Chapter 9: Enticement

I studied Sarah Blythe carefully, learning her habits, her haunts. We nearly met once. On the street as she hurried home late one afternoon. It was raining, and she was huddled over, a soaked newspaper covering her night-bark hair. I loved the way she looked then, wet and frantic. Vulnerable. If she hadn’t already captured my most rapt attention, it would have been hers in that moment. Her haste, her vulnerability was so appealing it almost broke my heart.

Our shoulders brushed as she passed. We never even made eye contact. I’ve often wondered, long after, if she remembers that fleeting contact. Did she notice the tall gent in the black woolen great coat, the man with the tousled dark hair? I’ve never asked her, though. I’ve never seen a need to remind her of the days when she was at liberty. It seems, well, cruel somehow. Those days are gone forever.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

According to her profile, Sarah liked to frequent The Printer’s Devil, an antiquarian bookshop near her apartment. It was one I knew well. The prices there were extravagant, but the selection was second to none. Sarah Blythe had excellent taste. She never made purchases, but she frequented the same shelves, revisiting her favorites again and again. Jane had suggested that Sarah had few friends, and none close. Jane was mistaken. Sarah had many close friends, most of them bound in fine leather, and she called on them regularly.

I, too, appreciated leather bindings.

Afterwards, Sarah usually adjourned to The Copper Kettle, a cozy coffee shop, where she read used paperbacks or volumes she’d checked out from the public library.

Jane had arranged a series of job interviews for Sarah, and ensured that résumés sent to other, more appropriate opportunities were intercepted. None of the ones we arranged were especially attractive, mind, but Sarah’s financial situation was growing desperate. Each situation was more tedious than the last; each was far beneath her skills and intelligence. We made sure than none of them worked out. A girl who is desperate retreats more deeply into fantasy and longing. My “rescue” would be that much more welcome.

When Sarah was depressed, she visited her friends in the Printer’s Devil. She was a creature of habit. That gave me opportunity.

I arranged carefully to be there at the shop when she visited on more than one occasion. I always wore my black Kashmir great coat; I knew she liked them. I usually wore a turtleneck or a sweater, black or the blue of her eyes. I wore a scent she liked, musky and subtle, enhanced with a blend of pheromones of my own creation. I knew her tastes intimately. I never approached her; I never spoke to her. I made sure she saw me, though. I avoided eye contact, but on more than one occasion I was certain that I felt her gaze following me.

The fourth time we happened to meet, I made eye contact and smiled as we passed. I purchased a stack of books before I left: a fine edition of The Three Musketeers and first editions of A Wrinkle in Time and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. The final three were paperbacks of The Story of O, Beauty in the Birch, and Kushiel’s Dart.

I saw Sarah watching my purchases, her mouth open. I knew that she hadn’t missed any of them. I knew she had recognized a kindred spirit. There was a small mirror by the door. I caught her following me with her eyes as I left.

The trap was baited.

We passed each other in the store twice more the next week. I pretended not to see her. Both times, I purchased volumes I’d seen her visiting more than once. One was a fine leather-bound edition of The Count of Monte Cristo. The other was an anthology of spanking erotica.

I let my eyes meet hers as I left. I smiled. She blushed and looked quickly away.

The week after that, I spoke to her.

She was visiting one of her favorites, a collection of fairy tales decorated with vintage Arthur Rackham illustrations. Pretending not to see her, I reached for the book, and my hand brushed hers. I felt something electric in that touch, and even in that single, fleeting moment, I marveled at how soft and warm her skin felt to the touch.

“Forgive me, miss.” I gave her my best smile. “Were you reaching for this book?” I offered her the volume.

She blushed and looked away. It was a motion I would come to know well. “I was just visiting it.” She sighed. A moment, as though she were gathering her courage. “Are you going to buy it?”

Her accent was enchanting; her voice was music, a torch song, low and smoky.

“I’d thought to. Unless you want it?”

She smiled, but her eyes were sad. “It’s a little out of my price range, I’m afraid.”