Beatrix and Prasad

"Do you have any suitors?"

Beatrix peered up at him. Mister O’Neal stood a full head taller than everyone in the room; she had seen him stoop when he crossed the doorway into the parlour as though it was second nature.

His coal black hair lay loose around his neck, and he had fingers wrapped gently around a polished brass watch. In a dusk purple suit, with his sallow skin and unshaven face, he cut an imposing figure. Still, bright, intelligent eyes betrayed a bemused and personable attitude.

"Yes," she said.

He didn't look the slightest bit surprised. "Are you looking for more, Miss Beatrix?"

O'Neal smiled like she thought a tiger should—all teeth, focused, disarming. Enough that one, assured of their safety, might remove the painted mask from the back of their head; so that when they met their end, it was from deep shadow, and always unexpected.

"Yes, Mister O'Neal."

"Good." He tucked his watch into his breast pocket. "I hope to be a favourite."