Jenkins whipped his head around, his eyes sweeping across the dimly lit room. He hadn't turned on the gas lamp.
"Under the bed is too tight. Opening the window would make too much noise and raise suspicion. Under the table offers no real cover. And hiding in the blankets? I'd have to be insane!"
He snatched the cat just as it was about to leap onto the bed, then ducked into the closet, pulling the door shut the very mont the bedroom door creaked open.
Darkness imdiately enveloped him. The closet had a peculiar scent, but Jenkins focused all his attention on listening. He could hear footsteps outside.
He shifted position carefully, peering through the crack in the closet door with his right eye wide.
It was, as he'd suspected, Briny Mikhail. She entered the bedroom with a pout, her expression clearly displeased. After a quick glance around, she strode to the window and yanked open the lace-trimd curtains Jenkins had just drawn.
She opened the window and stared out at the distant Westminster River, lost in thought for a mont. Then, with a sharp rattle, she slamd it shut and threw herself onto the plush bed.
Tonight, she wore a long, blue and white dress, cinched tightly at the waist but flowing loosely everywhere else. From his angle, Jenkins couldn't see what she was doing, but a few minutes later he heard the maid arrive with tea and refreshnts.
He couldn't see Chocolate in the dark, but he could feel the cat squirming in his arms, clearly unhappy with their cramped confinent. Thankfully, the little creature was well-behaved and remained silent. A single ow would have escalated the situation to an unimaginable degree.
It was the kind of farcical scene Jenkins had only read about in cheap novels, and he had absolutely no desire to experience it in reality.
A man hiding in a closet in a young woman's bedroom at night, while her lover sits on the bed. The scene was straight out of so salacious romance novel. But Jenkins wasn't that kind of author—he was a writer of wholeso fairy tales!
Hathaway returned twenty minutes later. The maid must have inford her of the visitor downstairs, because when she ca upstairs—her footsteps light on the steps—she greeted the other woman with a familiar hug, showing no sign that anything was amiss.
And yet, Jenkins could have sworn Hathaway shot a fleeting, knowing glance toward the closet. She knew exactly where he was.
"What in the world is happening!"
Surrounded by the scent of won's clothing, he fud silently at his miserable predicant. "I've only read about adulterous wives hiding their lovers in the closet! How did I end up in this situation?"
Outside the closet, the won had closed the bedroom door. Their hushed conversation was followed by stifled giggles.
Jenkins strained to hear what was happening, but their voices were too low.
A few minutes later, amidst the rustling of fabric, Hathaway, one shoulder bare, was playfully tackled onto the bed. Miss Mikhail imdiately followed, pouncing after her.
"Gulp."
He swallowed hard, his eyes wide as saucers as he strained to see through the crack. It was morally questionable, he knew, but Jenkins was an adult man, after all...
But the two won, now tangled together on the bed, didn't move. Hathaway, her face flushed, whispered sothing in Miss Mikhail's ear. A mont later, both blushing, they slipped off the bed, took off their heels, and padded out of the room barefoot, shoes in hand.
Just before they left, Hathaway, the red-haired young woman, discreetly waved her left hand behind her back, gesturing toward the window. Jenkins understood imdiately. As soon as the door clicked shut—a sound he was sure was intentional—he scrambled out of the closet with his belongings. Tiptoeing to the window with the cat in his arms, he checked that the coast was clear, then expertly leaped onto a nearby tree branch and swiftly made his exit from the courtyard.
He didn't stop running until he reached a dim street corner, a spot completely hidden from view of Hathaway's house. Only then did he dare to lean over, hands on his knees, and gasp for air.
He wasn't sure if he was out of breath from the stuffy closet, the frantic sprint, or the stunning image that was now seared into his mind.
"Damn it, calm down!"
He pinched himself hard, finally managing to settle his racing heart.
The night was late, and the dark street was deserted. Jenkins let out a sharp breath, trying to lock away the mory of what he'd just seen. He picked up the drowsy cat, now barely able to keep its eyes open, grabbed his bag, and strode quickly into a nearby alley.
For him, the scene had been a little too stimulating. And at the sa ti, seeing the two won locked in an embrace... he felt a strange pang of... well, jealousy.
"Don't be ridiculous, Jenkins."
He told himself, resolving to avoid situations like this at all costs in the future.
The rest of the journey ho to St. George Avenue was uneventful. He encountered nothing strange, which, for a man accustod to one mishap after another, was surprisingly disconcerting.
He was in no mood for anything else tonight. Even though he'd slept for a long ti that afternoon, the evening's exertions had left him utterly exhausted.
"What a crazy day."
He thought, closing his eyes, and quickly drifted off to sleep, only to find himself in an even more exhausting dream.
The next day was Sunday. Jenkins woke and stared blankly at the ceiling, his mind replaying the embarrassing dream from the night before.
Through the window, he could see the first hint of dawn in the sky and the early morning mist. He was up far too early; it wasn't even six.
All traces of sleep had vanished. To keep his mind from wandering further, Jenkins decided to get up. Chocolate was still curled into a tight ball, fast asleep, and he was careful not to disturb it.
After washing up, he glanced out the second-floor window and saw the milkman rounding the corner. Still in his pajamas and slippers, he went downstairs, exchanged a few pleasantries with the young man, and carried the fresh bottle of milk back to the kitchen.
The weather had turned quite cold, and the milk was chilled. It would need to be ward before drinking, otherwise it might upset the cat's stomach.
The newspaper deliveryman arrived ten minutes later, a middle-aged man in a post office uniform. According to his neighbor, Mrs. Goodman, he'd been delivering papers on their block for the past five years. The man, who had dark, weathered skin, knew Jenkins well; Jenkins received more mail than anyone else in the area, mostly letters from enthusiastic readers.
The paper was devoid of any significant news. For the average citizen of Nolan, the most pressing issues were winter heating, renovations to the steam pipe network, and the rising price of vegetables. Perhaps finding the day's local news too dull, the editor had dedicated a large section to a report on a string of serial murders in the city of Percival, over in Debo County.
Nolan itself didn't belong to any county. Despite its modest size, its population and economy rivaled those of any southern county. Combined with its critical military importance, this ant the mayor of Nolan reported directly to Parliant and the Crown.
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