Gabriel broke into an open, pukka grin, and it revamped his face. Their eyes met and held in the sudden rapport of shared hilarity.
A sequel to scene 10
Post-haste—she gawped down again, heeding the new scuff on the toe of her right boot. Sunlight glistened off the garnet ring on her left finger—and Agathe blushed contritely: she was a woman legally betrothed—and tomorrow, after a few short oaths, she would be a wife. A stranger's wife.
Her flush deepened—and her stomach gave an excruciating stagger. More than ever Boston appeared like hallucination—and Greenwood Junction a night terrors. For a precipitate, she craved she was back in Boston—sheltered in the cages of her spartan room with the narrow white enameled bed.
But Miss Sophia's Academy was no more—and neither was the Agathe who had instructed there for most of her twenty-eight years and only dreamed of adventure. No—now she was living the electrifying life she had always itched for—and if this new life was startlingly different—it was still more than a fair trade.
Ear-piercing feminine chortling floated from the window of the building across the street—as Agathe went through the open hotel door. It felt draughty inside—but only in comparison to the scorching air outdoors. The lobby was small and sparsely furnished—with two tables, a writing desk, and several wooden chairs set around hit-and-miss.
Behind the dark mahogany counter a thin man of middling age sat in shirtsleeves—and examined Agathe with candid idiosyncrasy. He donned a rusty black suit coat that congruent his rusty black trousers—and eliminated the pencil from behind his ear. Gabriel waved his hand in the direction of the chairs. "If you would care to applaud the artwork, I'll check at the desk."
A set of lurid prints hung above them on the fly-blown wallpaper. Hirple mallards with death-glazed eyes—reposed in feathered-splendor among pyramids of autumn fruits and vegetables. Agathe rumpled her nose with wowed loathing. "I'm afraid dead game birds aren't my favorite still-life subject." She tilted closer.
"And I'm reasonably sure this artist has never even seen a duck." A dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth—and disappeared like a bat out of hell. "Chickens….just possibly. But not ducks!"
Gabriel broke into an open, pukka grin, and it revamped his face. Their eyes met and held in the sudden rapport of shared hilarity. They both looked away concomitantly. "I'll make the inquiries," he said abruptly—and she took a seat on the hard wooden chair—puzzled at what had come over her just then.