The walls looked as if they'd been stained by black and sticky smoke. An Oriental rug on the floor had been worn ragged with walking. Reclining on a chair in the corner, staring at wonders that no one else could see, was the Reverend Dodgeson.
"You should get up," Lisbet said insistently, tapping his shoulder. "You've a previous engagement, remember?"
"This is no place for a lady," he mumbled, making a vague shooing gesture. Lisbet laughed sharply.
"Since when have I been a lady, Rev?" Grinning, she yanked him out of the chair and snatched the pipe from his hand. Placing it on the mantel, she led him out into the hall. "A year you've been coming here," she grumbled, "and you've still got me looking after you as if I were your mistress."
"That sounds like a grand plan, my dear, but may I ask you…why does that cat smile at me like that? Is he mocking me?" The man looked rather annoyed by this apparent show of disrespect. Lisbet Anders, owner of one of the coziest opium dens there was, rolled her eyes.
"Aye, he's mocking you for being a lazy scoundrel, Rev. Now get out! The Liddels will think less of you!" She pushed him out the door and closed it behind him. After locking the door, she waved away the smoke that stung her eyes, and picked up the cat. She climbed the rickety old stairs to the second floor, and sat, staring out the window. The cat—a fine black creature scarred by his conquests—wriggled out of her arms and sat in front of her, twitching his crooked tail.
"Do you think he knows?" it asked finally, blinking its great baleful yellow eyes.
"That old fool?" Lisbet scoffed, perhaps softer than she meant. "He's too caught up in poppy dreams to notice an odd occurrence or two." The cat blinked again, purposefully, and walked out of the room.
Witches shouldn't fall in love, his thoughts declared. Especially not with ones such as he.
In love? "Damn," she hissed, looking out the window. "I have fallen, haven't I?"