‘Protégé? Is that a fancy word for buggery? The maybe formal term such men as he use to confer honour to their dirty practices?’
Gabriel’s hand grasped the boy’s embroidered collar, forcing him to quickstep in reverse, tripping over stacks of see-saw rocking, fire-black beams, turning ever pinker as he choked.
I shouted ‘Stop!’ and Gabriel, the devil, let him go so quick he fell back into sooty-puddled horse-shit, ruining shoes and stockings and staining his fancy-skirted coat.
I restrained Gabriel while the boy scrambled up.
Ice in his voice (and breeding) ‘Be sure my Lord shall hear of this!’