That had been the Monday.

On the Tuesday, little Miss Mudd had merely poked her funereal black poke bonnet through the door of the gunsmith's and hollered "They ready yet?!" and the shake of a head had sent the bonnet scuttling back out. 

Now it was Wednesday and the door of the store tinkled to a new sight, Arabella no longer in her usual grown up black dress and shawl, but more gaily clad in a smock of blue chequered gingham, white pinny and a straw bonnet atop her raven black hair which she had plaited into twin pigtails. The smock was girlishly short and the frilly bottoms of white bloomers, white woollen stockings and flat, black mary-janes visibly completed her lower wardrobe.  She toted her ubiquitous market basket in one hand and a small paper cone in the other. So occupied were her hands that she had to use her unfashionably skinny rump to bash open the door and walk in backwards.

Her greeting to Mr Smith was delivered with a mouthful of black comfits in her maw.

"Want some licorice?" she asked, chewing "Look, it makes your tongue go black!" she advised him and, opening her mouth wide, stuck that slimy object right out to prove her point. She pulled the thing back in and got down to business.

"So, they ready yet?" she asked, standing on tippytoes to look nosily over Roland's counter. 

 @[Cuban Writer]

Although they were brief and intrusive, Roland had grown to enjoy the periodic visits from Miss Mudd.  

Somehow, their scandalous adventure together had cemented her in his mind as a kindred spirit, if not in identical ways.  He had never met anyone quite like her.  Everything in his upbringing recommended against befriending such a creature of chaos, and yet there was no denying the sense of friendship that had risen in him.  They were fellow fiends.  And fiends had to stick together, didn't they?

Roland looked up from his gunshop counter, where he had been carefully placing rhinestones into a groove on a pistol grip.  Each rhinestone had to be handled with a long pair of angled copper-tipped tweezers, a specialty tool made just for this part of his craft.  The copper tips of the tweezers were softer than most materials he worked with, ensuring they'd not scratch any surfaces.  The rhinestones he was using were not authentic crystals from Germany.  Rather, they were British imitations made from glass with lead backing which he'd brought here from London. 

But they would shine like diamonds, and the person for whom the weapon was meant would be unlikely to balk at false gemstones.

"I think I'll pass, but thank you."  Roland said as he set down his tweezers next to the pistol grip and the can full of un-used rhinestones.

"You had best use care with that candy, Arabella," He opined as he reached behind the counter and took up a small wooden box.  

"You wouldn't want to leave such ink on any part of an Oyster, lest someone inquire about whose signature has been left on their favorite food."

He opened the box for her, having turned it so that she could examine its contents.  

It was perhaps clear that these were not typical spectacles.  The engravings looked more like they belonged on a fancy rifle, and the hinge apparatus- if closely inspected- might be seen to be built from flat springs and lockwork gears.  But it was robust, more likely to hurt your bum than be crushed beneath it.  The lenses were false, disks of steel blued five times until they were black pools.  Most would mistake them for black glass.   Curved wings along the arms of the spectacles would prevent anyone from seeing unsightly rolling eyes, even from the sides.  

Slightly unusual spectacles, perhaps.  But still works of art that even a sighted person might be content to wear.

Or so Roland hoped.

"What do you think?"

Javia

"You wouldn't want to leave such ink on any part of an Oyster, lest someone inquire about whose signature has been left on their favorite food."

"Uh?" Arabella's mouth gaped, showing masticated remnants of licorice stuck between her teeth. But she had learned to listen very carefully to Mister Roland Smith's unfamiliar and sophisticated speechifications and eventually his meaning hit her.

"Eww, you're just dirty!" she chid him, half laughing "An' for your information, there ain't but one oyster these inky lips is kissin' and no one gets to see that but me, so there!" she thought for a second and then, in the spirit of full disclosure, added "Well, mostly, anyhows."

He opened the box for her, having turned it so that she could examine its contents.

"What do you think?"

Arabella's jaw nearly hit the floor. She dropped her basket on the floor and placed her brown paper cone of confectionary on the counter as she moved forward in awe, her eyes fixed on the fabulous treasure box and the incredible jewel within.

"Oh, Mr Smith... they're beautiful!!" she sighed, unable to take her eyes of the fantastic spectacle. "Can I..."

Without waiting for an answer, she reached reverently into the box and took out the luxuriously finished item of facial furniture, and looked them over, speechless for once, except for the odd little mutter to herself upon the subject of their splendor.

She managed to look up at him for a second.

"And you made these?" she asked with a slight little shake of her head, as if she could hardly believe it, even though she had issued the commission herself. The next event was predicable, but at least the usually fidgety girl did it in a slow, almost stately manner: she donned the glasses herself. 

"Ohhhh, this is what it's like to be blind..." she uttered. It wasn't that no light could enter the side-wings of the piece: it was more the sensation of staring foreword into oblivion, while all around the sunlit world carried on its sunny, colourful, cheery business without you. A new understanding entered her heart "... oh Frances... this is what it's like to be you." she said sadly.

She look them off and placed them solemnly in the box and closed it carefully, then looked up at Roland. 

"I don't know how to thank you, Mister Smith, Frances is going to look so bonny with them goggles on, maybe Mister James Vaughn might even summon up the courage to ask her to properly walk out with him, can you imagine that?" she asked rhetorically. he'd never met them so he could hardly imagine it. "And they're worth so much more than all the money I never paid you; I'm afraid that you're ruining my opinion of you as a scoundrel, Rolly." she said.

"In fact..." she ran around his side of the counter and tried to kiss him, but couldn't reach. She saw a sturdy looking little box on the floor and stood on it, so she could give him a big, very chaste kiss on the cheek. "Just... thank you." she said simply, as she clambered down. 

@[Cuban Writer]

Roland's cheeks may have reddened, and his eyes may have moistened slightly at the honest and heartfelt thanks from young Miss Mudd.

They might have, though he'd surely never admit to such.  No.  Stoic and stiff upper lip, He.  As was the British tradition.

"You are quite welcome, Arabella," he intoned, using the familiar.

"I have felt a close kinship to you in the short time we've known each other.  I was glad to help you and your friend.  And if this advances her courtship, so much the better."  Privately, he wondered what sort of man might need the right spectacles on a woman before he'd attend her.

It spoke well of Arabella that she took time to empathize with her friend.  To wonder at the world she lived in, and the challenges she faced.  

A world where your sight was forever closed to you, even when your eyes were open.

"I have been giving some thought to you since that night you brought your polished and hollow friend by for dinner..."  He had wondered what the aftermath of that meeting had been, and that had spiraled into a host of related concerns.  Not so much for his own sake, but for hers.

"I don't think your proclivity for finding trouble is likely to abate very much as you get older.  And the consequences of the trouble you find are likely to multiply with each ensuing year."

He regarded her for a long moment before concluding, "There is something I want to give you tomorrow, if you'll come back to collect it.  No licorice.  You'll want clean hands."

How long it would stay clean in her hands was anyone's guess.   Both literally and figuratively.   But he wanted it pristine on delivery, at least.

Javia

"You are quite welcome, Arabella," he intoned, using the familiar.

She gave him her disconcerting, direct, slightly questioning stare. "I'm really obliged, Roland." she said. She didn't usually call him that: hopscotching between a jocular 'Rolly' to a more formal 'Mister Smith', but even that sometimes derisively. 'Roland' seemed to be a name to be reserved for special occasions, code for 'this time, I really mean it'. 

He looked like he wanted to say something.

"What is it?" she asked. "Cat gotcha tongue?"

"I have felt a close kinship to you in the short time we've known each other. I was glad to help you and your friend. And if this advances her courtship, so much the better." Privately, he wondered what sort of man might need the right spectacles on a woman before he'd attend her.

"Hmmph. Might need more than a new pair of specs, Mr Smith, no matter how beautiful they are. That fellers got a bad case of what you English fellers call sang froid. 'Cept in Mr Vaughn's case, his blood's frozen solid." she shook her head. "Hey, you should take ol' Frances promenading some night, right past his office winder, maybe if he sees her with some other feller, might make him jealous - melt some o' that ice-water in his veins." she thought. "Like when you heated Miss Orr's sitting-cushions for her, that melted her heart at the same time too, I reckon." she laughed.

"I have been giving some thought to you since that night you brought your polished and hollow friend by for dinner..." He had wondered what the aftermath of that meeting had been, and that had spiralled into a host of related concerns. Not so much for his own sake, but for hers.

"Polished and holler!" Arabella laughed "Oh, I do love the way you speechify Mr Roland Smith." she giggled truthfully. "Well, what about me?" she asked.

"I don't think your proclivity for finding trouble is likely to abate very much as you get older. And the consequences of the trouble you find are likely to multiply with each ensuing year."

She shrugged. Fresh bright blue eyes met his more world-weary light brown, almost toffee-coloured, orbs. 

He regarded her for a long moment before concluding, "There is something I want to give you tomorrow, if you'll come back to collect it. No licorice. You'll want clean hands." 

She tipped her head with a curious frown, but the inborn coquette in her refused to ask for more information. 

"All right, see you tomorrer." she snipped, grabbed the glasses case, slipped it in her basket, grabbed her sweets and flounced out of his life until she deigned to call again.

But she was not the last young woman to infiltrate his bachelor abode that Wednesday.

[Continued below]

It had been a pleasant day so far, today.

Roland had finished assembling the 32 rhinestones into the grip of Arabella's custom-built pepperbox.  Then he'd assembled the finished piece after polishing all the shiny bits.  The resulting weapon had been placed into a small lacquered wooden box with velvet lining.  It was the sort of weapon a Lady of Quality might have paid a dozen pounds for.  A wicked man's gift to his wicked young friend.  May it keep her safe from herself and from all those who couldn't control themselves in the presence of her shenanigans.  Amen.

After that, he'd begun loading ammunition. 

Roland had over ten-thousand brass casings on hand of various calibers, with more on order.  His assortment of lead bullets was somewhat fewer in number, as many of the same bullets could be used in multiple calibers.  Often, it was the length of a case or the type of primer- and not the slug within it- which varied.  In any event, he had received substantial orders for ammunition since coming to town.  The local citizenry had probably been forced to let their supplies run low in the absence of a gun shop.  Now everyone seemed to be stocking up.  Some wanted a couple of dozen.  Some wanted hundreds or more.  Roland was content to work the powder measure and press for hours, assembling finished cartridges.  

There was something meditative about working a loading press.  It gave his mind the opportunity to wander and scheme.  Plots hatched forth and possibilities presented themselves.  He was always happiest when he thought he was being clever, scheming for ways to serve his interests or the interests of people he'd taken a liking to. 

Well... perhaps there were one or two other things that brought him greater joy than that.  But he so seldom had the opportunity to indulge himself in his darker appetites.

As the day drew to a close and he began to contemplate his supper, a knock came at the back door.  Such an approach was unusual enough for him to check his pistol and lift the leather retaining loop from its hammer.  Then he went to go answer the door.

Well.

The good and gentle Zenobia Matthews.

This had been a long time coming.

She pushed in and started up.  He stepped around and closed the door behind her and then turned to listen.

She was remarkably like the clattering of a typewriter at the hands of a skilled typist.   Except each impact of key to proverbial paper was infinitely more shrill when she was angry. 

And he'd never heard her any other way.

Now she was poking at his chest.  He looked down at her stabbing finger.  She could poke harder than one would think, actually.

"I don't want your help and I don't need your help. And if you don't stop this silly receipt business, I'll... I'll... I'll slap you!"

"That would be most unfortunate, Miss Matthews," Roland declared in a low but severe tone.  

He took a breath and tried to repress the myriad impulses that came into his mind.  "I was about to have some tea.  Would you like some?"

Javia

"No, I don't want your stupid tea!" she almost screamed, getting somewhat hysterical now "I want you to STOP..." just like in the newspaper office she raised her two little fists and pounded them uselessly against his gunmetal hard chest "... TAKING..." thump "RECIEPTS!..."

An ire rose up in Roland.  The same bubbling spout of anger he'd felt when dining with Miss Orr.  A Flash, and a Rise, and...

It occurred to Roland in this moment that his anger was not the only thing his spirit rode upon.

There was a joy in it, too.

Like some slavering beast released from an iron cage.

Yes... it was less like anger and more like...

Permission.

A word spoken.  An act taken.  A thing that gave him permission to...

...to...

Be Himself.

He moved to seize her wrists, to stop the pointless thumping of her fists.

"What shall I take instead, Miss Matthews?  If not your Receipts, what shall I have in their stead?"

There was a cultivated gentleness in Roland's demeanor during most hours of the day.  That was gone, now.  

He was naked before her.

Moving to push her against the wall just inside the rear door, he sought to press himself bodily against her.

"Was there a time, Miss Matthews, when you were Polite?   Gentle?   Loved?"

He almost sneered at her, except there was too much desire in him now to generate a proper sneer.

"Have you ever received a kindness that you didn't rebuff?  Or have you just received kindness so rarely, you've forgotten how to accept it?"

He bent close to her face. 

"Is that what has made fertile fields for foulness in your flimsy frame?  Are you now barren of anything soft...  or warm?"

His lips were close, his breath as though from a furnace.

"Have you ever felt Heat?"

Now he tried to consume her, to take her mouth with his own, stifling and devouring her with a wolf's kiss.

Javia