erastes

When it comes to pork and spuds, the Castle Hotel can keep it. Any slum pub does a better spread. The boxing was disappointing, but I wouldn’t be the one to say it was a waste of time. I didn’t wager a grig, but came away with five times what I walked in with. When all eyes are on the sport, no eyes are on the purse. None save Fleury’s of course.

Take part meself? Not a word of it. I’m able to look after myself, and that’s for certain, but if I face a man I’m not going to give him a fair fight. Can’t say I don’t appreciate the…what’s the word the lad used? Aesthetics ? of the sport. It ain’t often you get a chance to watch naked men without a suspicious eye being cast.

Spent the entire afternoon in the bar at the back of the pub, and had I not been nursing this broken heart of mine, I’d have had not difficulties trying to mend it with a certain Barry Riordhan. Prettier than he was as a boy with lips to melt a Pope’s resistance. Brazen he is, on the arm of that Orange bastard Douglas Quinn, but he couldn’t find himself a better protector, I suppose. Cheeky cub cupped me when Quinn went to relieve himself and call me English if I didn’t waver, just a moment and think about meeting him in private later. But no. Tempting as the fruit of Eden, that one and no good would come of it—Fleury might want to come home one day, and making an enemy of Quinn won’t make that easy.

The ship sails at six—time for one last glorious night—time to lose myself in the streets I love.