She’d stood there for a moment with a handful of hair, shocked by her own impulsiveness. In a daze, she’d let the severed strands fall to the floor, and her stomach had fallen right along with them. But then she’d pulled herself together and finished the job—because, really, what else was there to do? She had resolutely ignored the twinge of fear that maybe she was making a mistake. Instead, she’d embraced the racing bite of adrenaline every time another clump of her dark hair fell at her feet.
It was a terrible haircut, ragged and uneven and slightly shorter than a bob, but the more hair that fell, the more weight she felt lifting from her and the more she’d hacked away. After all, it had been the Professor who’d made her keep it long. Growing up, it would have been so much easier to deal with a shorter style on a daily basis as she trained with Dakari or learned her way around the city. But Professor Lachlan didn’t want her in wigs when she slipped through time. Too much of a risk, he’d said. Not authentic enough.
But there wasn’t any Professor Lachlan. There was only Nibsy and the lies he’d built up like a prison around her childhood, hiding the truth of what he was. Of who she was. With every lock she snipped, she’d cut away the weight of her past, freeing herself more and more from those lies.
Then she’d found herself some clothes.
It had been a risk to use her affinity after all that had happened that night, but Harte had left her trapped in the room with nothing but a corset and a pair of lacy drawers. It was either take the risk to venture out or admit that he’d won. She’d been too livid to allow him to win, so she’d used her affinity to sneak out to a neighboring room. She’d waited for the blackness to appear again, but it never did. Which meant that it wasn’t her who was the problem—it was Harte. Or maybe it was the power of the Book, but considering how irritated she was with him, it amounted to the same thing.
“How about you, Julien? Do you like it? I think it suits me.” Esta raised her chin and dared Julien to disagree as the piano player in the corner crescendoed into a run of notes that filled the air with a feverish emotion. The song he was playing sounded the way wanting felt, and it stroked something inside of her, something dark and secret that had yearned for freedom without knowing what freedom truly was.
“It’s a daring choice,” Julien said, smiling into his glass as he took a drink and watching the two of them with obvious amusement.
In reply, Esta shot him a scathing look. She hadn’t cut her hair and bound her breasts and found her own way to King’s for Julien’s entertainment. She was there because she was supposed to be there. Because it was her right to be there. She wasn’t about to allow Harte to discard her like some kind of helpless damsel while he took care of the business that they were supposed to be attending to together. After all, it wasn’t Harte who’d recognized the danger at the hotel earlier. It wasn’t Harte who’d thought fast enough to evade the police waiting for them.
So what if she’d fainted a little after? She’d gotten them out of the Jefferson when Harte had miscalculated in the laundry room. Even with whatever was happening to her affinity, she wasn’t weak. Harte should know that much about her by now. And she shouldn’t have to prove herself—especially not to him.
Yet there she was, sitting in some run-down saloon doing just that. Because she had to send Harte—both of them, really—the message that she wasn’t someone they could just push aside when the boys wanted to play.
Harte leaned over the table toward her and lowered his voice to where she could just barely hear it over the notes of the piano. “You can’t really think this is going to work.”
“I’m fairly certain it already has,” she told him, reaching across to take the glass of amber liquid sitting in front of him. “You’re the only one who seems to be bothered.” Leaning back in her chair, she brought the glass to her lips, satisfied with the flash of irritation that crossed Harte’s face. She took a sip of the tepid liquor, trying not to react as it burned down her throat, searing her resolve.
“She certainly has the bone structure to carry it off,” Julien said, appraising her openly. “And the nerve, apparently.”
“Don’t,” Harte warned Julien. “The last thing I need is for you to encourage this.”
“It doesn’t look like she needs any encouragement,” Julien told Harte, sending a wink in Esta’s direction.
She lifted her glass—a silent salute—in reply.
“If you need some pointers?” Julien said, offering Esta one of the thick black cigars from his inside jacket pocket. “I’d be happy to oblige.”
She waved off the offer of the cigar—the sting of the whiskey was enough for one night. “Pointers?”
“Don’t—” Harte warned again, but they both ignored him this time.
“If you’re going to go through with this little impersonation, I could be of some assistance. You know, I’m something of an expert.” Julien struck a match and let it flare for a second before he lit the cigar she’d just refused, puffing at it until smoke filled the air. He waved his hand to extinguish the flame and tossed the spent match carelessly into the ashtray on the table between them. “For instance, your legs.”
“What’s wrong with my legs?” Esta asked, frowning as she looked down at the dark trousers she’d lifted from the neighboring room. They fit well enough, she thought, examining them critically. They certainly were a lot more comfortable than the skirts she’d been wearing for the past few weeks.
“Men don’t sit like that,” Julien said, exhaling a cloud of smoke that had Esta’s eyes watering. “Women make themselves small. It’s pressed into them, I think. But little boys are taught from birth that the world is theirs. Spread your knees a bit more.”
Esta raised her brows, doubtful. She didn’t need that kind of help.
Understanding her point, he smiled. “Not like that. Like you deserve the space.” He leaned forward, a spark of amusement in those raven’s eyes of his. “Like it’s already yours.”
Julien was right. Even in her own time, the men she’d encountered on buses and in the subway claimed space around them like they had every right to it. That understanding—plus the expression on Harte’s face that warned her not to—had her sliding her knees apart a little. “Like this?”
“Exactly,” Julien said. “Better already.”
“Julien, this is ridiculous,” Harte said, his voice tight.
She had the feeling that if she looked, Harte’s ears would be pink again, but Julien was still watching Esta, and she wasn’t about to be the first one to look away. After a long moment, he turned to Harte. “She’ll be fine. If I could turn you into”—he gestured vaguely in Harte’s direction—“this, then I can teach her just as well.”
“What do you mean?” Esta asked, not missing how Harte’s lips were pressed in a flat line.
“He doesn’t mean anything. Just ignore him,” Harte said, eyeing what was left of the glass of whiskey in her hand like he wanted it.
Julien acted as though Harte hadn’t spoken. “What I mean is that I taught Darrigan everything he knows about becoming the fine specimen of manhood that you see before you today. I even gave him his name.”