Unfinished (Historical Fiction) - By Harper Alibeck Page 0,13

the sound of everything that the rich assumed simply was.

A shock of cold on his foot and an obstacle in his arch made him stumble, nearly crashing in to Lilith. He righted himself quickly.

"A bit too much to drink?" she mused, arching an eyebrow and puckering her lips just so in a tease. A hard jolt of desire blossomed within him and he stifled it quickly, the roar too fast and too much to unleash on her now. Not yet.

The source of his stumble became apparent within three steps. Step -- flap. Step -- flap. Step -- flap. The sole of his shoe, already glued twice in place, had finally come unmoored. Shuffling would not work; the separation went past the back of the arch, almost clean through to the end of the heel. Newspaper he'd stuffed in the shoe some time ago was his only cushion against the dirt and stones.

Lilith glanced down, her ears catching the odd sound. Puzzled, she studied his foot for some time. He halted and stared at her, embarrassment and humiliation bubbling up.

"Is there a problem with your shoe?" she asked without guile.

"Yes."

"Do you need to go home to fetch another pair?"

"Another what?"

"Another pair of shoes?"

His eyes narrowed as he caught her gaze and bore down. "Another pair of shoes? As if anyone has a spare pair simply sitting around, gathering dust? Shall I go and get my extra gold ingots from Mr. Carnegie's pumpkin patch as well?"

She flinched and pulled away.

Ah, dammit. They continued walking. She said nothing, staring straight ahead.

Step--flap. Step--flap.

"Mr. Hillman, I --"

"James. Call me James. I have a flapping, torn shoe, woman. You don't need to worry about my dignity any longer." The acrimony in his voice made him laugh at himself. She joined him.

"You're embarrassed. I am sorry. I forget that...no, I assume. And I shouldn't assume." She pointed vaguely at his shoe, at a match girl, and at a beggar with no legs, propped against a coal chute, drinking from a dirty, green bottle. "I have no good excuse."

He shrugged. "You don't know a different life. I don't know a different life. These shoes," he pointed down, "are six years old. And I got them from my Da. So now I need to find the money to buy new, or hope my Da dies this weekend so I can inherit his shoes." She shot him an impertinent look and chuckled.

"No, let's save your Da. I'll pray my father dies this weekend, and then I'll send all his many shoes to your neighborhood and you can hand them out." Serious tones under the comedy made him sigh rather than laugh.

"You'd like that? For your father to die?"

She shuddered in response but said nothing.

"I'm sorry," he rushed in. "I meant no offense."

Surprise filled her face, then was replaced with comprehension. "Ah, no -- I didn't shudder from your words! I'm catching a chill."

He slid his coat off, noticing the missing button. No use retrieving it from Burnham's lecture; the crowd would tear Lilith to bits right now. Ma could find him a new one, he hoped. "Here," he said, sliding the coat over her shoulders. "This should keep you warm." What had been a suit coat on his body looked like an overcoat on Lilith. With sleeves that stretched to her knees.

Bursting into laughter, she wrapped the coat around her and tipped her chin up to meet his eyes. "Thank you."

"It's a ratty old thing. Cheap tweed. Nothing you're accustomed to." She made him feel small and insignificant, a feat few had achieved. Never did she hint at intent to do so. Nonetheless, it hung between them, the burden of it on his shoulders, a weight far greater than he'd ever managed.

She tilted her head and studied his face, letting layers of silence deepen their connection. When she spoke it was an old soul's words. "You realize I do not care. I've been raised with wealth. You have not."

He studied her face – there was no taunting, no sarcasm. Her words were without affect, a statement of fact. A brief thought – my God, she's the one – passed through his mind so quickly he almost didn't catch it, the skin on his arms turning to gooseflesh not from the night chill, but rather from his premonition.

“James?” Gentle tones, questioning his inattentiveness. He peered down at her; she had taken two tentative steps toward him. Praying he was not too forward, and shocked at his own worry, he reached down