The girl in the dark throat of the carriage felt no chagrin when the soldier told her he knew she was following him. Good. She laughed, a fluting sound in the pitch black, first far away, then right there. "If I was trying to sneak, I could sneak," she told him back, the soft, teasing cauterization of a spitfire. Patent leather snicked on the floor as Frances caught up to the man who'd since found whatever it was he was looking for.
The carving of the darkness with a flashlight blinding her a second. She made sound of mild distress, lifting thin fingers to fan over her eyes. Of course, she looked down. But, all that she could see was a box with a combination lock. For all her teasing, the soldier had no interest in her. She knew that. It was even a relief. Sort of. Frances reached out to pluck the flashlight from between the man's lips, not worried about the rime of spit warm against her palm. She kept the cone of light on the target. "Someone left some sherry out." The backsplash of light lit her features from below, fanning shadows of lashes high up her forehead. "Is that a bomb?"