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Kramer tweezed chunks of sugar with silver tongs. “One or
two?” he asked Battle.
“None for me. You’ve kept us waiting for hours. One might
even suspect this was deliberate . . . yes, yes.” Battle held up a
hand. “You’ve your duty. I’ve mine as well, and it does not include
taking tea.” With a pointed glance to the girl, who was readying a
cup for Doyle: “That extends to my constable.”
Speak for yourself.
The scent of that fruit had made the spit pool
under his tongue. Hell with the tea or a biscuit; he’d settle for a
juicy slice or two. “No, sir,” he said, with a tight rictus more at
home on a corpse. “Of course not.”
“Sorry,” the girl murmured as she returned his knife. Her skin
smelled of lemons, and so did his black blade. Her eyes brushed
his face. “I did not mean to cause you any trouble.”
“You didn’t.” Her concern touched him. “Thank you for . . .”
“Meme,” Kramer called. “That will do. Come stand by me.”
“Yes, Doctor.” The girl backed away, but not without shoot-
ing Doyle a look of apology.
“We’re going to talk about this in front of your servant?”
Battle said as Meme came to stand behind Kramer’s left shoulder.
“As I’ve made clear, she is my apprentice,” Kramer said.
“Highly irregular.” Battle favored Meme with a long look.
“And a little indecent, if you ask me. She’s a girl.”
And you’re an arse.
Doyle dodged his eyes away, embarrassed
for her and furious with Battle.
If you weren’t in charge, if this was
any other place and time . . .
Yes,
Black Dog simpered.
You keep telling yourself what
the gallant you could be.
“Why, you know”—Kramer twisted round to give Meme
a look of exaggerated astonishment—“Battle, I believe you’re
