Ghost-Speak, or

If you can hear them, they want to talk.

By Ewan Gifford

17 May, afternoon. — Father knows I've been spending time with Wells, even though he's told me not to. But he couldn't make me stay away, even if he locked me in my room and put bars on the window. I would find a way to get out.

What he doesn't know, which I hope to keep that way, is that I've kissed him. I've let him pull off my clothes and I've done the same. Or that I've seen the swirling inked lines on his chest, licking his skin like a black flame. He didn't tell me what they were, but I know he will at some point.

I have to stop thinking about it when I arrive home that afternoon. There's an envelope on the rug in our front hallway, the wax seal clearly showing the crest of the Selling family. It's addressed to Messrs Wilkes and Wilkes, and when I run my thumb over the stock, I feel its ribbed surface.

You are cordially invited to the coming-out ball of Miss Marjorie Frances Selling, on the twenty-first of May at seven o'clock in the evening at the Selling residence. Please RSVP by post to Mrs Solomon (Zora) Selling by tomorrow evening at the latest.

I turn the invitation over, wondering offhandedly if there's any personal note. There isn't, which makes me think this wasn't Marjorie's idea. And perhaps it isn't anyone's but the Society's — practically the entire city will be shut down tomorrow for the presentation of the debutantes to Queen Victoria. Even the Institute will be, because many of my fellow students have sisters who are participating this year.

At the thought of Marjorie, I scuttle to the library door and try the knob. It opens, which means Father hasn't been in here yet. And it means he won't know I've taken another book for a few more days.

Once inside, though, thoughts of Wells come back. His lips on mine, his hands on my skin and in my hair, his chest pressed against mine. I feel my breath shorten. He knows now that I fully reciprocate his feelings — and that I can't let Father see them. I recognised that look on his face when I'd told him he had to sneak out. He wished he didn't have to. And I wish he didn't either. I wish I didn't have to hide him from Father. But he would make me marry a woman anyway. I would have to always keep him secreted away, as though I were ashamed. I'm not, though — confirming my feelings for Wells has given me a freedom and a happiness I haven't felt in my whole life.

Quickly I snatch the book on ghost communication by one Ewan Gifford — Giff's great-uncle, as it turns out — and stash it under my coat as I hurry upstairs like a fugitive. I know both Marjorie and Naomi understand what's happening between Wells and me — and still, Marjorie is willing to go through the motions of courtship with me. She has accepted that if we decide to marry, it won't be for love. Perhaps the one benefit is that there's no surprises on that front.

By the time Father gets home, I've returned Hunting: A History and bent myself to my schoolwork. I know he'll see the Selling invitation, which I'd set on the dining room table, fairly soon. And when he does—

"Langdon!"

I practically leap from my chair and scamper to the top of the stairs. "Yes, Father?"

"I hope you know that your behaviour at breakfast the other morning was unacceptable," he says with a scowl. "This is practise for your future, son. What will your future wife think if you come to the table looking like that?"

"Perhaps I'll have a logical explanation, Father," I say. Besides, if it's Marjorie, perhaps she'll already understand the arrangement too.

"Well, see that it doesn't happen again," he says. His mouth tightens under his beard. "I did not raise you in a barn."

Then he's gone. I slump down on the top step, realising he could probably smell Wells on me. That was the thing about Father — his nose is so keen he can pick out even the subtlest hint of unfamiliar smell. I know he was valued for that back in his hunting days, able to detect the metallic odour of a vampire that's killed recently. I seem to have inherited none of his special ability, blundering about on a hunt like a first-year Institute student.

But I know too that Father won't say anything. He won't want a fact like that getting out. So he'll keep that secret for me. Not because he cares about me. But because of how it would make him look. I'm used to it by now.

—

18 May, afternoon. — The message comes by courier that afternoon, while I'm sitting out on our front step with some of my schoolwork. I hear a bicycle bell ringing, and then tires skidding as the messenger skids to a stop at the curb.

"Langdon Wilkes?" he says, making me look up. He's probably thirteen, barely.

"That's me," I say, and he holds out a thin envelope to me. I take it and thank him, and he speeds off.

I open the envelope then, recognising Marjorie's graceful, looping handwriting. Probably a result of being put through gruelling hours of practise by her mother.

Langdon, it reads, I would not normally ask this of anyone, but I have nowhere else to turn and Mother believes I am being unreasonable. I am desperately in need of someone to help me escape the next blood-binding. I have barely recovered from the last one, and now my father wants me to do it again, on the evening of my coming-out, no less. They are planning to take me to the Guild in a few hours, and I see no other way out. You know now what it does to me, and Mother is considering not using sedative this time. I beg of you, please help me. If you can.

Underneath her signature is a postscript, written smaller — almost as if she remembered it at the last minute.

Your father must not find out. Father says he will be there to watch this time.

That complicates things, certainly. Father asks where I'm going almost every time I go out, without fail. I've used an invitation from Seaton and Isham a few times, but I know that excuse won't always work. And then it occurs to me that I can use a different one: Augustus Selling's offer to gain some real-world experience at the Guild.

"Father," I say, as I duck back inside to drop my schoolbooks on the dining room table. "I'm going to pop by the Guild for a while."

"For what, boy?" I hear the snap of his newspaper from the sitting room.

"Augustus Selling told me he'd give me the opportunity to see how hunters work in the real world. Outside the Institute. I'm going to need it sooner or later."

"How long will you be?" I hear Father's chair groan, and his footsteps coming in my direction.

"Few hours, at least," I answer, without turning around. I have to think of where we can hide Marjorie until the window for the ritual is over. Not my house, and not the Hudsons' either — because Mrs Selling's already found it once. I know I'm going to need Wells's help on this one. He knows secret spots in London better than I do.

"Good to see you're finally taking some interest, Langdon," Father says, with the barest hint of approval. "And I'm sure the Sellings will like having another set of hands around."

"I'm more than that now, Father," I say with a shrug.

"Of course you are," he says. "I'll be going out this evening, and I'll be gone for a while. Will you be all right here on your own?"

"Yes, Father." I think of Marjorie's plea, for him not to find out. "I'll be fine."

"Good. Then get going, boy."

—

Later, again. — After I've caught a hackney out to Hampstead, and filled Wells and Naomi in on what's happened, they're on the way to the Selling house with me. We may not have much time now, since Father spent so long getting ready and I'd told him I'd be in my room. I'd had to slip out when he'd gone into the library and shut the door.

"I can't believe they're trying it again," says Wells, en route to the Sellings' house. "After what happened last time."

"It's why Marjorie wants to escape," Naomi points out. "She doesn't want to go through all of that again."

"I don't blame her," I say. "She tried to brush it off when I asked her about it...like it didn't affect her. But I know it did. I saw it in her face."

"That's her mother's doing, I'll bet," Wells says. "Probably makes her feel guilty for it. Or accuses her of making it bigger than it is."

"She said that too. 'Mother believes I am being unreasonable.' What exactly does her mother hope to gain from this?" The question's not rhetorical. There must be a reason why she's in on it.

"Whatever it is, they're all asking the same thing," Naomi says. "They all want a part of the action."

By then the hackney is stopping just a few houses down from the Sellings'. We get out, one by one, paying the driver as we do. When he drives off, we glance between each other for a moment.

"So what do we do now?" Wells asks.

"Her letter was addressed to me," I say. "So I'll go in and get her. Maybe sneak her out the back."

"You wait for them there," Naomi says to Wells. "I'll stay here. See who arrives."

Wells looks about to protest, but Naomi silences him with a glare. Then she turns to me.

"Be careful, Langdon," she says, taking my hand and squeezing.

"I will," I say. "You too. Both of you."

Wells grumbles something I can't hear as I start towards the Sellings' front steps. It makes me nervous, enlisting their help, but much like Marjorie, I don't have many other options. Perhaps we both need their help to get out of this in one piece.

It's Effie who greets me at the door, with an air of secrecy about her. She keeps looking over her shoulder as if she thinks someone's listening.

"Best be quick, Master Wilkes. The missus thinks the young lady's got female trouble."

"Thank you, Effie," I say as she waves me in. "She's told you everything?"

"Most of it, sir. Miss Marjorie's upstairs, if you want to see her."

"Yes, I think I will." Unconventional, of course, to invite any caller to the upper levels of the house. But this entire situation is an unconventional one.

I climb the stairs, much more gradual than the ones in my house. They put me in a spacious, vaulted hallway with numerous wide windows along one wall, doors lining the opposite. I wonder at first how I'll ever find Marjorie until she emerges from one down at the other end. She appears similarly dressed to the last blood-binding night: loose white dress, bare feet, her hair free of pins or any other restraints.

"Langdon!"

Then she's running towards me, and it's everything I can do to not fall back down the stairs as she collides with me, throwing her arms around me. She buries her face in my shoulder, and I detect a whiff of rosewater from her skin, floral and sweet.

"Thank you for coming," she says, pulling back just far enough to look into my face. "I was beginning to panic...Mother gave me forty minutes to get ready..."

"Where is she?" I ask.

"She went ahead to the Guild. Why?" Marjorie's brow furrows.

"Bloody hell," I curse. "Sorry. Only...I told Father I was going there. For that...extra real-world experience your uncle mentioned."

"Oh." Her face drains of colour, and real fear enters her eyes. "What...what are we going to do, then?"

"We have to get you somewhere safe while she's en route. Maybe Father won't be around when she gets there."

"He may be with my father," she says, worrying at her lip. "And Uncle Gus."

I haven't thought of that. There is a way to persuade Augustus Selling to vouch for me, but it hinges on a very fast message.

"Wells is waiting out the back," I say then, trying to think of all the possible reasons I can tell Augustus why I'm not there. "Naomi's across the street out front. You'll go meet him, I'll go meet her, and we'll reconvene...somewhere. Where can we find you?"

Marjorie swallows hard. "The Wellington Arch. It's public enough no one will suspect us of anything."

"Then we'll do that." I glance out the window at the darkening street. We're running out of time. "I'll go first. You gather everything you might need, and go out the back."

"What are you planning, Langdon?" Her brow furrows again, one eyebrow raised.

"Your escape," I say.

Then we separate. She runs back to her room and I turn and thump down the stairs. Effie's head appears around the dining room doorway, eyes round and curious.

"You didn't see me, Effie, if anyone asks," I say. "I wasn't here."

"I didn't see you, and you weren't here, Master Wilkes," she says. "Already forgettin'."

"Thank you, Effie. Truly. I owe you."

"Owe me nothin', Master Wilkes," she says on my way out the door.

As soon as I'm out on the street again, Naomi spots me. She glances both ways, then scutters across the cobbles to join me.

"How'd it go? Where's Marjorie?"

"Meeting Wells in back," I answer. "We have to hurry. My message has to reach the Guild before Mrs Selling does."

"Perfect," Naomi says. "I know exactly how we can do it."

She leads me quickly up the street, turns a corner, and keeps walking until we reach the junction of Piccadilly and Knightsbridge. In the fading light I see two young boys, just like the one who delivered Marjorie's letter to me, leaning against the lampposts with their bicycles next to them.

"Excuse me, boys," Naomi calls as she approaches. They snap to attention, their eyes widening at the sight of her. "I've a message that must go to the Bromley Hunters' Guild. Do either of you know where that is?"

"I do, miss," says the boy on the right. "What's yer message?"

"For Augustus Selling, is that right, Langdon?" Naomi glances at me as the boy takes out a slip of paper and a stubby stick of graphite from his bag.

"Yes," I say, when the boy looks up. The second one sidles up to watch us. "You must tell him I've gotten bogged down in schoolwork, which prevents me from being able to come. And that this is the excuse he must give to my father, if he asks why I'm not there."

"Any other reason, mister?" The boy stops writing, then looks up again.

"No," I say. "But Miss Hudson and I will pay you extra if you promise not to say anything."

The boys look at each other, then back at us. "All right. But we gotta split it, 'cause me'n Beetle here got a relay tonight. 'E's gonna get yer message t' Lewisham, an' I'm gonna meet 'im there an' get it th' rest o' the way. That's gonna be fastest."

"Fine," I say. "However you want to do it. But you're looking for a woman dressed in the top fashion tonight, understand? Probably in a walking dress. She may even have two young boys with her. But you must beat her there. That's all we ask."

"'Course," says one boy, and the other nods in agreement. "Get paid for speed, we do."

Naomi and I pool our money and she hands it over to the boys. They split it with marvellous efficiency, then mount their bicycles and ride off into the night.

"How did you know they'd be here?" I ask, when we're walking back to the Wellington Arch.

"This may be surprising to you, but before Wells was old enough to take over Papa's hunts, he worked as a telegram courier. He would never tell you that, of course. It was the only way the money kept coming, and sometimes he would earn generous tips from the better-off customers. It's how he knows London so well. Especially the less-frequented places."

"Well, that may certainly benefit us tonight," I say, grateful for that tidbit of information. "More than he realises."

She winks at me and gently bumps my arm. "And I expect you to bring it up at the soonest possible moment."

I nod. "Oh, yes. I plan to."

—

Later, again, evening. — It turns out Wells does have a hideaway, deep in Dartford. He doesn't say much about it on the way, except for the fact that his father has connections to an off-offshoot of one of the guilds. The hunters that belong to it take on smaller-time cases than the more prominent ones, and know Septimus Hudson well enough that they don't have to ask any questions.

Still, it's very much like a secret club to get in. Wells knocks on the metal door around the side of the building we pull up in front of, one with no windows and looking like not much more than a pile of bricks. I hang back with the two girls and try to squint through the darkness to see who opens it.

A small lit rectangle appears, revealing a pair of eyes. "'Oo 're you? An' whaddaya want?"

"My name's Wells Hudson," says Wells. "I believe you knew my father Septimus."

"Timmy, innit?" A more distant voice from inside says. "That ghost hunter, 'e was."

"'E never said 'e had a boy," says the pair of eyes. "'Ow do I know it's you?"

"He lost contact with you when he was touched by ghost-madness," says Wells. "On a hunt that you sent him on."

I hear muttering from inside. Next to me, Marjorie presses against my side, shivering in her thin white dress. I've given her my overcoat, but her legs are still bare, and so are her feet.

"Oh, for God's sake..." Naomi huffs and marches up next to Wells. "Excuse me, sorry. Hello. My name's Naomi Hudson, sister of this buffoon here. The proof is that he was a member of your off-offshoot of your so-called guild until he was touched by the ghosts. The hunting business he started is now run by my brother and myself. We are the Hudson Hunters now."

"Looks like 'er, don't she?" says one voice, the distant one.

"Spittin' image," says the other, whose eyes we can see. "An' the boy...'e looks a lot like Timmy."

"We oughta get a better look in th' light," says the distant voice. "Let's let 'em in."

The rectangle disappears, and the door squeaks open. Wells waves us forward, and the two of us slip inside after him. But no sooner has the door boomed shut again that a meaty hand seizes the front of my coat and slams me up against the brick wall behind me, and breath smelling like rotgut alcohol catches me full in the face.

"Wilkes," hisses the voice. "What is this rotter doin' 'ere?"

"Stop," Wells says from behind the mountain pinning me against the wall. "He's helping us. He's not like his father."

The hand releases, and a flickering lantern comes up close to my face, illuminating the man who holds it — brutish face, bushy eyebrows, almost no hair on his head.

"Say, you ain't Trent," says the man. "'Oo are you?"

"This is Langdon," Naomi says from next to me. "His son."

"'E don't look much like 'im," says the second voice, and a bearded face comes up beside the first. "You a Wilkes, you say?"

I just nod.

"C'mon. Can't see hardly nothing in 'ere."

The lantern bobs away and we trot after it, down what appears to be a steeply sloping tunnel dug straight into the ground. It rounds a bend and then opens up, into an underground cellar — likely for wine at one point. The repeating arches holding up the ceiling and the few large wooden barrels left over are a pretty good indication of that.

Then, light suddenly flares around us, illuminating the entire cellar. The entire operation seems to be contained down here. Along one wall are racks full of weapons: rapiers, sabres, crossbows, even spears. Down at the far end, piles of what appear to be webbing to carry hunting gear. Closer to us are more supplies: silver bullets, gold daggers, iron chains, medallions and talismans made of every kind of metal, bundles of dynamite and barrels of gunpowder. In front of us stand the two men: the brutish-looking one dressed in all black hunting leather like Wells's, and the bearded one in everyday clothing — long brown overcoat, frayed waistcoat, baggy trousers.

I blink in the sudden bright light, which seems to have been made by a strange system of wires and small glass bulbs with a glowing filament inside. No candlelight at all.

"Whaddaya think, boss?" the brutish man asks. "That 'un looks like a Selling. Can we trust 'em?"

"I keep tellin' you, Norton, don't call me boss," says the bearded man. "And we can, soon's we get an explanation."

Wells and Naomi don't seem at all uncomfortable with these people, but I am and Marjorie clearly is as well. I feel her arm, pressing against mine, trembling.

"Didn't know th' Sellings had any girls," says the brutish man, Norton. He steps closer to peer at Marjorie, and she shrinks away, cowering slightly behind me. "She's a pretty 'un, though."

"Enough," says Wells, stepping in front of us. "Let us explain ourselves, because we really are here for a legitimate reason. And it'll make sense why we're together in the first place."

"Fine," says the bearded man. "Norton, stoke up our fire. They's cold, looks like. We should at least warm 'em up."

—

We arrange ourselves quickly, once the fire in the large wood-burning stove in one corner is lit. Wells and Naomi, being the hunters that they are, flank Marjorie and I as we sit together on the floor, covered with an incongruously expensive-looking Persian rug. Norton and the bearded man, who introduces himself as Robinson, share a crude wooden bench that doesn't look at all like it should be sat on. Especially by men of their size.

After that, it takes all of us to explain. Wells first, then me, then Naomi, and lastly Marjorie. The two men look at each other periodically, but don't interrupt us at any point. And once we finish, it's Norton that speaks first.

"Can I see 'em? Your scars, girl?"

"What?" Marjorie says, and I hear fear and affront in her voice.

"The blood-bindin' scars. I want'a see."

"Mr Norton, I really don't think—"

Norton rolls his eyes. "God sakes, girl. Not askin' you ta strip. Jus' push up your sleeves."

She glances back at us, and I take her hand and give it a squeeze. Hesitantly she gets to her feet and pulls back both sleeves to expose her pale forearms. I hear Naomi, behind me, gasp softly. Scars, some wide, raised, and stark and others thin and faded, crisscross her arms all the way up to both her elbows. In fact, there's so many hardly any unmarked skin shows. But this has been going on for three years. We should have expected something like this.

"Come 'ere," says Norton, motioning her closer.

I see her swallow hard and approach him tentatively. When she's an arm's length away, he catches her wrist and raises her arm up to his eye level. Then he inspects her hand, with the newest wound across the palm, and raises an eyebrow.

"So they been doin' this a while, girl?" asks Robinson.

"Yes, Mr Robinson," Marjorie answers, her voice faint. "Since I was fourteen."

"That's'a long time," says Norton, stating the obvious.

"Don't say," says Robinson. "An' you're sayin' you lot're comin' here tonight 'cause the Sellings were gonna do it again?"

"Yes," Naomi answers that time. "She's barely recovered from the last one."

"It...went awry," Marjorie says, when both men look to her for explanation. "In fact...if it hadn't been for them, I don't know what would have happened to me."

"Twisted, right 'nuff," says Norton. "When your own family decides ta experiment on you."

"Fine," says Robinson. "You lot can 'ole up here. Not set up for comfy accommodations, clearly. But Hudson says none'a the Sellings know where you gone off to."

"Jus' might wanna wait 'til morning ta go out," says Norton. "Dunno if the Bromley Guild's got its feelers out."

"Oh, it already does," Wells says cryptically, but the men nod, like they know exactly what he refers to.

—

19 May, morning. — I wake up just as the light begins to turn grey the next morning. I'd never slept as rough as this, on the floor with only my coat for a pillow. Marjorie had been sleeping next to me, curled into my chest, my overcoat under her head. Now I see she's gone, leaving me alone on the rug in front of the stove. Wells and Naomi are still asleep nestled against the wall, like a pile of puppies — limbs tangled together carelessly.

I push myself up, wincing at the soreness in my shoulder and my neck. I try to roll it out as I get up and walk across the floor to the tunnel. It's dark until about halfway up, and then I see just a sliver of light coming in through the open door. When I peek out, I see Marjorie sitting there against the wall, once again wrapped in my overcoat, bare feet curled against the cobblestones.

I nudge the door open wider, and the hinges creaking alerts her to me. She jumps, startled, then relaxes just as quickly when she sees me.

"Hello, Langdon," she says, raking one hand through her hair.

"Couldn't sleep?" I lean against the wall, then slide down next to her. The air is still a little chilly against my arms, only covered by shirtsleeves.

"No, I..." She sighs heavily. "I had nightmares. Of the last blood-binding."

"Do you mind me asking...what you saw?"

She takes another deep breath, pressing her chin against her knee. "Rivers of blood. Everywhere. Flooding the streets. People trapped in burning columns of flame. All I could hear was their screams. And all I smelled was the blood...so much of it..."

I squeeze her shoulder gently and she leans against me. I feel her trembling, which makes me slide my arm around her.

"Do you...always have them? The nightmares?"

She nods. "I don't remember what I see during the ritual. But my subconscious does...and then brings it to my attention."

"I wish I could help you, Marjorie," I say, and I mean it. I do want to help her.

"You did," she says. "You spared me one less ritual. I won't have to know what that creature suffers."

"Does it still make you want to hunt them?"

She wraps her arms around her shins, pulls them in tight. "At least in a hunt...the kill is quick. Merciful, so there's no suffering. In a blood-bind, everyone suffers."

She has a point, although I've never looked at hunting that way. "But you really don't want to kill things, do you?"

"Some are already dead, I might mention. Like the ghosts and the zombies."

I nod. I can't argue with that.

"Don't mistake me. I'm not advocating for killing creatures living their lives. The way we are. But you might notice that humans can't live with them. They have to push them to the fringes of society, so those creatures are forced to live destitute. And then...if they trespass on human territory...out come the hunters, to get rid of the problem. Perhaps some of them...they want to be put out of their misery. They don't want to live that way anymore."

"Marjorie..."

"I'm sorry." She drops her forehead to her knees and clenches her hands in her hair. "Father won't let me talk about it, and neither will Mother. They tell me I'm too compassionate. Too sympathetic. And they don't know why I care so much."

I take a deep breath and hesitate before I reply. "It's because you are compassionate and sympathetic. You don't believe in killing things that are trying to — as you say — live their lives."

She says nothing for a moment. I see her toes curl tight, then release. "Father once told me why blood-bonds are so painful. It's because...blood is what gives us life. It pumps through every part in our body, even our brains. So...when the bond is made, that creature is sharing your life force. It's pulling on a part of you. Because part of you is inside another being."

"I'd never thought of it like that," I say, because I haven't. I know the importance of blood. But apparently not enough.

"How could you, unless you've seen it?" Marjorie slumps back against the wall, tipping her face up to the sky. The sun's just beginning to touch the top of the building now, and I know we're going to have to return her home soon. "How could anyone, until they've seen what these creatures endure, every day...chained to an existence they didn't choose?"

"It makes me wish I had," I say, after a long silence.

"No." She shakes her head. "You don't. I wouldn't wish a blood-bond on my worst enemy."

Our conversation's cut short by the metal door creaking open again. It's Wells who emerges this time, rubbing the back of his head and blinking groggily.

"I haven't slept that way for bloody ages," he says.

"I would say I'm quite used to a bed," Marjorie says, her tone light and neutral, almost teasing. Nothing of the melancholy, at-wit's-end one I'd heard just moments before remains.

"Only the best for you?" I look over at her.

"Of course," she says with a smile, the sunlight streaking her blue eyes with gold. "I'm a Selling. And we want only the finest things in life."

"Well then, Miss Selling, it's time we get you home," Wells says through a heavy exhale. "Before your family misses you, and before we overstay our welcome here."

—

Later. — By the time we reach the Sellings' front steps again, we've come up with a story that explains our dishevelled appearance and Marjorie vanishing. Norton and Robinson snuck in and kidnapped her, sent me the note she'd been made to write; I enlisted Wells and Naomi to help me rescue her, we spent all night searching for her and had barely made it back before sunup.

"For someone who reads very little, that story is highly elaborate," Naomi says, grinning over at Wells. "Why not make them pirates as well?"

Wells rolls his eyes, but he doesn't respond to that. He just climbs from the hackney and starts up the steps.

"Langdon, wait." Marjorie catches my sleeve when I begin to follow Naomi.

"What's wrong?" I search her face as I sink back into my spot.

"Nothing, I just..." Gently she cups my cheek, her skin soft except where it's scarred. "I wanted to thank you for saving my life. Twice now. I know...now that I'm formally eligible for marriage, that I won't accept any other suitor but you to court me. You know me better than any of the others would. And you know what my family is truly like."

"I care about you, Marjorie. Truly. I do."

She smiles, just slightly. "I know you do."

Then, unexpectedly, she leans in and presses her lips against mine gently. It's not unpleasant — in fact, it's light and sweet like a dessert wine. I close my eyes and let my instincts respond naturally. I feel her tense momentarily when I kiss her back, but right away she relaxes again.

"Oi," says the hackney driver, rapping on the roof. "This ain't a hotel room. Or 're you payin' me extra, rich boy?"

"Sorry," I say as Marjorie blushes and hides her face in my shoulder. I dig out the last of my money — a five-pound note — and hand it to him. "We'll get out of your hair now."

Naomi's the one that sees our furtive looks when we finally join them, and she leans in to speak in my ear.

"What were you two up to in there?"

"A wink," I say, although I wish I didn't have to lie to her. I'd sensed she had feelings for me too, and hadn't ever acted on them. But now that Marjorie has, and I actually liked it, I'm more confused than ever.