The Left Hand of Justice by Jess Faraday

Author:Jess Faraday [Jess Faraday]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781602828636
Amazon: B00BWXOFV4
Barnesnoble: B00BWXOFV4
Goodreads: 15843235
Publisher: Bold Strokes
Published: 2013-03-01T03:00:00+00:00

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Night came quickly, and with it, the chiming of the mantel clock and a renewed deluge outside the now-darkened window. The sun had receded, dragging night’s black cloak over Paris while Sophie slept on beside her. Corbeau’s body felt heavy and sated, but she had awakened with her mind afire with questions. Thunder shook the wooden frame of the building. Still deep in the clutches of some dream—a pleasant one, from her expression—Sophie mewled in her sleep and turned over. The faint smells of sweat and rose oil hung in the air. It would be so easy to burrow back beneath the covers and luxuriate in Sophie’s warm, clean flesh. If she left now, Sophie would make her pay. On the other hand, Sophie had been the one who had told her about the meeting. She shouldn’t be surprised if Corbeau actually went.

Bunching her pillow against the headboard, she sat up and gave the cool night air a moment to clear her mind. Then she slid from under the covers and stood.

Shivering in the evening chill, Corbeau fumbled across the room to the wardrobe for a linen shift. Sophie had told her to take what she wanted, and in the dim light of the outside streetlamps, she considered three different dresses. But Sophie had guessed right, that Corbeau would try to lose herself in the downstairs bustle rather than walk in through the front door. If the Church of the Divine Spark was throwing a party at Madame Boucher’s house, they would probably have hired outside help for the evening. And none of Sophie’s dresses, designed, made, and bought under the watchful supervision of her wealthy benefactors, would be appropriate to the task. But she would help herself to a clean shift, she thought, selecting the best one. She stole a glance at herself in the mirror near the vanity. The garment was too short and too big in the bust and hips, but the linen felt divine against her skin. It would do. She padded back out to the main room to gather her things.

At some point while Corbeau had slept, Sophie had carefully laid out her dress and stockings to dry. She had put away the basin and accoutrements, hung the kettle back up on its hook, and returned the soaps and oils to their places. The fire had died to coals, but the room was warm. Corbeau didn’t look forward to being back outside pounding the wet pavement without Javert’s umbrella. On the other hand, part of her had been itching to leave since she’d awakened. These little trysts were fun, but every time she left, the empty ache inside grew darker and deeper. They were using each other—no one was being deceived. Yet Corbeau couldn’t deny they both wanted—they both deserved—more than this. Sophie wouldn’t be satisfied to go back to near-poverty, nor to the poverty of attention that was the lot of police wives. As for Corbeau, she could hardly take care of herself. She

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