Page 3

W hen Silas woke up the next morning he was slumped just inside the door to his room. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten there, or why he hadn’t managed to make it to his bed. He was fully dressed, though, in the same clothes he had worn to the molly bar where he met the sailor the night before.

His head ached like the very devil. He managed to pull himself up and pour a glass of water from the ewer on the table. Once he was able to stand, he warmed up a glass of milk and dropped a spoonful of soot into it. He drank the dismal concoction, then stripped his clothes off and crawled into bed.

His bedding had an unusual scent, and he sniffed carefully. There was the usual smell of tallow soap used by his landlady, mixed in with spend and sweat, and something that reminded him of bay rum. That must have been the sailor.

Once he remembered Raj, the Indian sailor, he recalled accompanying him to the boxing match at New Cross. Then catching the boxer’s eye and accompanying him to a wine bar. But after that, all was blank.

It wasn’t that he was an easy drunk. He could handle several glasses of ale without any adverse effects. But wine was different.

Had he brought the boxer here? He simply couldn’t remember. So he rolled over and went back to sleep.

By the time he had to go to work on Monday, he had recovered his equilibrium, but still couldn’t recall how he had gotten home from the wine bar, and whether he’d been alone or not.

His employer, Richard Pemberton, was a barrister at Gray’s Inn, one of the four Inns of Court and a mainstay of the British legal profession. Silas walked through the chill October air to Pemberton’s office, at the intersection ofHigh HolbornandGray's Inn Road. He passed the gatehouse and the coat of arms, which always made Silas feel like part of a long line of British jurisprudence.

He bypassed the Great Hall, with its high ceilings, intricate wooden carvings, and large stained-glass window, to head directly for Pemberton’s office, on the second floor of a building overlooking the Old Square. As usual, Cyril Alderton was at his desk transcribing notes from Pemberton’s rough hand.

Silas hung his coat on a peg and slid into his desk. Pemberton was due in court in an hour, and Silas made sure that all the necessary materials were assembled for him. The boy, Robb, arrived, and was sent on errands, and the day proceeded much as usual, though there were times when a flash of memory would come to Silas.

Catching Ezra Curiel’s eye as he prepared for his fight. The feel of Ezra’s hand on his arm as they left the arena. Sitting at the wine bar across from Ezra, a glass of red in his hand.

And yet he could not get any farther than that. It was frustrating. Had he bedded the man? Been so worn out by fucking that he’d slumped against his door after Ezra left? How maddening it was to have had such an important evening and then forgotten half of it.

“Silas!”

He looked up to see Cyril standing over him. He wasn’t a tall man, but he had a way of pursing his lips and staring at a person. Robb called it his evil eye.

“Yes, Cyril?”

“You’ve been wool-gathering, boy,” Cyril said. “I called you twice from my desk and you did not answer.”

“Sorry, Cyril. It’s Monday, you know.”

“Yes, and you should be fully rested over the weekend so that you can attack your chores on Monday with alacrity. Mr. Pemberton requires this book from the library. Please fetch it as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Cyril.” Silas took the paper from Cyril and hurried out into the garden. The sun was out and the smog had lifted a bit, and it was a lovely time to be outdoors. Soon London would be bitter cold, besieged by snow and sleet, but for the moment Silas could note the glowing reds, oranges and yellows of the leaves and the last flowers of the season.

The Gray’s Inn library held a vast collection of legal literature and historical documents, making it a valuable resource for law students, practitioners, and researchers. One of Silas’s first tasks as Pemberton’s junior clerk had been to fetch a book from there, and he’d been awed by the vast collection. Now he walked up to the classical brick building with its multipaned windows as if he belonged there—which he did.

He had struggled, in his first year in London, working for a low-level barrister who had few cases of interest and little money to pay. But Silas had worked hard, learning all he could, and then jumped to another barrister, a few steps up the ladder.

He had quickly established Pemberton’s office as his goal. Not only was Pemberton well-regarded as a barrister, he had an elegant office and an important clientele. And of greatest interest to Silas was the rumor he heard, that Pemberton was often seen squiring handsome young men around to social events, calling them his “protégés.”

Of course, these were usually young men of high birth who were interested in becoming barristers themselves, so Silas did not aspire to become one of them. He was happy simply to work for a man who was a success despite his sexual interests.

His footsteps echoed on the paneled floor as he hurried down the colonnaded walkway, past rows and rows of shelves, until he found the area he needed. He found the book that Pemberton had requested, and then spent some time reviewing nearby volumes until he found two more that related to the same kind of case.

He thought Pemberton would be pleased by that, and the barrister was. “You are coming along quite well, young Silas,” he said, when Silas presented him the three books.

Well into his forties, Pemberton was a commanding figure, heavier than he should have been. A few gray hairs nestled amongst the black.

He crossed the room to close the office door gently. “Perhaps you will soon be able to assist Cyril in his copying,” he said.

“It would be my honor,” Silas said.

“Just between us, have you noticed anything about Cyril’s health? He seems to be

flagging to some degree, though he is careful to hide it.”

“He is a diligent worker,” Silas said. “Though I have noticed that toward the end of the day he needs an extra tea break to keep working.”

“He is a good man,” Pemberton said. “Keep an eye on him, please?”

“I will, sir.”

The rest of the week flew past, and Silas was busy enough with his own work, and with the occasional assist to Cyril, that he hardly had time to consider his evening with Ezra Curiel. It was only in odd moments, walking home from work or in bed late at night, that he thought about the boxer.

It was unusual for him to obsess about a particular man. Since his first experiences as a youth, he’d been happy to move from one cock to another with expediency, rarely lingering for more than a single encounter. He had seen what happened when he experienced romantic feelings, as he had with the man he’d been discovered with back home in Sheffield.

He'd been a fool, of course. The man was the father of a friend, married and under no circumstances could there have been a future between them. But then his father discovered the two of them together. His father had punched him in the face and disowned him. Fortunately his lover had arranged for him to clerk for a barrister in Birmingham, and so he’d been able to rebuild his life.

There was no way he was going to let any feelings for another man put him in such danger again. And yet, as Friday approached, he wondered if Ezra Curiel would be boxing again at New Cross. He convinced himself that it was not sentimentality to want to know what had happened between them the previous week.

He thought if he went back to the molly bar he’d find someone to distract him, but no one appealed to him. Finally he gave in and walked through the darkened streets of Rotherhithe toward the boxing arena.

The handbill posted on the wall promised that the Hammering Hebrew would fight in the third round of matches. Silas bought his ticket and walked inside. The high-ceilinged arena, which included boxing and wrestling rings, a weightlifting area and hanging punch bags, smelled of sweat and tobacco.

The second match was underway as he found himself a place to stand in the back. And while both men were well-built, and seemed to be competent boxers, neither of them appealed to him.

Would he feel anything when Ezra walked out? He’d have to wait and see.

The match ended and the ring was cleared up for the next pair of boxers. Ezra walked out to much acclaim, and Silas kept his head down. He didn’t want to catch Ezra’s eye for fear that Ezra might slip away without Silas catching him after the fight was over.

The match was long and drawn-out. Ezra’s strength seemed to be in his footwork, his ability to dance away from punches, but when they landed, it was clear they hurt. He finally simply dove in and began hammering away at his opponent, living up to his name, and eventually he wore the other man down.

There was much rejoicing in the stands. Apparently many people had bet on Ezra and were happy at his win. Silas hustled through the crowd and out to the street where he’d waited for Ezra before. He anxiously moved from foot to foot, partly because of the chill in the air, and partly because he was nervous. What if he’d made a fool of himself with Ezra, and deliberately blocked it out? What if Ezra had rejected him after all that wine?

There was only one way to find out. This time he’d brought a pen with him, and he waited until the crowd around Ezra cleared out to walk up to him. “Sign my program, Mr. Curiel?” he asked, as boldly as he could.

Ezra looked at him with a grin. He took the pen and scrawled, “For Silas, who can’t hold his wine. Ezra Curiel.”

Then he handed the program back to Silas, who read it open-mouthed.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Ezra looked around to make sure no one could overhear them. “I attempted to seduce you with wine, but you went overboard, and I had to push you into a carriage, and pay the driver to get you into your room.” He looked at Silas. “Did he succeed?”

Finally Silas remembered. The carriage driver hauling him out, and standing beside him as he vomited in the street. The driver took his key from him and half-dragged him up to the front door. At Silas’s direction, they’d climbed to his apartment, where the driver had unlocked the door and pushed him inside.

Then left.

“You could have seen me home yourself,” he said.

Ezra shrugged. “Or I could have left you in the wine bar. You’d have woken up eventually. Probably when they tossed you out into the street.” He paused. “But I am not that kind of man. Though I fight with my hands, I still consider myself a gentleman.”

“We’ll see how gentle you are when I get you back to my room,” Silas said. “And this time no dilly-dallying about with wine.”

Ezra laughed, and his mouth morphed into a ear-splitting grin. “You’re a cheeky fellow, aren’t you? I like that.”