William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

not disguise her fatigue. He was alarmed at the pallor of her skin and the very fine lines around her eyes. He felt a lurch of tenderness, realizing how much of herself she spent in the care of others.
    He stood up to greet her, keeping his injured left arm a little farther away, in case she touched the wound.
    She noticed it at once. “What have you done?” she demanded, her voice sharp with anxiety.
    “A slight cut,” he replied, and saw her disbelief. “I had a doctor stitch it up for me, but it needs looking at again. Will you, please?”
    “Of course. Take your coat off and sit down.” She took the jacket from him. “And look at this!” she said crossly. “It’s ruined that sleeve! How am I going to mend that?” Her voice caught, and he realized she was close to tears. It had nothing to do with the jacket and everything to do with him, but she would not say so, because she knew he had no choice.
    “It’ll stitch,” he replied calmly, not referring to the jacket either, but to his arm.
    She took a deep, shivering breath and went to the stove for hot water, keeping her back to him. She picked clean bandages out of the cupboard and began to work.
             
    It was early afternoon by the time Monk went a second time to Little Lil’s establishment, and was admitted. His arm was feeling a great deal easier. The bleeding had stopped, it smarted a bit, and was stiffer than usual, but apart from that it was hardly handicapped. Hester had said the cut was not very deep and in her opinion Crow had made a good job of stitching it up. Above all it was clean.
    Lil was sitting in exactly the same place as before, with the same piece of embroidery in her lap. The fire was burning and the dim, crowded-in room had a reddish glow. She looked like an old, smug little cat, waiting to be served up another portion of cream. Or possibly another canary. Louvain had warned him not to underestimate the violence of an opulent receiver just because she might be a woman.
    Lil looked up at him, her large eyes bright with anticipation. She regarded his hair, his face, the way he stood, the fact that he had taken his muffler and mitts off to come into her presence. She liked it. “Come in,” she ordered him. “Sit down.” She looked at the chair opposite her, no more than four feet from her own.
    He obeyed her, thanking her quietly. She did not turn straight to business, and he felt more than the heat of the fire as he realized what she was doing.
    “ ’eard yer got knifed,” she said, shaking her head. “Yer wanter look after yerself. A man wi’ no arms is a danger to ’isself.”
    “It’s not deep,” he replied. “It’ll be healed in a few days.”
    Her eyes never left his face. “Mebbe yer shouldn’t be workin’ by yerself?”
    He knew what she was going to say next. Long before the words were framed, it was there in the appetite in her face. But he had invited it and there was no escape now.
    “The river’s an ’ard place,” she continued. “Yer should think on workin’ wi’ someone else. Keep an eye on yer back for yer.”
    He had to pretend to consider it. Above all he must draw some information from her. If she wanted flattery, attention, and heaven knew what else, then that was the price he must pay.
    “I know the river’s dangerous,” he agreed, as if admitting it reluctantly.
    She leaned forward a little.
    He was acutely uncomfortable, but he dared not seem to retreat.
    “Yer should think abaht it. Choose careful,” she urged.
    “Oh yes,” he agreed with more emotion than she would understand. “There are a lot of people up and down this stretch I wouldn’t want to go against.”
    She hesitated, weighing her next words. “Got no stomach fer it, in’t yer?” she challenged.
    He smiled widely, knowing she would like it. He saw the answering gleam in her, and masked a shudder. “Oh, I like to be well thought of,” he said. “But I want to live to see it.”
    She giggled with pleasure. It was a low noise in her throat like someone with heavy catarrh, but from her eyes it was clear that she was amused.
    He spoke again, quickly. “Who do I keep clear of?”
    She named half a dozen in a low, conspiratorial whisper. He had no doubt they were her rivals. It would not do to let her think he believed her unquestioningly. She would have no respect for that. He asked her why, as if he needed proof.
    She described them in vicious and picturesque detail. He could not help wondering