The slice down her arm ended in one single, deep jab.
The blood went pale with rain and washed from her palm even as she looked at it. She dropped the knife and took her arm where she’d been cut.
It was the mark of the assassin to strike and run. He pushed her away and ran past, his boots splayed side to side, scattering gravel. His knife scraped her chest, missing the blow to her heart, cutting her clothing. She felt the jolt and shock as his body slammed into her. Hit him through the cover of his coat he twirled in her face. He was wrapped in ordinary.Īt the final instant, she sensed intention. A young messenger boy ran toward her, his jacket pulled up over his head, a slouching cap hiding his face. They emerged out of the rain, brushed by, and disappeared into a landscape of gray.
The square was a confusion of housemaids scurrying home and clerks bent under their umbrellas, resentful. She kept her knife in hand, ready, under her cloak. She’d been wary as a wild bird all the way across London. THE PAST CAUGHT UP TO HER IN THE RAIN, IN BRADDY Square, six hundred yards from Meeks Street.
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