SHACKLES

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Some years have passed, and I now reside with Aunty Mia in Spitalfields. She trades in all manner of fine garments—silks, satins, muslins, and cottons—and I have come to learn the art of negotiation, the gentle dance of coin and desire that stirs beneath market chatter.

It had been a long day, and I found myself once more in the quiet chamber adjoining the silk storeroom, seated beside Ciro—a wanderer of uncertain origin and sharper mind than he lets on. A bottle stood half-empty between us. I wore a silk gown Aunty had expressly forbidden me to touch. Naturally, I paid her caution no mind.

I caught Ciro watching me—his eyes flicked toward me with something like wariness.

“You ought to stop,” he said quietly. “You’re in your cups, Zoe.”

“I am not drunk,” I replied with a smile, my fingers twirling the rim of my glass. Slowly, I slipped one glove from my hand, letting it fall as if by accident. Then, I tipped my cup—just slightly—so the wine spilled delicately across my bodice, staining the silk at my bosom.

Ciro exhaled sharply and offered me his handkerchief. As I reached to take it, I allowed my fingers to linger upon his. A deliberate touch, feather-light and filled with unspoken suggestion.

He clicked his tongue.

“I shan’t be the one to bed you,” he whispered. “I know well where this road leads, Zee.”

Frustrated, I replied, my voice low, petulant.

“Why ever not? You only require a little more persuasion. Here—” I reached again for the bottle. “—let me refill your cup.”

But he caught my hand before I could pour.

“So,” he said, voice soft but firm, “you truly aren’t drunk?”

I tilted my head, the corner of my mouth curling into a slow smile.

“What do you think, darling?” I whispered.