The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,41

bore a dark stain, as if the wound had opened again … though it didn’t seem to be bleeding at the moment.

He recognized nothing in his trek across the shabby room save his own scattered clothing. He hooked the chamber pot out with his foot and relieved himself with another groan, this one expressing a pleasure almost sexual in its intensity. When he had finished, he turned and saw that the sleeping blonde was asleep no longer. She lay on her side, propped on one elbow and regarding him with amusement, as if she was not only aware of his confusion but enjoying it. A dingy bed-sheet draped the plump swell of one hip, leaving pendulous breasts the colour of rice pudding exposed. Both her face and its expression were known to him.

He cleared his throat and assayed a smile and a bow. ‘Good morning, Arabella,’ he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world to find himself here, stark naked.

Arabella smirked, tossed her blonde curls, and said, ‘I’m Clara.’

At which he blushed from head to toe.

Her laughter was easy and forgiving. ‘It’s all right, love. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. Share and share alike, that’s what I say.’ She sat up, rearranging the sheet to cover her breasts. ‘Where’s Tom got to?’

‘Tom …?’ Quare’s hands cupped over his cock, which, a bit slow on the uptake, had only begun to respond to the sight of her voluptuous body now that she had covered herself.

Clara seemed not to notice. ‘Your friend. Redhead, looks about sixteen or so?’

‘Aylesford.’ He had no memory of coming here in his company. Or, for that matter, coming here at all. Wherever here was.

‘That’s the one.’ Clara got to her feet, the sheet tucked about her, and approached him with short, mincing steps. He drew back to let her by. She looked back coyly over her bare shoulder. ‘Can’t a girl get a little privacy?’

He blushed again and turned away. ‘Sorry.’ What had happened last night? He retrieved his clothing from the floor and laid it out on the bed as, behind him, Clara’s forceful stream rang against the sides of the chamber pot. There were some unsavoury-looking stains on his breeches and stockings, and dark splotches of what appeared to be dried blood on his shirt and coat … and, he now saw, more bloodstains on the sheets as well. A cursory examination of his body revealed some minor scrapes and scratches on his arms and chest, not enough to account for the stains. He supposed it must have been the wound that Grimalkin had given him. Or perhaps Clara had started her monthlies.

‘What’s your rush, love?’ Clara called.

‘I’ve an appointment.’ According to his pocket watch, it was nearing eight-thirty, and nine-thirty was the time Master Magnus had set for their morning meeting. The actual time, he knew, must be somewhat later, as his watch bled minutes if not kept tightly wound, a duty he’d neglected to perform last night. He remedied it now. But even so, he had no idea what the true time was. The uncertainty only added to his sense of dislocation.

‘But I haven’t had a chance to thank you proper for last night.’

Quare turned. Clara was advancing towards him, bed-sheet cast aside. Gravity and time would bring those pert breasts low one day, but this, he noted, was not that day. Her creamy white hips and belly had the soft roundness of still-ripening flesh, and the hair between her thighs was so blonde and fine that he could see right through to the pink flower beneath … at which point he, or rather a portion of his anatomy, decided that his meeting with Master Magnus was perhaps not so urgent, after all.

‘That’s more like it,’ she said with a smile, her gaze rising to meet his own.

‘I’m afraid I’ve bloodied your sheets,’ he said, embarrassed.

‘Your poor leg. But don’t fret, love. What’s a little blood between friends, eh?’ Taking him in hand, she pressed him back onto the bed.

‘Wait,’ he said, though he offered no resistance. ‘What did you mean about thanking me?’

She knelt on the edge of the bed. ‘Why, you saved my life last night, Dan. You and Tom both. Don’t you remember?’

‘Well, er …’ He shifted as she stroked his erection.

‘There was a brawl, a big one.’

‘I remember that. Or some of it, at least.’

‘The worst I’ve seen,’ she declared with relish, continuing to stroke him as she spoke,