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A Courtesan's Life
The daylight was fading into the early evening hours. The dun blanket of night tucked in the city of London with as much care as any mother might her child. If one looked close enough, in the hustle and bustle of the early evening hours, one might notice a womanly shadow jumping down from the steps of a hackney coach. The woman paid the driver, then he sped away, off to the next well-pocketed passenger. The woman paused for a moment, dusting off her dress with one hand, and squinting at the scrap of paper in the other.
Yes, this would have to be his lodgings, she surmised, looking doubtfully at the building. She hoped in the early evening hours to catch the erstwhile English professor before he left his abode. This was going to be, she knew, more discomfiting than it might had he not been who he was. Why she had even to tell him of this new position--this new hope--she could never say. But surely he would not mind? After all, neither party had made any promises the one to the other. Sure, various fanciful notions had been tossed back and forth, but was that not that common in such things?
She bowed her head a moment, then took brisk, confident steps to the tenement. It would be nothing to him, and indeed it was less than nothing to her. What she had done with him--well, it was little more than passing fancy, and so must pass. Besides, new fortune awaited.
The interior of John Abbott's home made for a sanctuary of sorts. Each wall held up paintings or shelves. Books and journals lined the flat surfaces of those. His furnishings crowded the space, more a nest for the vampire's fleeting interests than a proper apartment. Necessities, such as a shaving stand, were crowded between superfluous items, like a globe and a wooden lectern. When the sun slipped behind his building, it became quite dark, but he kept his curtains open so he could view the street below and any passersby. If a coach stopped outside, John often went to see who was coming or going, provided he wasn't absorbed in a task.
( Never a Positive Omen )
( Strange Logic )
Yes, this would have to be his lodgings, she surmised, looking doubtfully at the building. She hoped in the early evening hours to catch the erstwhile English professor before he left his abode. This was going to be, she knew, more discomfiting than it might had he not been who he was. Why she had even to tell him of this new position--this new hope--she could never say. But surely he would not mind? After all, neither party had made any promises the one to the other. Sure, various fanciful notions had been tossed back and forth, but was that not that common in such things?
She bowed her head a moment, then took brisk, confident steps to the tenement. It would be nothing to him, and indeed it was less than nothing to her. What she had done with him--well, it was little more than passing fancy, and so must pass. Besides, new fortune awaited.
The interior of John Abbott's home made for a sanctuary of sorts. Each wall held up paintings or shelves. Books and journals lined the flat surfaces of those. His furnishings crowded the space, more a nest for the vampire's fleeting interests than a proper apartment. Necessities, such as a shaving stand, were crowded between superfluous items, like a globe and a wooden lectern. When the sun slipped behind his building, it became quite dark, but he kept his curtains open so he could view the street below and any passersby. If a coach stopped outside, John often went to see who was coming or going, provided he wasn't absorbed in a task.
( Never a Positive Omen )
( Strange Logic )