. Sophronia supposed that would change anyone, even a former coal scuttler. With one bite, Soap had gone from sootie to supernatural. Where once skin and station had held him back, wolfskin and loner station had made him her equal in rank in the eyes of the law—if not society.