Roland Harding

Teen Queen

CHAPTER ONE

It was, at first, no more than just a suggestion of light – a lessening, rather, of the dark into a deep grayness through which objects could gradually be observed.

But it sufficed for the sleeper to move, in her slumber.

And having moved (such is the process of human awakening), she stirred again, as if she were trying to wring from her unconsciousness that final ounce of relaxation.

While she fought to relinquish the last luxury of her rest, the day dawned with its accelerating tempo that drove eventual sunlight against the drawn curtains.

Louise stirred for the last time, as a knock sounded at her door. She heard the knock but was reluctant, even in waking, to give heed to it.

When the rat-tat-tat sounded again, she opened her eyes and came instantly to full consciousness.

"Yes?" she called, directing her voice at the blankness of the closed door. "What is it?"

"Room service, Madame," came the reply. "Your morning tea – may I enter?"

"One moment," she called, automatically. Then, remembering: "It's O.K. You can come in. The door's not locked." The handle depressed and into the boudoir came a steward, adroitly bearing a tray in the supple wristed manner of men trained to hotel service. He was dressed in a short white monkey-jacket, gold-epaulette, ending at the waist. From his waist down were tight-thighed navy blue trousers, descending to black, patent leather shoes.

"Good morning to you, Madame," he bade politely, as he crossed to deposit the tray on a bedside table. Louise Henderson acknowledged the greeting, noticing with interest the efficient movements of the tall, wavy, dark-haired man as he set down her tea things. New, she thought. But good.