“And that is London,” she says, a little sad that their whirlwind tour has come to an end. “What do you think?”
He grimaces. “I think I’m lucky I found you. I would have been hopelessly lost.”
“I found you,” Beatrix counters.
“Fair enough.” He straightens, pulls a silver crown from his coat pocket, and offers it to her. She closes his hand around it with both of hers.
“That’s a lot of money to pull out in the middle of London Bridge,” she hisses, glancing at the crowd of people shuffling past.
“You’re the only one who’s tried to steal it from me.” He presses the coin into her hand.
A wave of guilt washes through her. “It’s too much.” Wasn’t she just like him the first time she crossed this bridge? She would have been foolish enough to trust anyone who offered her a kind word that night, or even a passing glance.
“It’s what I agreed to.”
He had agreed. Besides, she can’t eat guilt, and it won’t keep her warm, either. She should take his money, and he should consider it a lesson learned: Trust no one. But she can’t bring herself to take the coin. “You didn’t know—”
“That you were taking advantage of me?” That infuriating smirk from the Globe is back. The spark in his eyes, too.
Beatrix scowls at him. “If you knew, why on earth did you agree?”
“Like I told you at the Globe, you are very persistent and very pretty, and I needed a guide. I consider it a crown well spent.” He closes her hand around the coin. “A deal’s a deal.”
“Fine,” Beatrix says. She slips the coin into the pocket of her skirt. And then, so she doesn’t sound completely ungrateful, adds, “Thank you.” It feels too close to a goodbye.
She doesn’t want it to end, this rare day in a sea of familiarity. She wants to linger in it. “Now that you’ve explored London, what’s next?”
“Venice, I think,” Oliver says. “But I’ll come back to London someday.” As if he’s certain. “What about you?”
“London suits me just fine,” Beatrix says. “Besides, ‘somedays’ are treacherous things.”
Oliver frowns. “What makes you say that?”
“Either you waste your life dreaming of a someday that never comes, or you realize too late that your chance has passed you by. A someday that happens is a rare thing.”
Oliver studies her face. “I think someday offers hope.”
He’s right. But hope is a treacherous thing, too.
“I have seen my fair share on these streets,” Beatrix says. “Everyone regrets something. Nine times out of ten, those regrets start with someday.”
“And the tenth?” he asks.
“Someone.”
His smile falters. Barely. Enough. And when he fits it back into place, it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Funny, I thought there would be more.”
Beatrix thought so, too, before she realized the truth of it. “It’s hard to regret someone once you’ve loved them.”
Oliver stares out at the water. “I know no one is guaranteed a someday,” he says. He sounds defeated again. “No one is even guaranteed a tomorrow. Or a today. But believing you will get there is better than the alternative.”
“And what’s that?” Beatrix asks.
“Giving up hope.” He catches her eye, as if his words are meant just for her.
If only it were that simple.
“You’re right.” If he hears the lie in her cheery tone, he lets it go. “I’msure you’ll get to Venice. And if—when—you visit London again, you’ll be a natural.”
