The sky was completely black now. Sam and Marston walked past the closed
shops and offices in the respectable streets surrounding the Royal Hotel.
Against the darkness the gaslights did their pitiful best to provide
illumination but it wasn't until the two left the business district that
they could be sure of their steps.
Light poured through the doors of noisy bars, flowing across the sidewalks and into the streets. Drivers slouched on wagon seats steered their horses through the traffic, hats pulled low over their faces, their freight a matter of speculation only. In doorways and alleys, men engaged in purposeful loitering, their bodies relaxed but their eyes sharp and watchful.
Marston was aware that they were attracting stares. Women like Sam were not often seen in this district: she was young, clean and sober. More than once he felt it necessary to push his coat back and display his gun to the denizens of the neighborhoods they traversed.
Sam did not appear to notice the tension. She walked with determination, ignoring the crowds and the scenery. He wondered if she even remembered he was there.
"When we get there, you'd better let me do the talking." She did not look at him.
One question answered at least, he thought. "I will follow your lead completely."
After another two blocks of silence, he tried to revive the conversation. "Where exactly are we going?"
"It's not much further."
"That wasn't the question, my dear."
She bit her lip and looked at the street. "You're right." Then she tossed her hair back and finally turned to him. "Why not save your questions until I can answer all of them at once? It would be too hard to explain piece by piece."
He waited but she had apparently finished, so he nodded and they resumed their walk.
The gaslights were becoming scarcer in the part of town they were now in. Many times they passed only headless poles whose glass globes had been shattered. Torches were stuck beside doors or alleys. They were dependent on the lights from the windows of the bars.
Finally Sam came to a stop in front of a building at the end of a particularly dark street. There was noise behind the curtained windows but no music or laughter. The light was unsteady and fitful.
"Here we are." She couldn't quite hide the quaver in her voice.
Marston looked at their destination carefully. In the dark it was hard to make out details beyond the fact that it was three stories tall and set back a bit from the street. All the windows on the second and third floors were curtained and none were dark. It was impossible to tell if the paint was recent or ancient but it was peeling in many places.
The door was shut and there was a panel at eye level that suggested some visitors were more welcome than others. The door was made of good thick planks that were not painted. The lock was large and sturdy, and was the only thing that looked new or polished. In the window was a rudely lettered sign that read "Belle's Palace".
Marston turned to Sam. "Your father is here?"
"Yes. Belle is.an old friend of Dad's." She noticed his expression and stiffened. "She was the only one who'd help us when things got bad."
"I'm not judging you or anyone else." He examined the building again. "It's pretty quiet for a tavern."
"It's not a tavern." Sam took a deep breath and let it out in a great gust. "It's a brothel."
Light poured through the doors of noisy bars, flowing across the sidewalks and into the streets. Drivers slouched on wagon seats steered their horses through the traffic, hats pulled low over their faces, their freight a matter of speculation only. In doorways and alleys, men engaged in purposeful loitering, their bodies relaxed but their eyes sharp and watchful.
Marston was aware that they were attracting stares. Women like Sam were not often seen in this district: she was young, clean and sober. More than once he felt it necessary to push his coat back and display his gun to the denizens of the neighborhoods they traversed.
Sam did not appear to notice the tension. She walked with determination, ignoring the crowds and the scenery. He wondered if she even remembered he was there.
"When we get there, you'd better let me do the talking." She did not look at him.
One question answered at least, he thought. "I will follow your lead completely."
After another two blocks of silence, he tried to revive the conversation. "Where exactly are we going?"
"It's not much further."
"That wasn't the question, my dear."
She bit her lip and looked at the street. "You're right." Then she tossed her hair back and finally turned to him. "Why not save your questions until I can answer all of them at once? It would be too hard to explain piece by piece."
He waited but she had apparently finished, so he nodded and they resumed their walk.
The gaslights were becoming scarcer in the part of town they were now in. Many times they passed only headless poles whose glass globes had been shattered. Torches were stuck beside doors or alleys. They were dependent on the lights from the windows of the bars.
Finally Sam came to a stop in front of a building at the end of a particularly dark street. There was noise behind the curtained windows but no music or laughter. The light was unsteady and fitful.
"Here we are." She couldn't quite hide the quaver in her voice.
Marston looked at their destination carefully. In the dark it was hard to make out details beyond the fact that it was three stories tall and set back a bit from the street. All the windows on the second and third floors were curtained and none were dark. It was impossible to tell if the paint was recent or ancient but it was peeling in many places.
The door was shut and there was a panel at eye level that suggested some visitors were more welcome than others. The door was made of good thick planks that were not painted. The lock was large and sturdy, and was the only thing that looked new or polished. In the window was a rudely lettered sign that read "Belle's Palace".
Marston turned to Sam. "Your father is here?"
"Yes. Belle is.an old friend of Dad's." She noticed his expression and stiffened. "She was the only one who'd help us when things got bad."
"I'm not judging you or anyone else." He examined the building again. "It's pretty quiet for a tavern."
"It's not a tavern." Sam took a deep breath and let it out in a great gust. "It's a brothel."