<div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fc/Sable_night_by_squirrelshaver-d4zzdsn.jpg)</div><strong>Lacey Bruce</strong><br/><br/>Lacey walked up the stairs to her apartment.  The chestnut haired beauty was tired from a long day of waitressing and dancing, but she forced her milk chocolate eyes to stay sharp for trouble.  She still wore her work clothes—a knee length skirt and blouse tied up under her breasts—under a greatcoat.  She walked with a cane balanced so that she could fence with it.  She’d already had one occasion to be hassled on the way home from work and had to fend off two drunken thugs while she screamed for the watch.  Thank god her father had given her a love of the gentle art of swordplay when she was still young.<br/><br/>As Lacey slipped her key from her purse and opened her double locked doors--yearning for a hot bath—she pondered her meager tips.<em>Maybe I <strong>should</strong> go dance at the cabaret.  That’s where the real money is.  Why don’t I?  Mom made a good living even burning half her money on opium.  I know I’m not going to take up a habit like that.  What am I afraid of?</em><br/><br/>Once the door was closed behind her, Lacey looked across the small parlor to the banked fire in her Franklin stove.  She filled a big tea kettle at the pump and put it on.  Her parlor was just big enough for two to have dinner or tea, with a tiny kitchen, a bigger bedroom, with a bath in the corner—not even a separate room for it—though she could pull her dressing screen in front of it if she really wanted to.  At least there was a small watercloset off of the bedroom.  Some modern comforts were too nice to do without.<br/><br/>While the tea heated, she stepped into her bedroom.  She waved to the small collection of plushies on the bed—especially the old grey squirrel with pride of place on her pillow.  “Good evening, R.C.,” she greeted her last corporeal gift from her father.  Then looked down to strip out of her work clothes in preparation for her bath…<br/>