Page 45 of When We Touch

What ridiculous names Cecilia was using! Maggie began to feel a twinge of real unease.

“Branson will escort you to your table.”

“Cecilia . . .” Maggie murmured.

She felt a touch on her shoulder and turned. Her jaw nearly fell. Branson was a huge man, ebony black, dressed in nothing but what appeared to be native African garb—a concoction of grasses that fell from his waist to his mid thigh.

“Live a little! You’re entering the realm of eternity and death tomorrow!” Cecilia whispered. Later, those words would come back to haunt Maggie.

She might have left at that moment, except that Branson was blocking the doorway by then, and Maggie decided it would be easier to reach their table—and escape.

“We’re going downstairs!” Cecilia told her with pleasure.

Maggie found herself between Cecilia and Branson. They passed around the center theater, and along a hallway. One door was slightly ajar. Maggie took a peek in as they passed. She was shocked. A girl dressed up in harem garb was lying on a pillow with a massive fellow, sharing a pipe with him.

“This is an opium den!” Maggie said, shocked as they reached a bookcase.

“Only if you choose,” Cecilia assured her. “Have you tried smoking?” she asked Maggie.

“No!”

Branson pushed at the bookcase, which proved to be a well-disguised door. There were steps that led downward.

“Really, Cecilia—”

“Maggie, we’ll only stay a few minutes if you’re too uncomfortable. But, please! Give yourself a chance to have fun. You can’t be that much of a prig!”

It shouldn’t have mattered what Cecilia suggested. She should have fled right then. But for some silly reason, perhaps because she was marrying a man three times her age, she allowed herself to be led down the stairs.

There was a stage. There were a few tables. Other diners were masked, in capes, and probably wearing wigs as well.

Branson led them to a table. As she was seated, Cecilia allowed her fingers to cruise down the ebony musculature of Branson’s chest. He smiled, perfect white teeth flashing in a proud face.

Then he was gone. “What kind of entertainment is it onstage?” Maggie asked.”Music? Drama?” She doubted the latter.

“There’s music, of course,” Cecilia said. She smiled wickedly.

Another man appeared at the table. He was white—but dressed like Branson. He poured champagne into the glasses at their table. Maggie turned away as he did so, and felt her heart thunder against her chest as she saw the server at the next table, where two men were seated. Their server was a woman. Her long dark hair was free-flowing down her back. She, too, wore a grass skirt, and nothing else. Her breasts were bared. Very large, and it appeared her nipples had been rouged.

She gasped aloud.

“Maggie, please!” Cecilia gasped. “You’re not behaving in the least Bohemian!”

Maggie clamped her jaw shut and turned back to Cecilia. “I’m not Bohemian!” Maggie informed her.

“May I suggest that you gaze upon young male flesh tonight? As of tomorrow, you may never have the opportunity again.”

“I don’t think I want the opportunity!” Maggie said.

“Drink your champagne, and I swear, the food will be delicious.”

She took a long swallow of champagne. It seemed the thing to do. The champagne was excellent. She swallowed down the glass of it, attempting to steel her nerves.

Cecilia, looking at her, giggled. “Oh, Maggie, you’re so deliciously shocked! Come now, men have always taken such pleasures, and absolutely nothing is thought of it. Men will be men, or so they say. And women are given the lot to look away, and pretend that the world is all morality, and sex is in the dark . . . and, well, for your sake, I hope it’s in the dark as of tomorrow!”

“Cecilia, that’s terrible.”

“Maggie, it’s true.”