Skeeter hadn’t left the station, not unless he’d fallen through an unstable gate somewhere.
”We should be so lucky Kit muttered “Well, genius, now what?” He planted hands on hips and surveyed the breadth of Victoria Station, which wound from one side of Commons to the other in a maze of pseudo-cobbled streets, wrought-iron “street lamps,” park-like waiting areas, picturesque shop fronts, and the inevitable cobwebbing of catwalks and ramps which led up to the Britannia Gate near the ceiling.
A tourist in a garish bar-girl costume left the Prince Albert Pub and fumbled in a small purse that would have been more appropriate for an American frontier matron. Slim white shoulders rose above a shocking neckline. Kit couldn’t see her face. A drooping bunch of black feathers from a hat that should have been paired with a tea gown hid her features. The hemline of her dress was cut rakishly high enough to reveal shoes that were completely out of period.
”Huh. She went to a lousy outfitter.”
The tourist closed her purse, then turned on an emphatic stilt heel. Kit groaned. It figured.
Margo …
”Well, Connie did warn me.” He squared metaphorical shoulders and moved to intercept her, stepping out from behind a “street lamp” into her path. “Hi.”
Margo glanced up, badly startled, and teetered on high heels. Kit let her regain her balance.
”Oh. It’s you.” Belatedly, she said, “Hi.” Then her chin came up. “I found a teacher.”
”Yes, I know. That’s why I want to talk to you.”
Margo’s eyes widened. “You do?” Almost instantly, suspicion flared. “Why?”