"I'm fine," Lily said again.
She was standing by the roadside with her arms wrapped around her body.
The driver, hovered a few steps away with a large black umbrella held awkwardly over both their heads. He looked as though he would much rather be anywhere else.
"Miss, my boss would like you to come to the car."
"I don't know your boss."
"No, miss." Samuel sighed. "But he is not accustomed to being refused."
Lily glanced at the car. Behind the dark glass, she could see nothing but a shape. A man's shape, tall and still.
She knew better than to get into a stranger's car. Every girl knew that. She had been warned about it since primary school.
But she was cold and shaking, and her face hurt where Cecilia had struck her, and for a moment, the thought of warmth was so overwhelming that she almost wept again.
What else is left? she thought. What can they take that hasn't already been taken?
It was not a brave thought. It was a tired one. But sometimes the two feel the same.
"Where would you take me?" she asked.
"Somewhere dry, miss. That's all I can tell you."
She looked at Samuel's face. It was not unkind. He had the look of a man who had spoken more harshly than he intended and wished to make amends.
"All right," she said.
Samuel opened the rear door. Warm air swept over her, scented with leather and something faintly like cedar. She stepped in, careful not to let her wet bag touch the cream upholstery, and sat on the very edge of the seat with her knees together.
The door closed. The sound of the rain faded to a dull drumming.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
She did not dare look at him. She stared at her hands, which were blue at the fingertips, and listened to the soft purr of the engine as the car began to move.
Then something warm settled over her shoulders. She flinched.
It was a coat. A heavy, dark wool coat that smelled of soap and wood smoke, still warm from the man who had been wearing it.
"You are shaking," said the voice.
She finally turned her head.
He was young, perhaps thirty. He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, his collar open. His hair was dark and slightly damp, and his face was one of those faces that did not seem real, strong in the jaw, still in the mouth, with eyes the color of storm clouds.
They were looking at her with an attention so complete that she felt exposed.
He was, quite simply, the most handsome man she had ever seen. And he was looking at her bruised cheek.
"Who did that?" he asked quietly.
She flinched and covered it with her hand. "It's nothing."
"It is not nothing."
"I fell."
"You didn't." He did not raise his voice. He did not push. He simply said it as a fact, the way one might say the sky was gray.
Then he turned his head and looked out at the rain, giving her the privacy of his profile.
"You don't have to tell me anything tonight," he said. "Only drink this."
He handed her a small silver flask. She sniffed it suspiciously. It was hot tea, sweet and strong.
She drank. The warmth moved down her throat and into her chest. Her hands began to steady.
"Thank you," she said, barely above a whisper.
He nodded once, without turning.
The car purred on through the dark streets. Lily watched the city slide past, wet and gleaming, the lights blurring into long gold streaks. She had no idea where they were going. She only knew that for the first time in a very long time, nobody was shouting.
She did not know that the man beside her, whose name she had not yet learned, was one of the richest and most guarded men in the city. She did not know that he never stopped for strangers.
Nor did she know that, behind his calm face, he was asking himself the very same question.
Who is she, and why can't I stop looking?