by his feet. Like the museum, he had a
certain austerity about him, but he also had the dashing looks of a 1940s film star. Today he wore khaki
trousers, brown shoes, and a green short-sleeved linen shirt. He might not have been wearing the suit, but
Jazz thought his clothes still looked quite expensive. The man seemed to breathe money and confidence.
She had known girls who went weak in the knees in the presence of arrogant men, but she'd never been
one of them.
Now she understood that there was a difference between arrogance and confidence. Terence had
swagger, and in spite of herself, she liked it.
Jazz had tied her hair back in a ponytail and donned big dark sunglasses she had nicked from a
street-corner vendor just after coming off the Tube. She wore a crushed lilac-hued gypsy skirt and a white
spaghetti-strap top and carried a big knit shoulder bag. Had she tried to leave the Palace dressed that way,
there would have been many questions, so she had* worn a loose cotton top over the tank and a pair of
jeans, then changed clothes in the ladies' at Waterstone's a few streets from the museum.
She considered trying to sneak up on him but instead pur-posely let him see her coming. After so
many weeks attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible, it felt strange and liberating to switch gears.
Jazz strode across the street as though it was some fashion runway in Milan. Several car horns blatted the
ap-proval of male motorists and she waved to one driver. She was just a girl out shopping today. If the
Uncles were looking for her, they would be searching for a frightened creature scurrying in the alleys of
London, not this young woman. In her time with Harry Fowler, Jazz had learned more about perspective
and ap-pearance than in any of her meager efforts at onstage drama.
Terence stood up straight, smiling as she approached.
"You clean up nicely," he told her as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
Jazz gave him a flirtatious toss of her head. Without the glasses, her eyes would have betrayed her
turmoil. She kept them on.
"I'll choose to take that as a compliment."
"It is," Terence replied. "No one would mistake you for a tunnel rat today."
"Not even you."
He cocked an eyebrow. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"I wouldn't have," she admitted, still hiding behind her glasses. "But I had a bit of an epiphany last
night. I'm not go-ing to find the answers I'm looking for down below."
His expression turned grim and he replied with a know-ing nod. Then he gave her a more thorough
inspection and bent to pick up the Harrods shopping bag.
"This may be easier than I thought," he said.
"What's that?"
"I picked up some things for you. Camouflage, if you will. But I think you'll do as is. At your age, the
Bohemian look is a fashionable choice. Though I'm impressed you're able to keep clothes so clean down
there. Wherever there is."
Jazz put a hand on his arm and leaned in to speak to him in an exaggerated whisper. "I only stole
them this morning."
Terence gazed at her again. "Well done, you. We're bet-ter off, I think. I had to guess at sizes. I do
hope I succeeded with the shoes, however. Those simply won't do."
He pointed to her feet and Jazz looked down. The san-dals she wore were not particularly ragged,
and she'd worn trainers until she changed at the bookstore.
"What's wrong with them? You said the Bohemian look was fashionable."
He smiled, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "True enough. But there's the genuine Bohemian and
then there's the young and rich who adept BoHo to dress down. The shoes and the jewelry always give
them away."
Terence reached into the Harrods bag and took out a shoe box. Jazz stared at him a moment, trying
to figure out what the man had in mind that required her to wear different shoes. Out of curiosity, she
surrendered. Taking the box from him, she opened it to find a pair of very expensive-looking shoes, all
straps and high heels.
"You have some kind of fetish?"
"We all have fetishes. Mine don't involve shoes, if that sets you at ease."
"Not much, no," Jazz said. But she slipped off her san-dals, put them into the box, and put the heels
on instead. "Perfect fit."
Terence admired her feet and legs. "Excellent. They change your whole appearance."
"They're only shoes."
"You're taller in them. They alter your center of balance so that you stand differently. They
accentuate your legs, draw attention, and succeed in making your age ambiguous. And they suggest a
certain affluence, which is the most important element."
"Of what?" Jazz smiled at him.