oversized wheels, controlled by a driver seated high on the back, behind the passenger bench. Christopher climbed into the open-sided conveyance and
tucked his hands under his legs, thinking longingly of his missing gloves.
Outside the cab, the shabby row houses gave way to a series of shops: a tobacconist, a grocer, a milliner. He grinned at the sight of the wildly-feathered
and brightly colored hats in the window. The shops flowed into another row of
homes, this area much statelier than Cary's neighborhood. They pulled to a stop
in front of the one on the farthest end of the street; the home of a wealthy, middle-class couple, where a trio would be entertaining guests on harpsichord, voice, and flute.
He arrived a little late, and the music had already begun when he handed his
greatcoat to a footman and slipped into the parlor. Walking softly so as not to disrupt the performance, he approached the seated guests. Several were ignoring
the performers and conversing softly amongst themselves.
It only took him a moment to locate Katerina. She perched in a corner alone
with empty seats on either side, her attention focused solely on the music. He slipped in beside her and placed his hand on the bare space between the top of
her long glove and the arm of her pretty, flowered dress. Her skin felt silky and
warm.
She started at the soft touch on her exposed skin and turned. Then, recognizing him, she smiled broadly.
He returned her smile. “Good evening,” he said in an undertone.
“Good evening,” she whispered a reply.
“Is this seat taken?”
“Yes.” Her eyes sparkled.
He raised his eyebrows.
“It's taken by you.”
The joke made him smile even wider. “Ah. How's the music.”
“Fine so far, although…” she hesitated.
“Although what?” he asked. Take your hand off the girl, Bennett. He released her reluctantly while she pondered her answer.
“It's nothing really,” she prevaricated, her eyes skating away.
“Tell me,” he pressed, wanting to know what she thought. At his insistence,
she returned her gaze. The warmth of her brown eyes captured him.
“I don't think the contralto is doing her best,” Katerina murmured at last.
“Perhaps because so few people are listening. The harpsichordist is excellent.”
“And the flute?”
“Perhaps it's best if I don't say.”
Christopher listened for a moment. “Agreed. Say nothing. It's a performance
completely unworthy of note. Neither good nor bad.”
She nodded, agreeing with his assessment, and the light in her eyes showed
his observation meant a great deal to her. “Exactly. In some ways, a truly bad performance is better than a tepid one.”
“So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth,’” he quoted.
“Revelation 3:16,” she said softly, “how apt.”
He ran his hand down over her glove to clasp hers gently. They listened to the ragged performance for several minutes before Katerina shuddered.
“Have you heard enough, Miss Valentino?” he asked.
Katerina wrinkled her nose. “Yes.”
“Shall we step out?” he suggested. “I dislike interrupting performers.”
