The Castaway - Chapter 1

London, 1867

He came home with blood on his cuff and a watch that wasn’t his.

I do not know why that surprised me or even why that was something I had chosen to commit to memory, but with the benefit of hindsight it really did become rather important. The clock on the mantelpiece - another one of his winnings - chimed one in the morning a few moments before he stumbled in. My eyes shot to his white French cuff which was adorned with a little golden cufflink in the shape of a cog as it usually was. No, now that fine thing had not been from the gaming tables, but from me.

He stood there in the doorway to the apartment for a second, breathless. I had known to expect him for his steps were rather distinctive as he climbed the stairs, but he had climbed them with haste this evening. Outside, the rain poured onto the cobbled streets making a gentle sort of pattering, a little like the sound it made on the rooftop, or in the attic itself on very rainy nights. Not that it seems relevant, but the apartment Myles and I shared was on the third and final floor of a building in Holborn and it had seven rooms, two of which were much smaller than the others and one of them was a small foyer. There was also an attic, but it was unclear as to whether that was actually supposed to be a part of our apartment or if the landlord had just failed to lock off the hatch, not that we went up there often.

“And where have you been?” I asked with a kind of flirtatious smile.

“Where do you think, beautiful?” he laughed.

“The gaming tables?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Oh but of course,” he smiled “but look what I got for you.” he said, fumbling about in his jacket.

“At least you didn’t bet those cufflinks… or your wedding ring.” I shook my head.

“Oh I'd never do that darling, I’d sooner bet you.”

“You joke.” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“This.” He exclaimed, displaying a thick, brassy pocket watch.

“And, looking at your sleeve, will Mr Pocketwatch be coming after it in the morning?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Myles shrugged, “that was from me dropping a glass against the edge of a table.”

“Well good,” I smiled.

“I know I deserved it.” he said, placing his arms around me. “You know, Anastasia, if I was paying you, which of course, I am not, because you would find that all too sordid, I would pay you double for how perfect you look tonight.”

“Good job you only pay me in kisses and wine, then, isn’t it?” I laughed.

“I suppose so.” he smiled, casting the pocketwatch, forgotten, onto the table and lifting me up, carrying me off towards the bedchamber. It all seemed so very inconsequential at the time.

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