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Since when have I ever acted or been expected to act as a proper young lady? Perhaps it was when I was mucking out the horse's stalls? Was it when my hands bled as I scrubbed pots? Or, better yet, was it when I donned breeches, climbed into the flies and..."A man's quiet, gentle voice interrupted the girl's angry tirade with its soft, soothing sound."Christine..."The man's melodic voice caught the girl's attention and seemed to entrance her with a single word. She ceased speaking, her eyes locked onto the man she held so fiercely."My dear, you are not yourself. Please allow Madame to lend you aide. I shall be no farther from you than outside that door. I will not leave you. I give you my word. Please?"She stared intently into his stormy green eyes as if she searched for an answer there. She released one of his lapels and Erik watched as her hand glided to his face. He sucked in a surprised breath as her fingers moved over his face. She gently traced and softly caressed the ridges,. Fuck, all married people lose a spouse. Eventually. Some sooner than others. Most everybody else seems to be able to cope. What’s wrong with me? God but it hurts. I glance up at the sky. Huge, dark cumulus clouds block the sun and promise yet another day of relentless rain. The ducks don’t mind at all but the threatening weather just adds to my despair. How fitting. Gun-metal gray day. Wish I had a gun. Well, fine then. Let it rain. Forever. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Something to wash away the tears so no-one will notice. But it won’t take away the fucking cold. It’s too damn fucking cold for September. Even the weather is against me. Thanks, God. That’s really kind of you! Fuck it. At what stage of grief am I right now? What did I read about that once? Oh yeah, five stages… something about denial, then followed by anger. I guess I’m at anger. Mad at me. Mad at Peg. Mad at God. Especially mad at God. Why me? And where the hell are you now anyway God? The funeral kinda took care of.
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Take it off, or I’ll take it off for you.’ Prince’s strangely elegant hands drifted through the air towards Kit’s torn, stained chemise. Kit looked around blindly, considering making a run for it, but the facts had to be faced. There was nowhere to run, if you didn’t count the Bristol Channel. Grudgingly, and with face aflame, Kit lifted the disgusting garment over her grimy face and shorn matted hair, throwing it down with a challenging slap and failing to meet the Captain’s eye. He was bound to have the most enragingly arrogant look of triumph on his face and she wanted no accidental glimpse of it. ‘As I thought. I can smell the tang of female from across Billingsgate Market, you presented very little in the way of challenge, my dear. But we will discuss this further after you have been cleaned up. Moody, Fagin, scrub her up and bring her back to me. Without those filthy rags.’ ‘You mean…naked?’ bleated Kit, all bravado tossed to the four winds. ‘As the day you were born, my dear,’.

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