The Last Summer
By Frances Tate
Part One
London, June 1831.
Contrary to convenience, she continued to bleed.
At least it was no longer the flow of a mountain
stream seeking the path of least resistance, but the stopstart
of a defeated man bailing out a leaky rowing boat.
Richard propped her up so that she leaned against the wall,
her feet on the ground and a peaceful if blank expression
on her face. Her heart beat strongly in his ears, promising
him –them–she could survive the loss of more blood…
Disagreement.
Sweeping his thumb over the twin punctures in the
prostitute’s wrist, he smeared a ruby of blood across her
clammy skin. Had she been a more enjoyable palate, he
would not have wasted a drop of her so needlessly, but he
did not require reminding that she tasted faintly of gin and
the sickly aftertaste of syphilis or that she was the more
palatable of the evening’s options.
In this sweltering cesspit of two million bodies and
rather fewer souls, summer was nought but a nuisance;
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