The ReJuv Chronicles© - London Encounter
by Felix Gato 2014
Chapter 1
A cold November rain is falling steadily, swept along a narrow, climbing London cobblestone street by a low, moaning wind. Windows set in antique stone walls, gracing houses hard against the street, are tightly shuttered. Thick and weathered wooden doors are securely barred and bolted. A lone, wrought-iron gas lamp, standing fast at the crest of the gently-climbing street, glows sullenly, throwing anemic shadows across rain-spattered cobbles. The late afternoon promises only a sullen night to follow. Dreariness prevails.
Across this inhospitable landscape, a diminutive figure clad in a long Loden cape makes its way up the street. The distinctive clicking of high heels against the wet stones betrays the figure is a woman. From the cadence and purpose in her step, most likely a young woman. Though the woman’s hood nearly covers her head and face, a few wisps of lightly-curled, jet-black hair manage to protrude.
With evident determination, she climbs the hill, intently studying the signs above the doorways. Arriving at a weathered grey alcove, she checks the sign above the door, and then produces from under her cloak an ornate brass key. With a small, well-manicured hand, she inserts the key into the worn lock, and works it open. The lock relents, and she uses the massive brass handle to pull the heavy door open.
The narrow foyer into which she enters sports a high, beamed ceiling and a flagstone floor. A stained-glass window set high in the wall facing the street grudgingly admits a failing light. A fat beeswax candle burns unsteadily in a brass candlestick set on a small, highly-polished table. On a deeply-carved oak coat rack in one corner, a long purple wool cloak hangs securely. It is beaded with rain.
After closing and locking the heavy door behind her, the young woman doffs her cape and shakes it free of rain as best she can. She hangs it carefully on the coat rack, next to the one already there. In the little available light, a stunning beauty is revealed. She is a petite brunette with lightly-curled, jet-black hair loosely draped to the middle of her back. Her face is classically beautiful, with emerald-green eyes and a delicately-shaped, pouting red mouth. High cheekbones and a finely-chiseled jawline grace her visage. Her skin is flawless. She has the body of a dancer, shapely and lithe. Her breasts are large for her frame, and proudly uplifted. Her trim waist flares into sensuous hips. Her legs are long and shapely.
She is wearing an obviously expensive, low-cut, red silk blouse. Its top few buttons are unfastened, revealing deep cleavage. Around her delicate neck is fastened a thin, black satin choker, to which is affixed a miniature ivory cameo. Huge gold hoop earrings frame her face. The blouse she is wearing has been paired with a black leather miniskirt, cut to mid-thigh. A racy, narrow slit up one side reveals a creamy, naked thigh. Her small hands sport long, precisely-manicured fingernails. The glossy polish is blood-red. The brunette’s diminutive feet are clad in black leather sandals sporting wicked, 6-inch stiletto heels. The aggressive footwear is affixed to her dainty ankles with two narrow leather straps. These are secured with tiny brass locks.
Let us call our brunette Alicia, though her name is not important. Taking a deep breath, she advances carefully into a large room, evidently a salon of some sort. A massive wooden table holds a blue, earthenware vase containing a large spray of fresh flowers. The table is adorned with more flickering beeswax candles. In front of the flowers, placed where it cannot be missed, a small brass dish contains what appears to be an expensive, cream-colored calling card. In elegant cursive writing, it says simply - “Upstairs”. Pursing her luscious lips quizzically, she looks around and spies at the back of the room a narrow, wrought-iron circular staircase. Without hesitation, she leaves the calling card in the brass dish and heads for the staircase.
