Y. Lee - The body at the Tower

But perhaps he was being too cynical. He had, after all, been in India for nearly a year and was thus quite ignorant of industry gossip. Coming to such a long-running and rumour-laden job without expectations would be an advantage. Or perhaps Harkness simply, as he'd said, wanted to do him a good turn and help him to build connections. James repressed his misgivings and strode through the gate. He was becoming paranoid, that was all. Nothing could be more straightforward than a safety review.

As he entered the site, a flash of movement caught his eye: the same errand boy he'd seen yesterday. Again, James felt that odd pulse of recognition. Where had he seen this child before? At second glance, it was obvious that the boy was nothing like Alfred Quigley: he was a good two or three years older and a completely different type. Perhaps this was the son of someone he knew – a labourer he'd employed. But would that account for the child's almost disturbing aura of familiarity?

He realized he was staring into space. With a shake of his head, he rapped on the office door, rather more loudly than he'd intended. "Harkness?"

"My dear boy! Or, I should say, my dear Easton. You're a colleague now."

The corner of James's mouth quirked up in appreciation of his sudden promotion. "You must have a good deal of pull with the Commissioner, sir; I received his letter of appointment first thing this morning."

"I shouldn't say that," said Harkness with a blush. "That is, it's a rather urgent task, as I believe I explained yesterday, and the Commissioner is very efficient…" He harrumphed and rushed on. "Now, I imagine you'll need assistance with your tasks…"

"I'm quite capable of doing the work on my own," said James promptly. "I wouldn't have accepted the job if I weren't completely recovered."

"No, no," laughed Harkness. "I wasn't referring to your health, my dear boy. I only meant an errand boy to assist you with measurements, and the like. I took the liberty of arranging – well, allow me simply to call him in." He stepped out of the office before James could respond, and a minute later reappeared with the dark-haired boy in tow. "This is Mr Easton, the gentleman I wanted you to meet," he was saying. "Easton, this is one of the brightest boys I've had the pleasure of employing; I think you'll find him quite useful.

"His name's Quinn. Mark Quinn."

James scarcely heard the introduction; his gaze was already riveted to the "boy". The ground rolled beneath his feet, a minor earthquake that made every nerve in his body quiver. He was unable to look anywhere but into those eyes. They were nut-brown today, though he knew very well that in some lights they glinted green. They were framed by thick black lashes, arched brows and a thatch of untidy dark hair. The face wore an expression of surprise and dismay that was instantly, unmistakably familiar.

James turned pale, felt his blood rush towards his toes. His stomach turned over violently – but not unpleasantly. For a moment, he simply stood stupidly and gaped, while the "boy" stared back at him. A chain of expressions flitted across her face. Embarrassment. Panic. And something else…

"You!" The word left his body on a rush of air – a boyish gasp that annoyed him immensely. It also triggered a coughing fit. He hunched over, cursing his damaged health and wondering if it were possible to appear calm and authoritative while hacking up a lung. When he looked up, his ears were ringing and dark spots swam in his vision.

"My dear boy! Are you quite all right?"

He nodded, unwilling to risk speech just yet. A surreptitious glance at his handkerchief showed no blood, thank God. The seconds ticked past. He had to say something, damn it all. It was a large effort, but he cut through Harkness's well-meaning blather with, "It's merely a slight cough; nothing at all to do with malaria." He looked straight at Mary as he spoke, but her expression was now neutral. Damn. He'd given her the advantage of time to recover.

"If you say so, of course…" Harkness sounded unconvinced. "As I was saying, Quinn ought to be of assistance to you. He's a bright lad who wishes to learn more about the trade. Isn't that right, sonny?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well then, that's all arranged. I suppose you'd like a tour of the site, Easton?" He was so greatly altered that she wondered, at first, if she'd have recognized him at all. He was still tall, of course, but his shoulders now seemed too broad for his thin frame. He was sun-browned, but instead of looking healthy and relaxed he seemed to vibrate with an underlying tension. And his features had a harsh cast that was new to her. He'd always looked serious – severe, even – but this saturnine expression was new. Then her gaze locked with his and she felt a deep surge of warmth curl through her entire body. Of course she'd have recognized him; she'd know those eyes anywhere. She felt breathless. It was hard to look away, now, but she managed – and then wondered if averting her gaze had seemed coy.

The tour of the site seemed to go on for hours. Harkness pattered nervously, James nodded his comprehension, and she followed the men in silence. What an absurd, improbable stroke of fate that she should meet James Easton here, when she was masked in this guise. Had he requested an assistant, or was that Harkness's doing? And – again – what did that suggest about Harkness's intentions for her? He couldn't possibly know the truth about her disguise.

Could he?

And then they were alone. Mary stood very still, nerves humming, bracing herself for his attack. Her situation was awkward and potentially scandalous: perfect fodder for the sort of cocky, blistering observation he loved to make. No doubt he'd been crafting a series of withering, faux-innocent remarks throughout the tour, to be delivered with his usual insolent drawl. Her only surprise was that he'd managed to restrain himself in Harkness's presence.

She waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

After a full five minutes' silence, she raised her eyes to his face.

He was staring at the labourers working at the base of the tower but, as though sensing her unspoken question, turned to look at her. "I think," he said in a conversational tone, "we'll begin with the stonemasons. Er – Quinn, isn't it?"

It continued like this all afternoon. They – or rather, James – observed workers, inspected scaffolds, examined safety equipment and took note of difficult or dangerous bits of work. He worked without haste, but covered a lot of ground none the less. And throughout their labours he treated her with remote courtesy, exactly as he would any young assistant.

She hadn't seen him in over a year. Had never expected to meet him again. Even so, it seemed impossible that given her surname and confronted with her face, he had indeed forgotten all about her. She could have sworn that in those first, tingling moments, he'd recognized her immediately. That gasp – hadn't it been a gasp of surprise? He might have covered it with a coughing fit, but she hadn't mistaken that light of recognition in his eyes.

Or had she? Common sense told her that if he truly didn't remember, it would be cause for celebration. It would be by far the simplest, safest state of affairs. Yet if she was perfectly honest, this simplest, safest state of affairs bruised her pride. The – what was he? A bit young to be a "man", but certainly not a "boy" – damn it all… he, James, had kissed her. Yes, he'd been concussed, and light-headed with smoke inhalation, and probably delirious to boot – but he'd pinned her against a wall and kissed her. Twice. She shivered with pleasure at the memory. So yes, a part of her hoped that, despite the complications it would create, James wasn't unmoved by Mark Quinn.

Yet if he had made the connection, would he simply think her face vaguely, perhaps only slightly, familiar? That stung even more. How many girls had James kissed? More than a few, judging by those kisses. (And how might you know? taunted her inner voice. Who else has kissed you?) It would be even worse if he knew her face but couldn't place it.