Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

followed by a short peal of laughter that cascaded incongruously through the dreary room. Alistair, completely taken by surprise, looked up.

Standing before him, wearing a pale yellow silk dress, a damp furled umbrella by her side, her friendly face framed by a bonnet that was neither frivolous nor severe but spoke of a slightly audacious nature, was a woman who looked only a few years younger than himself. Alistair sprang to his feet, knocking over a bronze of a dwarf, who fell onto the tip of his ridiculously huge penis and balanced there precariously. Alistair, in a feeble attempt to conceal such obscenity, stood before the table his arms spread wide.

“How did you get in?” he demanded, feeling intruded upon. After all, only three people had entered the room since he had begun the catalogue—McPhee, Toby, and Lady Whistle. The girl laughed again, although Alistair noticed she was also blushing. With a cheeky air she held out her hand.

“Margaret McPhee. Amused to make your acquaintance, especially surrounded by such quaint depictions of l’amour….”

“McPhee! McPhee has a daughter?”

“As far as I know, Uncle has not duplicated himself in any shape, size, or form. We must thank God for this miracle. Uncle has always appeared to show little interest in human relations—unless, of course, they are several thousand years old.”

“You are his niece?”

“Precisely, just as you are his apprentice.”

“Assistant, actually.” Here Alistair bristled with self-importance. “Working on a very important and secret commission.”

“Evidently,” Margaret McPhee responded, a wry smile playing around her wide mouth.

The archaeologist spread his coattails in a feeble attempt to obscure her view further. “These works of art are not for the eyes of respectable young women.”

“Oh, and I suppose they are perfectly respectable for the eyes of young men? Or are you not a respectable young man?”

“That is entirely different. The male eye has the ability to discern, whereas the female is far more susceptible.”

“Are you suggesting the female sex is the weaker gender or the more sinful?”

Her feisty retort caught Alistair by surprise. Stammering furiously he suddenly felt little more than a whirling scarecrow caught in a gust of wind.

“I mean merely to defend you from the more animalistic side of mankind.”

“I thank you for the sentiment. But I don’t require defending, although, of course, you might if Uncle discovers I am here. He would probably explode in outrage and end up splattered on the ceiling like a tapioca pudding.”

She laughed again. Alistair struggled to keep his grave demeanor.

“He would indeed, and then he would terminate my employment immediately, which is not a frivolous matter, Miss McPhee,” he replied soberly.

“I wouldn’t let him. I have never seen anything so…explicit,” she said, her eyes widening as she glimpsed his current sketch. Alistair stood frozen, still holding out his coattails, unsure about the social conduct the situation demanded. Ignoring him entirely, Margaret McPhee stood on tiptoe and actually peeped over his shoulder.

“But there is a beauty,” she murmured.

“Miss McPhee, I demand that you leave this office immediately, before my position is morally compromised. Besides, where is your escort?”

“Escort? Phooey! I am a governess, Mr….?”

“Sizzlehorn. Alistair Sizzlehorn.”

“Mr. Sizzlehorn. I have also attended Miss La Monte’s art classes so I have seen the naked human form before.”

“But not in this state I should hope.”

She blushed again, violently, and turned away from the table. Taking off her bonnet she revealed a pretty neck and long fair hair. She was no great beauty like Lady Whistle but there was something very appealing about the daintiness of her features and the candor behind which she tried to hide her innocence.

“Do you mean to insult me, sir?” she demanded in a peevish but endearing tone.

“I mean to protect you. This ancient culture is to be studied with an educated eye, one that has a comprehension of the religious significance of such artifacts. This is not pornography, but works of worship, Miss McPhee.”

She looked at him, deeply intrigued but also quizzical, as if she might have misjudged the awkward youth standing before her, his arms still flung askew, his pale face with its burning eyes animated with a feverish passion.