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the party, but Gwendolyn knew what the gossips said, that in private she was frigid and icy, denying her husband affection. They speculated there might never be an heir to the Dukedom of Highgate. Yet Gwendolyn was so lovely and so kind and so gracious in every other capacity that they adored her nonetheless. She smiled, knowing she would not have to tolerate the overcrowded crush of the garden for long, and knowing that today, unlike so many other days, she would not object to being removed to a more private environ.
    It happened as it always did. He paid little attention to her at first beyond the usual family duties, but circled back to her when he had grown tired of his friends and their wives. He pulled her aside and complimented her appearance. He took notice of every carefully chosen detail and reprimanded her for any perceived flaws. There were always flaws, and because of them, he would be forced to take her to a hidden copse, or a small room, or a back staircase where they would not be disturbed, and he would remind her that his son deserved a better wife. He would cajole her for a bit, then his hands would begin to wander and grope. He would raise her skirts. He would cover her mouth, though she had long ago learned not to scream. When he finished, he would bend her forward and strike her eight times with the walking stick he carried. The bruises it left would have to be hidden. Until they faded, her bedroom door would have to remain locked. This time, especially.
    Gwendolyn made no sound as he beat her and braced herself for what she knew would come next. He took her in his arms and kissed her, rocking back and forth, imploring her to be a better wife. Today she did something she never had before. She kissed him back, and while he reacted with delight to this, she reachedup, pulling the long Florentine pin from her hat. She flung one arm tight around his grizzled neck, bringing him closer, and felt for his ear. The pin went in with ease at first, but required more pressure as it went deeper. Gwendolyn had no difficulty finding the necessary strength. Her father-in-law crumpled to the ground.
    Gwendolyn returned her pin to her hat, smoothed her skirts, and returned to the party, the picture of wifely perfection.
    Highgate had a new duke.

    Tasha Alexander attended the University of Notre Dame, where she signed on as an English major (with a concentration in medieval studies) in order to have a legitimate excuse for spending all her time reading. Her work has been nominated for numerous awards and has been translated into more than a dozen languages. She and her husband, novelist Andrew Grant, divide their time between Chicago and the United Kingdom.

THUNDER AT THE HORIZON
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    Charles Ardai
    I n the alley behind the Wigwam Club, Dolores bent low to shield her cigarette from the night breezes. It took two matches to get it lit. She hadn’t bothered to put on a robe before stepping outside. None of the girls ever did. It would smear your war paint and crush your feathers, and anyway the nights were plenty warm. It was one good thing about Arizona. The only good thing.
    She took a long drag on the cigarette and turned when she heard the fire-exit door open behind her.
    “Your third break tonight, doll. You think I pay you to come out here and smoke?” Roman came forward, thumbing open the button on his suit jacket.
    “The boys needed some cooling-down time. So did I.”
    “The
boys
are our customers. We don’t want them cooled down. We want them hotted up.”
    “So why don’t you take your clothes off and dance for them, Roman, if you want to make them happy so bad? Maybe you’d like it when they grabbed your ass.”
    He was within touching distance now, and he laid a meaty palm against her cheek, patting gently. “The mouth on you,” he said quietly. “I don’t let anybody talk to me like that.”
    Dolores let out a stream of smoke out of the corner of her mouth. She didn’t bother to cover her