Pippa didn’t bother to glower at the pests who backed away timidly, their slow movements hinting at them wanting to stay where they were, but not wanting to be yelled at by the young man who had come to offer his help. Her father once told her that Americans were much too bold and awfully rude, sometimes to ladies who deserved to be treated only with respect. She didn’t know if she believed him at the time, but now she thought him to be correct in his opinions of the people across the pond. So far, nobody had offered her much of anything. There had been men and boys who stared, their desires written across their foreheads for the world to see, and there were children who wanted to touch her dress, when it was still soft and lovely and not like it was now. None of them did her any good. None of them showed any signs of wanting to help.
Pulling out a silk handkerchief, she dabbed delicately at her eyes, already bloodshot and red from crying about something that she could not control. “I should have known there would be no getting out. It’s like a bad dream,” she said, lowering the handkerchief away from her face. “Yes, I suppose it would be easier that way. If it’s not a bother, I’d like it very much if you could take me somewhere safe.” Because these streets were like battlegrounds when the lights went out, with those creatures who bit necks and sucked blood constantly lurking in the shadows, waiting, always waiting for something.