Portobello
Kumiko woke in the enormous bed and lay very still, listening. There was a faint continuous murmur of distant traffic. The air in the room was cold; she drew the rose duvet around her like a tent and climbed out. The small windows were patterned with bright frost. She went to the tub and nudged one of the swan’s gilded wings. The bird coughed, gargled, began to fill the tub. Still huddled in the quilt, she opened her cases and began to select the day’s garments, laying the chosen articles out on the bed. When her bath was ready, she let the quilt slide to the floor and climbed over the marble parapet, stoically lowering herself into the painfully hot water. Steam from the tub had melted the frost; now the windows ran with condensation. Did all British bedrooms contain tubs like this? she wondered. She rubbed herself methodically with an oval bar of French soap, stood up, sluiced the suds off as best she could, wrapped herself in a large black towel, and, after some initial fumbling, discovered a sink, toilet, and bidet. These were hidden in a very small room that might once have been a closet, its walls fitted with dark veneer. The theatrical-looking telephone chimed twice. »Yes?« »Petal here. Care for breakfast? Roger’s here. Eager to meet you.« »Thank you,« she said. »I’m dressing now.« She pulled on her best and baggiest pair of leather slacks, then burrowed into a hairy blue sweater so large that it would easily have fit Petal. When she opened her purse for her makeup, she saw the Maas-Neotek unit. Her hand closed on it automatically. She hadn’t intended to summon him, but touch was enough; he was there, craning his neck comically and gaping at the low, mirrored ceiling. »I take it we aren’t in the Dorchester?« »I’ll ask the questions,« she said. »What is this place?« »A bedroom,« he said. »In rather dubious taste.« »Answer my question, please.« »Well,« he said, surveying the bed and tub, »by the decor, it could be a brothel. I can access historical data on most buildings in London, but there’s nothing notable about this one. Built in 1848. Solid example of the prevalent classical Victorian style. The neighborhood’s expensive without being fashionable, popular with lawyers of a certain sort.« He shrugged; she could see the edge of the bed through the burnished gleam of his riding boots. She dropped the unit into her purse and he was gone.
She managed the lift easily enough; once in the white-painted foyer, she followed the sound of voices. Along a sort of hallway. Around a corner. »Good morning,« said Petal, lifting the silver cover from a platter. Steam rose. »Here’s the elusive Mr. Swain, Roger to you, and here’s your breakfast.« »Hello,« the man said, stepping forward, his hand extended. Pale eyes in a long, strong-boned face. Lank mouse-colored hair was brushed diagonally across his forehead. Kumiko found it impossible to guess his age; it was a young man’s face, but there were deep wrinkles under the grayish eyes. He was tall, with the look of an athlete about his arms and shoulders. »Welcome to London.« He took her hand, squeezed and released it. »Thank you.« He wore a collarless shirt, very fine red stripes against a pale blue ground, the cuffs fastened with plain ovals of dull gold; open at the neck, it displayed a dark triangle of tattooed flesh. »I spoke with your father this morning, told him you’d arrived safely.« »You are a man of rank.« The pale eyes narrowed. »Pardon?« »The dragons.« Petal laughed. »Let her eat,« someone said, a woman’s voice. Kumiko turned, discovering the slim dark figure against tall, mullioned windows; beyond the windows, a walled garden sheathed in snow. The woman’s eyes were concealed by silver glasses that reflected the room and its occupants. »Another of our guests,« said Petal. »Sally,« the woman said, »Sally Shears. Eat up, honey. If you’re as bored as I am, you feel like a walk.« As Kumiko stared, her hand came up to touch the glasses, as though she were about to remove them. »Portobello Road’s a couple blocks. I need some air.« The mirrored lenses seemed to have no frames, no earpieces. »Roger,« Petal said, forking pink slices of bacon from a silver platter, »do you suppose Kumiko will be safe with our Sally?« »Safer than I’d be, given the mood she’s in,« Swain said. »I’m afraid there isn’t much here to amuse you,« he said to Kumiko, leading her to the table, »but we’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible and arrange for you to see a bit of the city. It isn’t Tokyo, though.« »Not yet, anyway,« said Petal, but Swain seemed not to hear. »Thank you,« Kumiko said, as Swain held her chair. »An honor,« Swain said. »Our respect for your father –« »Hey,« the woman said, »she’s too young to need that bullshit. Spare us.« »Sally’s in something of a mood, you see,« Petal said, as he put a poached egg on Kumiko’s plate.