Sometimes, when she was panhandling, Kit liked to pass the time by imagining what she might look like to the people who walked past her. Dark, greasy, matted hair; torn, faded clothes bundled onto her, and don't forget the stink--it wasn't like she got many opportunities to wash herself, let alone the six or seven layers of clothes she wore. In the early spring, like it was now, she wore them for protection from the cold; shelters weren't always safe for a teenage girl, and warm places to sleep were hard to come by. In the summer, she just wore them because if she didn't, they'd get stolen, and warm clothes were hard to come by in the fall and winter. They got sweaty and dirty and ripped and faded, but Kit had long gone past the point where she cared about her appearance.
Still, people probably noticed some intelligence in her cloudy blue eyes, some sign that life on the streets hadn't yet eaten her alive, and on good days, that made her enough money that she could go to a supermarket and buy a can of Spaghetti-Os to eat cold.
Today wasn't one of the good days. Three times, she'd had to gather up her stuff and move quick; a girl her age always had to have good instincts, had to learn the lessons that the street taught very quickly or not at all. The street was always full of lessons, from "Those kids are looking for someone to brutalize who won't call the cops" to "He's recruiting streetwalkers" to "Don't make eye contact, just run." Kit was good at learning lessons. She'd learned the first one a long time ago. "It's still better than home."
The woman walking towards her now almost made Kit run again, but all her instincts were confused. She was rich, that much was obvious from thirty feet away. She wore a white silk dress that hung by a single thin strap around her neck, exposing bare shoulders of perfect, paper-white flesh. It was tailored to accentuate her figure, which was the kind of perfect human beings don't attain without expensive help. Her hair was blonde, long, and perfectly straight. She looked, in short, like a rich model or an actress, usually the kind of person that was a soft touch. But something deep within Kit's hindbrain bared its teeth and growled, like a wolf seeing a bear. She almost ran.
But it wasn't one of the good days, and Kit's stomach was growling, and she felt her skin tight against her ribs. So she held her ground, and as the woman passed, she said, "Spare change?"
The woman stopped, turned, and looked at her. She had violet eyes. Kit had never seen anyone with violet eyes before, but there they were, a perfect shade of lavender. "Oh, you poor thing," the woman said. A part of Kit was still stuck in fight-or-flight mode, but that voice stopped her. She'd never heard anyone speak with such total sincerity before. "No place to go?"
Kit shook her head wordlessly. The expression on the woman's face quieted the hindbrain fear a little. Nobody faked pity that well.
"Oh, my poor dear," the woman said. "I'm Sara." She knelt down and reached out a hand with a pearl bracelet on it, very slowly, like she was trying to pet a stray. In a sense, Kit supposed, she was. "This is no night to be sleeping on the streets. They said it's going to get below freezing again tonight." A scent of sandalwood drifted off of Sara as she spoke, stronger than the grime and stink Kit no longer even noticed. "I live with my sisters; if you'd like, you can come to our house for the night. It'll be a little cramped, but there's always room for one more."
Kit didn't move for a long moment as she sized up Sara and her offer. She spotted three possibilities. First, Sara could be some sort of crazy person, planning to take her home and kill her. She dismissed that. Her instincts were all confused, giving off crazy jangling signals, but she could tell Sara wasn't violent. Second, she could be some sort of lesbo, and there'd be a price to pay for lodgings for the night. Kit didn't swing that way, but it wouldn't be the first time she'd gotten into a warm bed knowing she'd have to share it. She wasn't a hooker, but she got cold. Third, Sara could be a real live good Samaritan. Didn't seem likely, but those big, luminous, violet eyes spoke of someone who took in strays.
Kit sized up the risks, the rewards, looked down at the cardboard box that held the pitifully small takings from a day of begging for change, and took Sara's soft hand in her own. "I'm Kit," she said, her tone guarded.
Sara smiled. "That's a girl. You won't regret this. You'll love our house."
*****
Kit smelled that sandalwood the whole walk to the house. She'd never seen a house that big, not in person. It was the kind of house they call a mansion, and it probably had a full-time staff to clean it and maintain it. Wild dreams of asking to get a job as a maid flitted through Kit's head for a moment, but she stilled them. She'd need to see if Sara was really a soft touch or just a perv dyke before she thought about playing the 'give me a leg up' card. Whether soft touch or perv dyke, though, one thing was clear. Sara and her sisters were rich.
"How do you afford this place?" she asked, a little surprised by the quiet awe in her voice.
Sara smiled just a little. "We've been provided for. For a long time now."
"Your parents are dead?" Kit tried to make it sound sympathetic, instead of envious.
"I haven't thought about them in a long time." Sara opened the door, and they went inside.
The lighting was dim and cold, but the rooms were warm, and Kit could feel the heat seeping back into bones already chilled by the early evening air. Sara led her into the kitchen, saying, "First, we'll get some food into you. Then you can use the shower, and..." But Kit wasn't listening to the rest of it. She just stared at the woman waiting in the kitchen when she walked in.
