One of the places one can always rest assured will be quiet, peaceful and soft if one takes up lodgings there, is the top floor of an opium den. Aside from the occasional gasp of inspiration, transcendent snore or agonised, subdued moan, the silence that permeates the lodgings in the attic of an opium den is seldom dispersed.
The attic was also surprisingly well-furnished. There was a bed, a good large one with an ornate iron bedstead, and a chair of throne-like proportions. The desk was old and battered, but clearly of fine wood, and the wardrobe was an Auriental work of art. The dingy walls were hung with strange and marvellous pictures, hangings and inconographs, and the mirror was vast and decadent. The only piece of modern furniture in there was an oil-lamp, and a disturbingly big dressing table.
Not-Dr Boldcastle was taking off clothing, a task that in most films would require hoarse jazz music, or at the very least someone wailing, "Oooh! Ooo ooooh oh, seeeex-eh," into the soundtrack. The interloper kept sniffing- clearly heinously strong cologne was not to their liking. The suit came off to reveal what looked like something someone had kept wrapped up in a pyramid. Once not-Dr Boldcastle had started untying these however, the general form and shape of the person underneath, sparse though it was, explained why binding up at the chest and padding out at the waist was necessary to mimic the unlucky doctor.
The young woman- for it was indeed a young woman- was thin and small, like a hungry panther cub. Her shoulders were hunched around her slight frame as if she was trying to keep warm. Her skin was papery, in colour and texture, and her eyes were feverish and a little mad. Her hair was shiny and black, wandering absently over her throat and clavicle. She looked pale and surprising and clever.
She changed into a dress just as there was a knock at the door.
"Miss Fitzdare?" asked a hopeful male voice.
She lay back on her bed. "I am not here, Aidan."
There was some nervous guffawing outside. Guffawing was exactly the word- it came with a preliminary intake of air, and a choke, went through various stages of ill-tuned laughter, and ended on a half-swallowed snort. Then the door opened a few optimistic inches. The pale face of a fifteen year old boy appeared in the crack.
"Dad says rent is due today, Miss Fitzdare."
"I paid him yesterday Aidan." She addressed this sentence to the ceiling. A spider was sadly wandering about in a crevice, looking for its web. She felt a little guilty for sweeping it away, until she saw the little bugger start up a new one.
Aidan, hesitating in the doorway, was silent. She sighed. "Come in, Aidan."
He shuffled in. Shuffling did not come naturally to him. He was a tall boy, far too tall for his age or any other, and as alabaster as an idle, pretty girl. The freckles on his upturned nose, the dashing charm of his smile and his twinkly, jailbait eyes did nothing but enhance this image. Aidan had been proposed to twice in the past six months, by well-meaning, myopic middle-aged men. This sort of thing can have a devastating effect on a boy.
As he shuffled closer- as close as he dared- to the bed, she noticed one of his eyes was swollen and a fruitful shade of blue. Aidan's father was a tough, hard-working drug baron who did not take kindly to having a potential pansy for a son.
Noticing this, she realised she was making eye contact. Aidan must have noticed it too, because he shivered like an adolescent and sighed like an adult.
"I joined the Watch, Miss Fitzdare," he confided in her. "I'm going to show Dad. I won't stand for it anymore!" His voice was shaking with the effort of holding all that bravado in.
"Well done, you," she said gloomily, thinking, Your father is going to tear you limb from limb, lad. He is going to cook your kidneys and make you eat them without any sauce.
He swallowed. "They gave me a badge and everything," he said. "And my own uniform. I'm going to start coppering tomorrow night."
Unfortunate, she thought glumly. That's the night I have to gate-crash the Watch House to stop Lance-Constable von Humpeding from preventing the meeting of Uberwaldeans for Old Uberwald.
Aidan was talking to her about fame and glory and having your name in the papers in bold print. She lay on her bed, not even nodding occasionally. She felt such courtesy should not be extended to pretty boys, and besides he seemed quite happy to witter on without it. After all, after Miss Dixie Va Va Voom, whose pin-up he had on his wall, Jenny Perkins from the Guild of Merchant's School For Girls a couple of blocks away, and possibly the paperboy (with Aidan you could never be sure), he adored her more than anyone. Just like everyone should.
I should have been a vampire, she thought sulkily for the umpteenth time, whilst Aidan revealed his deepest and innermost secrets, which sounded exactly like every other fifteen year old boy's darkest and innermost secrets, really.