London's Calling. Elysabeth Williams

      Delilah Knightly’s behind swung in the air, precariously perched on the red and white striped hoop suspended from the rafters.

      For the second time in some moments, she flipped upside down, one leg pointed outward behind her, the other hooked onto the hoop. Blood rushed to her head and she waited for the stars and blackness to almost cloud her vision before she righted herself. It wasn’t that great of a feat, yet the applause of the gentlemen in the audience was deafening. She knew it wasn’t because of her artistry. It wasn’t because she held the indelicate pose for longer than anyone else in the troupe. It was because the only parts of her costume covering her breasts just landed on the head of Lord Redington in the front row, leaving her exposed to approximately five hundred men.

       Bugger.

      Placing a red satin-gloved hand over her chest, Delilah batted her eyelashes at the crowd and returned upside down to fetch the piece off the lord’s bald, sweat-beaded head. While leaning down, she flipped off the steel hoop and landed gracefully on the toes of her patent leather shoes. She covered herself completely with the feathers of her earlier-discarded fan. Delilah curtseyed once, and scanned the crowd.

      Seeing most men wrapped up in fresh, raucous applause wasn’t unusual, but the one to the left of the stage who caught her eye was. He sipped red wine from a glass, seemingly bored with her performance. Not entirely odd, because many patrons would be too drunk to pay attention, but he looked directly at her. He was dressed in a simple black tuxedo. From the second they locked eyes, his expression didn’t change. An intense gray gaze pierced her and she shivered. The stranger drained his glass, placed it on the table and stood, disappearing into the crowd behind him.

      For the first time in quite a while, Delilah blushed. No one had ever dismissed her. Not in the five years she’d spent on this very stage. It unnerved her. Catching herself from stumbling backward, she left the stage and ducked behind the heavy burgundy velvet drapes.

      “What was that?” a squat older man barked as he met her at the edge of drapes with a robe in his hand. She snatched it from him and thrust her fan at him.

      “It was an accident,” she said with a dismissive wave as she tried to dodge the performers of the next act and get to her dressing area.

      “Oh right…sure it were an accident.” The man sneered while pointing a pudgy finger in her face. “Get your things and get out.”

      “What? It was the seamstress’ fault, Artie. Not mine,” she stammered. “She was responsible for attaching my top.” She kept walking, unsure of where his anger stemmed from.

      “Blame who ye want to, Delilah, but it won’t work this time. I’ve had enough of your whoring for attention.”

      Delilah stopped and spun to face him. “Whoring for attention? How dare you! The only one whoring around here is your lady, the seamstress, from what I’ve heard. She’s too busy or drunk to sew a straight hem.”

      Artie slapped her across the mouth. Delilah stood in shock, a hand pressed to her stinging cheek. She waited a few seconds to compose herself before she responded through clenched teeth. “I’m the hottest ticket in London, Artie McGinnis. I make the most money for this damned place. You can’t just fire me. Jillian Johnsworth won’t allow it.” Delilah pushed him out of her way and crossed over the creaky hardwoods to her dressing room.

      She started to slam the door when Artie caught it and returned his finger to her face.

      “The hell I can’t, ya strumpet! Jillian Johnsworth won’t even realize you’re gone. You’re nobody. Nothing. And you’ll never be anything in this town but a harlot. You and your things better be out of this dressing room by the end of the night.”

      Delilah shoved him backward into the hall and slammed the door. She bolted it shut and pressed her back to it, covering her face with her hands. Attempting not to sob out loud, she gritted her teeth and took a deep breath.

      It wasn’t the first time she’d experienced Artie’s verbal assault, but it was the first time he’d slapped her. His sudden fury confused her. The ruckus he’d made over a simple flash of flesh didn’t make any sense. It was a burlesque, what made this so different? Artie was known for a short temper, but wasn’t ever violent.

      Taking another deep breath, she exhaled and uncovered her face. She balled her fists at her side and with resolve, dragged out her steamer trunk from behind a curtain, and threw the lid open.

      * * * *

      He knew he shouldn't have come. Dante Heller stood on the curb outside Miss Merriweather’s in the cold, recalling the swirling wine in his glass–watching the deep red circle like a tempest. Somehow, it felt fitting to his life. A never-ending storm waiting to consume him. Dante couldn't believe his friend Sebastian talked him into coming here at all. Miss Merriweather's was not his typical haunt. Truth be told, he'd rather be at home with a nice scotch and a leather bound book, not gawping at scantily clad and in the last performers case, more than half-naked women. It wasn't as if he didn't appreciate the feminine form. He would rather appreciate them through a photograph, an oil canvas, and of course the touch of his own fingers against their soft skin.

      But no, he was with a drunken companion who was determined to keep him from brooding about the recent deaths in his family.

      “Cheer up, mate,” Sebastian had said. “There's more to life than money and titles,” Dante remembered him saying. Of course, Sebastian would think the death of his father was about titles and money. Sebastian wouldn’t know about a caring family. Dante should have known not to expect more from the man. The scoundrel barely knew what his proper surname was, much less experienced the formed affection of an adult other than his pickpocket of a boss. Even that particular relationship was wicked and twisted, Dante was certain.

      Staring out into the emptying street, Dante recalled the abrupt explosion of applause and laughter which had interrupted his annoyance and caused him to turn his head to the stage. He recalled the flurry of feathers and red shiny sequins. The woman caught his full attention. When he turned completely to face where the action was, he locked eye to eye with the performer.

      His breath caught then and now, as he remembered. She stared back, so intense. The charcoal grey makeup smudged around her brown eyes made her look like a lost doll. Her pouting lips parted slightly as she tried to catch her breath. Dante glanced above her to the hoop and for the first time, realized she wasn't at the burlesque for showing bits of herself but to entertain with dexterity. A rarity in these shows, he thought. Shame, he had been too self absorbed to enjoy it. She would have been a dream to watch.

      He recalled her pushing a stray chestnut lock from her face. It seemed then, such a pointed, intimate gesture. Dante managed to break the eye contact with the slight movement and drank his wine quickly.

      That’s when Dante left and made his way here, his current spot on the corner, outside,