Ring. Sister. Piano (Book 4 of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Fifty: Hate-Love-Hate

Camden Town, 1859: 

It was very sudden. Love lashed out at Robin from twenty paces – practically struck him across the face. He must have staggered, because he felt Montcrieff's limp, languorous hand on his shoulder, and heard him say, "What is it, old boy? Did you have too much champagne at breakfast? Did you see a creditor?"

Robin shrugged him off, and hurried after the girl before she could disappear into the crowd of Camden High Street. He knew Montcrieff wouldn't follow, because Montcrieff never broke into a run for anything, not even opium.

He had no early memories of love to be stirred up. What she awakened in him was unbearably sad instead. It was what might have been, if it hadn't been for Father Volpone, and his patroness, and all the little swipes of viciousness he had suffered since. She reminded him of a girl at the orphanage he hadn't bullied, a pretty teacher whose school he had left before he'd had a chance to get unwholesomely obsessed with her and introduce her to Gram.

He didn't approve – Robin could tell. And this was funny, because Gram had practically become one of his appendages by now. Whenever he saw a pretty woman these days, he could feel the tingling in Gram as much as he could feel it in his own loins – although this was probably because they both knew that, however it went, whether she welcomed or repulsed him, Gram was going to cut her. Robin took his chances, but Gram always got satisfaction, in the end.

Not this time, though. As Robin reeled from the sight of the dark girl, Gram was silent. Robin was conscious of him – when was he not? – but only as a cold, immovable presence in his sheath.

At any rate, Robin followed the girl. She exchanged a few words with this stallholder or that tavern-keeper, so she lived locally, but her smile didn't sparkle with them, and her steps were heavier when she left them, as though they oppressed her. Still, her natural exuberance reasserted itself after a moment alone.

When she stepped into the shadow of a church doorway, he saw her eyes sparkle in the dark, and almost swooned with longing. What was she thinking about – smiling about? How could he make those eyes sparkle on him?

It was, he saw as she went in, a Catholic church. He could tell from the statue of Christ on the cross, wracked with pain, above the door.

And suddenly a sense of foreboding stole over him. He didn't follow her inside.

He tried to get back the poignant sense of might-have-been, and not think about Father Volpone, as he went to rejoin Montcrieff in the High Street. But it was no good. He would need another glimpse of her. And then another, and then another. She couldn't work her magic from a distance, it seemed.

"What was that about, old boy?" said Montcrieff, as Robin rejoined him.

"I thought I saw somebody I knew," he muttered.

"In this neighbourhood?"

"Well, I was mistaken," said Robin testily. "But fashionable people do have legs, Montcrieff, and could easily wander into Camden, if only by accident."

"They'd have to be blindfolded as well as lost," said Montcrieff, with a sniff.

"We're here, aren't we?"

"Oh yes. But we're fashionable and desperate."

"Speak for yourself," Robin retorted. "Anyway, you're not desperate enough to go to the dens in Bluegate Fields."

"Oh, it's too early in the day," said Montcrieff, toying idly with his gloves. "These places have to warm up first. I tell you, I know a house on the other side of Regent's Park where we can smoke in cleanliness and comfort."