Ethan Chandler found himself drawn to London zoo, as if by an unseen force. In truth he would rather have stayed away after the incident with the wolves. Those wolves knew his secret—maybe—and though the pathetic creatures who sat in the cage might not, he would rather not have taken the chance.
But the tall, handsome American found himself being dragged, unwillingly, towards the cage. He didn't like the zoo, did not like to see the animals in cages, though the wolves seemed to hold some morbid fascination for him. So he gave in, let himself be pulled along, as he had been pulled into the world of Vanessa Ives and Professor Malcolm Murray.
There was a woman standing in front of the wolf enclosure. Totally unafraid she stood there, observing, speaking softly to them in a language he did not understand. And the wolves seemed calm, soothed by her presence, not even reacting when she went down on her knees in front of the cage, as fascinated by them as they were by her.
"I wouldn't stand too close there, ma'am, they're dangerous animals." He watched as she stood up, dusting her hands on her skirt.
"Perhaps I am dangerous, too," she replied, "If I had a rifle I would certainly be a danger to them, but as you can see, I do not. I would not kill them anyway," she lowered her voice, "They are beautiful animals, perhaps the most beautiful of all the mammals, with the exception, perhaps, of the cheetah." She raised her eyes to his, "Do you think I should be afraid? And it's not ma'am, it's miss."
She fixed her eyes on him. They were grey, without a trace of blue. Steel grey, the eyes of a killer, he reminded himself. Jesse James and Billy the Kid had had steel grey eyes, so had the Earp brothers. Her eyes would be sharp, have better vision than most. He wondered, idly, if she had ever handled a gun. With those eyes, she had the potential to be a sharp shooter, as he had been. A gun would not faze her; she seemed to possess no fear.
"I think, miss, that the absence of fear is an excellent quality for one to possess, as long as it is not tainted by carelessness." He was studying her now, she was Vanessa's height, her hair not quite so dark as Vanessa's, but she seemed to have a softness Vanessa did not possess. She was smiling at him now, a smile not forced but truly genuine
"Would you like to accompany me as I walk through the zoo?" she asked, "I am perfectly at ease being by myself, but sometimes I grow tired of the stares. I suppose it is seeing a woman alone who is therefore not quite a lady. I like to think I have liberated myself from that, but the stares often make me want to say or do something I would regret. And I think you might make pleasant enough company." She held out her hand to him, waiting. "And I would like to hear some of your exploits from the Wild West show—oh yes, I recognize you. I might even have seen you once."
This caught him off guard. He blushed as he remembered the exploits that went on behind his wagon after the show. There was sympathy in her eyes as she watched him, and it bothered him because he found himself suddenly feeling ashamed, even if that now seemed a lifetime ago.
"Or not, if you prefer," she said quickly, but he held his arm out to her. She took his, and he felt something pass through him, like a jolt of electricity. She looked him, "Are you frightened?" her eyes seemed ask.
They strolled, in companionable silence, not really stopping to look closely at the animals, until they came to the cage that housed a pair of cheetahs. He would have continued on, but she stopped him, an intense look of concentration on her face.
"Did you know that these are the fastest animals on earth?" She examined his face. "They have relatively small jaws and hunt mainly antelopes. Their burst of speed is amazing, but short, and they are weak compared to lions and leopards, and often lose their prey to them. They are simultaneously beautiful, deadly, and weak. Like all predators, perhaps twenty percent of their cubs survive. They're my favorite of the big cats, I love them."
The cheetah snarled as he looked at him, but he caught a glimpse of the beauty she obviously saw. "You are the strangest woman I've ever seen. The things you say, the things you seem to know. Where did you learn these things?"
"I know lots of things, Ethan Chandler." She pulled back from him and took his hand, "Shall I tell you about you? About what you're running from, what you try to keep secret, why you make no place your home for long?"
"How do you know this?" he whispered hoarsely.
"It is written on your face. Your hand tells me even now as I hold it. Don't worry, Ethan, I have no reason to expose you, why should I?" Her gloveless hands took hold of his. "Do you want to know why I never wear gloves? I'll tell you why, but you may not like the answer"
"I find myself in need of food; would you care to accompany me? There is an excellent tea shoppe not far from here. It is far too long until eight o'clock and dinner. Please say you'll come!"
The switch to coquette was made so suddenly he did not know what to think, but let himself be drawn along, as he had been since he met her. The proprietress seemed to know her, and set a generous repast in front of them, and he wondered how he would pay for it.
"Don't worry about that," she said, reading his mind, "My income, though not generous, can more than cover this. Breakfast and dinner is included in the cost of the rent my brother and I pay for our rooms, but for lunch and tea we are on our own. It does give me an excuse to eat here, it would be impossible for me to cook in my room; I do miss cooking."
"Miss, isn't it about time you told me your name? I've spent a whole afternoon with you. It seems that you know who I am, but I have no idea who you are." He looked at her, his grey eyes staring straight into hers, and watched a smile curl her lips.
"I do suppose that would be fair. My name is Penelope Von Bulow. My brother, Gregory, is a doctor at the London charity hospital. We are displaced aristocrats, if you will. My parents could not keep up with the taxes, and after they died we were forced to sell what remained of the estate. To some rich Americans, I might add. We took what we wanted from the house, and left the rest. There wasn't much remaining after the tax bill was paid, but it's sufficient for what we need—and what we need isn't a lot."
"I write stories for the 'penny dreadfuls', under my brother's name, of course. There is an antiquated prejudice against women authors—especially ones who write horror stories. And I publish in other magazines and periodicals. I make just enough money to supplement my income, and my brother's salary so we can afford separate rooms. We live in a building where many artists and writers rent flats. The company is gay and entertaining. If I am no longer 'Miss Von Bulow', I can still be Miss Penelope. I like my life."
"Well, you're the first woman writer I've ever met, or the first who owned to being one. I don't know if I could keep up with you, Miss Penelope, but I'd like to give it a try." He reached out and took her hand, "I am aware of the reputation I used to have, but I promise you, I am no longer that person. I'd like to get to know you much better."
"Even if you knew I was a virgin?" She laughed at the look on his face, "Don't worry, I'm not waiting for a husband. Say, rather, that I am looking for a sign, for someone I deem worthy. I seek companionship only, I promise you."
He walked her back to where she kept her rooms. "Shall I invite you up, Mr. Chandler? Would I be safe?"
"No," he said, and pulled her close to him, not caring that they were in public. When he kissed her, she did not resist, but seemed to surrender to him. That perplexed him; this was not the manner of a virgin.
"Come," she said, pulled him through the front door. They climbed four stairways until they reached her flat, and he was not prepared for what he saw.
It was as though he had stepped into a pasha's den. A red Turkish carpet, fringed with gold covered the floor. A round table was covered with a cloth like a tapestry, and the chairs around it had cushions of crimson. A sofa and chair of the same color, picked with gold embroidery sat against an opposite wall, an ebony table next to the sofa held an elaborately decorated oil lamp. The carpet and cushions matched velvet curtains, pulled back with cords that revealed lacy curtains covering the glass.
A large walnut bookcase, filled with books, stood against the wall. Next to it was a smaller one, filled with curiosities. A large crystal ball sat on an ornate iron stand, reflecting the light coming in from the window. On a piece of blue velvet lay a crystal pendulum on a silver chain. Boxes of tarot cards and occult books lined a shelf, while another held bottles of oil and jars of dried herbs. A multitude of stones, quartz, rose quartz, lapis, malachite, hematite, jasper, amethyst lay carelessly scattered on the shelves.
"Memories of days gone past," she murmured, "I took what furniture I wanted, but only what I could use. I took my bed, and linens, but left so much behind. I have learned how one can make do with what you think you need. I sold half of my wardrobe and find I don't feel deprived. Though sometimes I do miss my old life," she sighed.
"What is all this stuff, Miss Penelope?" Ethen went over and began picking up stones, smelling oil and candles, gazing with great curiosity at the crystal ball.
"The tools of my trade, Mr. Chandler." She came and stood beside him, "I have been cursed with knowledge of the past, present, and future, though I am blessed and I am not cursed like Vanessa Ives. I told you I knew what you were, didn't I? I can take pity on your plight, but I am helpless to do anything about it. I can nurture you before or after it comes, I can perhaps even make the memories go away, if you want. But I can't break the curse, no matter how much I want to. I will do all I can to help you, if you will let me."
"Can you make me forget right now?" he whispered, and she took him by the hand and led him to the crimson sofa. She pushed him gently down, then kneeling between his legs, began to undo his trousers.