”Malcolm …” she quavered
But Malcolm wasn’t there to bail her out She was on her own in the growing darkness. The crowds had thinned out, leaving her virtually alone on a grimy little street of four- and five-story Roman tenements. Haphazard, rickety wooden buildings a block long, the tenement “islands” sported cheap shops at street level and increasing poverty the higher one climbed the stirs.
She had to find shelter. Rome’s streets were deadly after dark. Margo glanced both ways down the street, then, swallowing hard, she headed back the way she’d come. She walked several blocks without finding a trace of anything remotely resembling a landmark she recognized. She moved faster, heart in her throat, abruptly aware of men loitering in darkened doorways and zigzag alleys.
When Margo spotted an inn, she didn’t care how dirty it was or how drunk its occupants. She bolted inside, feeling marginally safer in the boisterous, lighted room. She drew immediate attention, but managed to stare down several curious types who shrugged and returned to their wine and dice games. The innkeeper communicated through signs and gestures. She handed over coins and he handed over food and a blanket. The food was hot, the blanket threadbare, and the comer she eventually chose to bed down in drafty, but at least she wasn’t alone in the dark on dangerous streets.
Tomorrow she would find Malcolm. Find him and offer an apology and try to explain …. She had to find him. The prospect of even one night alone was suddenly more daunting than she’d bargained for. She hid her face in the blanket. Then asserting itself through rising panic-a spark of intelligence or maybe just Sven’s training told her to take precautions. Under cover of her threadbare woolen blanket, Margo transferred her money to her ATLS pouch and drew her short knife, gripping it tightly under the covers. That done, she felt marginally safer.