London 1898.
Miriam couldn’t say how long it was before he lifted from her and tapped his cane on the cab roof.
She should move but she couldn’t even open her eyes; and really, how could anyone expect her to? The cab must be full of feathers. She’d clawed up angel wings in that white cloud of bliss and she was still floating back down to the bench. Back to a life that would now look entirely different.
Gentle hands worked to straighten her skirts.
There was no impetus to move. The firm but gentle administrations, adjusting her skirt, stroking her arm, small murmurs, were melting her on the inside with the soft kindness of it all. Even out of courtesy.
She wanted to say something, give something back.
“Thank you; that was most enlightening.” Heat immediately rushed up her face at the absurd whisper.
Idiot; she was keeping her eyes closed, perhaps for the rest of her life.
