"Hurry, you bitch! And if you are not here in one hour, I will dunk your head in the water barrel until you are out of breath!" Nicholas Beaumont bellowed from the tavern doorway.
"Yes sir," Livia said quickly, lowering her head. She hurried out of the building that consisted of a tavern, a brothel, and a cramped upper loft where all the servants slept at night—if they ever got any rest. She drew a deeper breath once she stepped into the street and ran all the way from Pudding Lane toward Cheapside Market in her tattered dress, worn shoes slapping against the uneven cobbles, her thin scarf wound tightly around her neck against the biting London wind.
Once she reached the cloth stalls, she hurried toward one where various fabrics hung in neat rows.
Livia shifted awkwardly at the edge of the crowd. She had no time to wait. But pushing through the customers would be difficult.
Livia sighed under her breath. "Wonderful," she muttered. After waiting about fifteen minutes—fifteen long minutes of shifting from foot to foot while wealthy women argued over shades of blue—Livia finally reached the trader. "Good afternoon," she greeted, forcing her voice into the polite tone servants were expected to use. "Mr. Beaumont asked me to come pick up the fabric for his girls," Livia said.
"Oh," he said after a moment. "It's not ready yet. He requested velvet. The merchant I buy from is yet to bring his goods."
"I see," she said carefully. "Thank you," she said politely. She stepped away from the stall, weaving back into the moving crowd.
Of course Nicholas would take his irritation out on her. He always did. If the beer was sour, it was Livia's fault. If a customer complained, Livia's fault. If the wind blew the wrong direction and ruined his mood, well—Livia might as well prepare herself.
She sighed. Lord knows how he will lash out today. Well. If she was going to suffer anyway, she might as well earn it.
Instead of rushing back immediately, she turned deeper into the market and began to wander between the stalls.
Then she walked past a stall where manuscripts and books were displayed. Livia slowed without meaning to.
The smell alone made her chest ache. Ink. Leather. Paper. It smelled like Florence. Of course, the likes of her were not tolerated there.
Peeking from the half-open purse of one of the women was a small book with a familiar pale cover. The edges of its pages were worn from use.
Livia's breath caught. It could not be. But she leaned slightly closer, squinting. Yes. It was unmistakable.
'Canzoniere'. Her mind argued with itself immediately. Walk away. She had no business even looking at it.
But the sight of the book pulled at her like gravity. So she bent forward, pretending to pick something up from the ground.
In one swift motion she reached into the open purse, snatched the book, and straightened.
Then she turned and ran. A shriek tore through the market. "My book!" Livia winced. Before she knew it, there was a mob behind her.
"Thief!" "Don't let her get away!" "Get her!" Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Livia clutched the book tightly against her chest as she ran through Cheapside, dodging baskets and carts. A chicken exploded into squawking feathers as she nearly tripped over it.
Her mind raced as fast as her legs. This is madness. She rounded a corner so quickly she nearly lost her footing on the slick cobblestones.
The shouting behind her was still growing louder. "Thief!" "This way!" "Stop her!" Livia darted into the nearest narrow lane she could find, her lungs burning.
She slipped behind a stack of old crates and pressed herself against the wall, clutching the stolen book to her chest.
You absolute fool, she scolded herself silently. All this for poetry. Footsteps thundered past the entrance to the lane. Several angry voices followed.
"She ran this way!" "No, I saw her turn!" "Spread out!" Livia held her breath. The noise began to fade as the mob rushed past.
Thank you, God, she thought. She had just begun to straighten when suddenly a hand grabbed her arm and yanked her deeper into the alley. Livia gasped. Her back slammed into the wall with a dull thud. Her eyes flew shut in panic as she waited for the blow that surely must follow.
Instead, there was silence. Cautiously, she opened her eyes. And found herself staring into the most astonishing pair of eyes she had ever seen in all her years.
"Oh," she breathed before she could stop herself.
The owner of those eyes raised a brow. "What did you steal?" he asked. He was dressed simply. His doublet was plain but well made, his cloak practical rather than ornate.
Yet nothing about him seemed ordinary. His face was strikingly handsome, his skin smooth and fair despite the chill London wind. The sort of face that painters would fight over.
"What?" she said aloud, buying time.
The man leaned closer, lowering his voice as the distant shouting echoed through the streets beyond the alley. "What… did… you… steal?"
Livia swallowed. "A book," she said simply.
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