“Lovely, to be sure. But a beautiful woman dressed in the style of Ancient Rome invites attention. And we don’t want attention.”

He was right. Too many dangers lurked close. When the shopkeeper returned, her arms full of rustling dresses, Livia selected one that seemed closest to her size and preference—a gown of apricot-hued silk, trimmed with blue ribbon. The ribbon was frayed, and some of the stitches along the sleeves gaped. Livia eyed this evidence of wear with distaste. She had never worn second hand garments.

“I’ll take you back to Madame De Jardin’s,” Bram said. “A whole new wardrobe, made for you alone.”

Neither voiced the question as to when they would have the gowns made. It spoke of a future that she nor Bram could vouch for.

“I also brought some, ahem, undergarments.” The shopkeeper surreptitiously uncovered a snug-looking white article that appeared as though it encircled the torso.

Livia poked the garment. It was rigid. Like a cage. “I’m to wear this?”

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but have you not worn stays before?”

“She’s from Italy,” said Bram.

The shopkeeper nodded sagely. “I see you have no maid with you today, my lady. If you’ll follow me, I can help dress you.”

Livia was no stranger to being clothed by a servant. From the time she had been a small child and all through adulthood, she’d had slaves and later temple acolytes who had served her. With a regal nod, she let herself be led to the back of the shop, to a cramped, curtained nook.

Dressing was an exercise in constraint as she was squeezed into the stays and draped in layer after layer of garments. Several minutes of this and then she emerged from the nook, the older woman trailing behind her.

Bram had been peering out the window, scowling as he surveyed the street, yet when he caught sight of her, his scowl lifted. He prowled toward her, gaze hot and lingering on her exposed chest.

“These modern clothes suit you very well,” he murmured, eyeing the low neck of her gown.

“The stays are an appalling contrivance,” she answered.

“Even worse that women of this time submit to them. And no Roman woman of virtue reveals herself so boldly.”

“The sacrifices we must make for the sake of modernity.”

“I note you aren’t the one with a cage of metal around your ribs.” She glanced down critically at the garment. “My own clothing was better.”

“You flatter whatever you wear.” Bram swore in frustration. “Damn John and the Devil. If they weren’t threatening to tear London apart, I’d show you my appreciation.”

Her cheeks heated, and the shopkeeper coughed. Livia reveled in the warmth flooding her face—it meant she was alive, and earthly. Yet she could do nothing to explore her carnality. Not with such meager time and safety. Like Bram, she cursed circumstance.

She made a sweep of the shop, gathering up a few items. “I’ll want these,” she told the shopkeeper.

“Yes, madam.” The older woman could not fully hide her curiosity at Livia’s selections, but Livia had neither the time nor interest in explaining the intricacies of spellcasting.

They concluded the rest of their business quickly. Bram purchased a pistol, a lantern, and a shirt that was threadbare but clean. He declined to barter his coat and waistcoat. When the shopkeeper offered him actual money for Livia’s silk tunic and gold ornaments, he looked to Livia for the answer.

Livia considered the muslin-wrapped bundle she now carried. In this world, she had no wealth, only the things wrapped in a bolt of coarse fabric. Doubtless she could fetch a considerable amount for her jewelry, at the least. And she had been trapped in the same garments for over a thousand years. Easy to grow tired of them after so long.

“I purchased the bracelets from a Greek artisan,” she murmured. “He had a shop in Trajan’s Market.” The artisan long ago had turned to dust, and the market itself likely was a ruin. Her jewelry and clothing were relics—like her.

“I’ll keep them,” she said.

The shopkeeper looked disappointed, yet, seeing Livia’s resolve, acquiesced. A large handful of coins on the counter helped silence the older woman’s objections.

Glancing toward the window, Livia saw that the sky darkened. “Darkness is falling.” Which meant that the danger increased. The Devil preferred to carry out his work under cover of night. Though soon, if he went unopposed, day or night would no longer matter. All of it would be darkness, and every moment would be misery.

She felt it even stronger now that she had been given flesh—the Dark One’s growing strength. It choked the streets and wove its way between the smallest crevices in the buildings. Unseen but palpable.

The shopkeeper now seemed eager to have Livia and Bram leave. She scooped up the coins into a pocket in her apron, and all but shoved her and Bram out the door.

Dusk cloaked the street, and figures scuttled in the shadows. Livia pressed the bundle of her clothing to her chest and shivered from the cold. In a swirl of velvet, Bram draped his coat over her shoulders. His warmth and scent enveloping her gave some comfort, yet for all his strength and determination, he was still mortal. As was she. They could both be hurt. Or worse.

Silently, he paid the boy holding the reins of his horse. The boy scurried off the moment the coin touched his palm.

Bram mounted his horse, secured her bundle of old clothes, then held out a hand for her. She seated herself behind him, struggling a little with the mass of her cumbersome gown, then clasped her arms around his waist. Warily vigilance tightened his body. The night held a venomous chill, as though it had been honed to a cutting edge.

“And now?” she asked, her words barely a whisper.

“We seek shelter where we can.” He pressed his heels into the horse’s side, setting it in motion. “But whatever safety we find won’t last.”

Bram seethed with frustration. None of the circumstances were as he wanted them. Here was Livia, no longer a spirit but a woman of flesh, and he wished to take her back to his home, settle her upon a fireside couch strewn with silk pillows, feed her scalloped oysters, sweetmeats, the tender leaves of artichokes glazed in butter. There would be glasses of full-bodied Chambertin gleaming like rubies. He wanted a soaking tub filled with warm water perfumed by jasmine blossoms. He desired gowns of crimson damask, emerald faille—bright, rich hues to flatter her olive skin. He would surround her in luxury, in comfort, in sensuous pleasure.

Instead, they crouched on a coarse woolen blanket on the dusty floor of an empty dockside warehouse, gnawing on stale bread and tough lumps of mutton, trading sips from a bottle of dubious wine—the only food he’d been able to procure.

Riverside chill seeped between the cracks in the walls. Noisome vapor, smelling of rot and sludge, curled amongst the few crates left behind from the last shipment. It was so quiet Bram heard the water slapping against the pilings. Yet the other sounds of river traffic and life, the ferrymen and mudlarks and stevedores loading and unloading ships, those were absent.

The whole of London seemed suspended, waiting, an animal crouched in anticipation of a coming attack.

But he was no toothless, shivering dog rolling onto its back. Watching Livia consume her first meal in over a thousand years, her expression carefully neutral though he knew the stale food was a disappointment, he vowed to fight whoever and whatever threatened. As soon as her strength was restored, she would cast a spell to release the other Hellraisers. And then the fight would truly begin.

Despite the middling quality of the food, Livia devoured everything. Bram gave her the remainder of his meal over her objections.

“It’ll do me good to get back to army rations,” he said. “A man with an overfull belly makes for a poor soldier. Besides,” he added, “my last meal was only hours ago. A whole millennium has passed since you ate.”