“Good God, Ann,” he said, eying the guns she’d used to defend her perch, “you could’ve held off an army from up there. Those pistols of yours are cute little things. What are they?”
The petite instructor chuckled. “Webleys, of course. The Royal Irish Constabulary Webley, a different animal altogether from your later military Webley. Pack quite a punch for their size, too, in a delightfully concealable package. Lots of Britannia tourists have been renting them for the Ripper tours.”
“No wonder nobody challenged you up there.”
She laughed easily. “Occasionally, we get a tourist or two with brains. I don’t know about anybody else, but after all that excitement, I could use a drink to cool my throat. Come with us, why don’t you, Skeeter?”
He flushed crimson, aware that what little money he had left wouldn’t even cover the cost of a beer. “Uh, thanks, but I’ve got work to do. I’ll, uh, take a raincheck, okay?” She probably knew he’d been fired, the whole station knew that, by now, but a guy had his pride, after all.
“Well, all right,” she said slowly, studying him with her head tilted to one side. “See you around, then, Skeeter. Hey, Kit! Over here! I saw Robert headed toward Urbs Romae. What say we stop at the Down Time for a quick drink before Primary cycles? We’ll probably catch up to Robert there and I heard they had a cask of Falernian . . .”
Skeeter edged his way deeper into the crowd as Kit exclaimed, “Falernian? When did they bring in a cask of heaven?”
Even Skeeter knew that Falernian was the Dom Perignon of ancient Roman wines. And Kit Carson was a connoisseur of fine wines and other potent potables. Skeeter sighed, wondering how marvellous it really tasted, aware that he wouldn’t have been able to afford a glass of Falernian even if he had still been employed. But since he wasn’t . . .