“Careful, you’ll cause a scandal,” she teases, though she’s not sure they can count anything that happens on the ice as scandalous, judging by the raucous laughter and shouts in the air. “Do they dance this close in the future?”
Oliver laughs. “Oh, just you wait.”
He leads her in the steps, easy and quick. He twirls her across the ice, spins with her until she is dizzy, breathless and giddy with the rush of it all.
“What next?” Oliver asks as they step away from the dancing, faces flushed and breath clouding in the frosty night air.
Beatrix grins. “Everything.”
Oliver takes her hand. “Everything it is.”
They try skating next, and both agree they prefer dancing as they wobble around the cordoned-off ice, trying and failing to stay upright. Beatrix’s bruises heal as quickly as she gets them, but Oliver is not so lucky.
“Have you had enough of skating on the Thames?” she asks, the last time she lands on top of him with a thud on the unforgiving ice.
Oliver winces. “For a lifetime.”
They try several games but lose every one. Beatrix insists they’re rigged.
Oliver laughs. “Some things never change.”
He’s surprisingly good at ninepin bowling. He wins their first match and the rematch Beatrix challenges him to. “Beginner’s luck,” he claims with an easy grin.
They warm themselves by a bonfire burning on the ice. Beatrix watches the flames dance, mesmerized by the flickering orange light. Now that she has stopped moving, she could fall asleep standing right here. But she doesn’t want the night to end. There is so much left to see and do, and as long as there is, Oliver will stay. She buys them each a coffee and she savors the heat, clasping the mug with both hands.
When their drinks are finished and their insides warmed, she leads the way toward Blackfriars Bridge, where it seems the rumors were true. An elephant lumbers across the ice to the cheers and shouts of agathered crowd. Beatrix shakes her head, sure she’ll never see a stranger sight in all her life.
The printing presses are what make her heart leap with joy, more than the dancing or even the elephant. So many of them had burned in the Great Fire. She can’t help but smile at the sight of the printers at work, selling souvenir poems to commemorate the rare occasion.
“Print your name for tuppence, my dear,” a stout gentleman manning a press calls to her.
“All right.”
He pulls off his gloves and peers over his wire-framed glasses at her. “Missus?” he asks, glancing between her and Oliver.
“Miss,” Beatrix quickly corrects him.
“Miss…?”
“Beatrix. Beatrix Lancourt.”
The man goes to work. He pulls tiny metal letters from a shallow, segmented tray sitting on a table next to the press, humming to himself all the while.
“Good, good, now your birthday, dear.”
She glances up at Oliver. Her eyes meet his. “July nineteenth.”
“Perfect, perfect,” the man mutters as he lays the numbers into place. “And the year?”
Her mind goes blank, as if she has suddenly lost the ability to count. Her heart races.
“Seventeen ninety,” Oliver says.
The printer places the digits, then turns his attention to inking the words.
“Thank you,” Beatrix whispers. Oliver squeezes her hand.
The printer presses the inked letters to the page, then presents it to Beatrix with a flourish. She holds it by the edges, taking care to avoid the shining ink as it dries.
