by C. K. Brooke
“Heaven’s sake, Mit, don’t you understand?” she blurted, her tears finally spilling forth. “If I go, you’ll die!” She had only just realized it herself, and the dilemma pelted her like a hailstorm. Her lifelong dream to leave Wintersea, to journey far and away to build her future, clashed dreadfully with the prospect of leaving Mit behind to perish. “I can’t go. I must take care of you…find a way to get you out of here.”
“Pavola Ward.” His abrupt growl was so fearsome, she wouldn’t have believed it was his voice, had they not been the only two in the room. “You will go to Vündtgen, and I will hear no argument.”
She gaped at him through her tears. “Are you insane?”
“Not as insane as you would be to pass this up.”
“Listen, Mit. I heard the soldiers talking.” She clasped the bars of his door urgently. “They spoke of bringing your skeleton back to your father. They want to mount your skull on a spear!”
“Let them,” he said hotly. “I should rather die knowing you got away. I could never live with myself, knowing I was the one keeping you holed up here. The world is waiting on you, Pavola; you cannot reject it for the sake of one man.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. “Do you think me inhuman?” she sputtered. “How could I leave you to rot?”
“You aren’t leaving me to rot,” he insisted. “I do more than just write up here, Pavi, you follow? D’you think I haven’t been formulating an escape all this while? I’ve some plans I’ve been working on, and….” He replaced his spectacles over his nose. “Well, I daresay they’re coming along rather nicely. So, you oughtn’t to worry, truly. For I suspect I might break myself out of here soon enough.”
Pavi was surprised. Mit had been plotting an escape? Why hadn’t he told her? She could’ve helped. She dragged her forearm across her eyes. “Oh.” She sniffled. “Well, I didn’t realize that you….”
“So you see, I’ll be fine.” He smiled warmly. “Just fine. And so will you. When do you leave?”
Her chin rose slightly. “A few weeks.”
He brought his hands together. “Delightful.”
“Mit?” She took a breath. “Promise you’ll be all right?”
For a moment, she thought she detected the faintest shadow in his features. But it was gone before she could be sure. “Yes, Pavola,” he answered kindly. “I promise.”
THEY APPROACHED THE TOWN LIMITS of Belbarc, the old village bordering Wintersea. A briny mist claimed the air, carrying echoes of the proximate Ekianic Ocean, as busy villagers bustled past.
Geo’s ankle had been restored to full health, and Lucie was livened by the renewal of determination in his eyes. She wouldn’t deny feeling immensely nervous about conspiring to execute the King of Llewes—what if the assassin turned them in upon their proposal?—but took heart in Geo’s confidence. She would simply borrow from his strength. Thus far, he’d accomplished everything he had set out to do.
They bided their time in a murky tavern, waiting until after sundown to seek their destination. Lucie stuck close to the prince’s side as he strode silently down the foggy lanes. She coughed, unused to inhaling so much moisture in the air.
“You remember the address?” she murmured, as a shady bloke in a black cloak meandered by.
Geo nodded.
A dim glare of red lanterns materialized down the way. Lucie squinted. As they neared the spectacle, her nose wrinkled upon discovering exactly what sort of establishment it was.
The red lanterns illuminated a narrow stone building, and runes on the swinging wooden sign read: Madame Hollie’s Dollhouse. To complete the picture, a pair of plump women were stationed out front, swinging the cords of their robes and sporting too-tight bodices.
“Geo,” Lucie nudged him. “Why have we stopped here?”
To her dismay, one of the wenches winked at the prince, lifting her hand. Geo cleared his throat hurriedly. “Er, this is it,” he whispered.
Lucie glared at him. “What?”
“This is the address.” He flushed.
Her eyebrows nearly reached her hairline. “You mean to tell me,” she hissed, “that Sir Will sent us to a whore’s den?”
“Shh,” he scolded her, lowering his head against the women’s curious stares. “Will was certain that the person we need could be found here.”
“Oh, what a savory fellow he must be,” Lucie harrumphed, “spending all his time and coin at a brothel.”
Geo moved forward and the women rushed to open the door for him, batting their grossly made-up eyes. They appeared confused, however—and displeased—as Lucie followed him in. Leave it to Sir Will, she grumbled inwardly, the bloody rake. Never in a million years would she have dreamed of setting foot in a house of ill repute.
Rancid perfume accosted her nostrils. She noticed that everything was pink and red, from the papered walls adorned with ribbons to the cushiony chairs stationed about the sitting room. She eyed the heart-shaped, lace wall hangings in distaste. For a place that males enjoyed occupying, it certainly seemed far from masculine.
“Madame,” sang a girlish voice from the back. “We’ve got a guest.”
Lucie held her breath as a woman past middle-age appeared around the corner, blonde hair curled synthetically and stacked high atop her head. Lucie strongly suspected it a wig. The woman’s lips and cheeks were smothered in crimson paint, and her low dress exposed far more of her wrinkled flesh than Lucie cared to see. Behind her, a younger girl appeared, a brunette wearing gemstones and scant furs. She flashed Geo a flirtatious grin, both women completely ignoring Lucie.
“Evening, love,” crowed the blonde. “How can we accommodate ye?”
“Uh,” Geo stammered, and Lucie heaved a tremendous eye roll. “I’m here to see…Cerise?”
The blonde seemed to understand, her aged features straightening, suddenly professional. “Of course, sir.” She turned. “Right this way.”
Geo and Lucie followed her and the brunette up a narrow, creaky staircase and down a long, winding hallway padded with maroon rugs, passing all manner of closed doors. Lucie forbade herself from wondering what might be occurring behind them.
They were led to a sizeable chamber at the end of the hall, boasting a settee and another door within, possibly leading to a washroom or bedchamber. “Have a seat,” the blonde entreated them, and proceeded through the next door. Lucie caught a glimpse of a four-poster bed in the other room—thankfully empty—before the older woman secured the door behind her.
Geo lowered himself into an armchair. The brunette hovered over him, strands of her hair falling onto his shoulder. “While you wait,” she purred, fingering his collar, “would you care to be serviced?”
“Er,” he swallowed, “no, thank you.”
“He doesn’t need to pay for pleasure,” Lucie snapped, before she had the sense to restrain herself.
The brunette, clearly disappointed by the loss of business, panned her eyes coldly over to Lucie. “Why not?” she countered. “Because you would freely indulge him?”
Lucie’s face burned as the strumpet sauntered from the room, the tail of her furs sashaying behind her. She dared not look at Geo. Instead, she looked to the armchair beside him, resting opposite a cream chaise lounge. She was disgusted at the thought of sitting where people might have coupled, but she wouldn’t very well remain standing.
With a sigh of resignation, she took her seat and waited.
THE HEAT HAD EVAPORATED FROM the bathwater. In the shadows, the woman flicked a speck of ash from her cigarette. It landed on the washtub’s tarnished brass claw. She brought the cigarette back to her lips, sucking in as she watched the strait of water between her floating breasts.
A knock sounded on the washroom door. “Cerise.” It was Madame Hollie’s low voice. “A man is here to see you for business.”
Cerise groaned, while more soap bubble
s dissolved in the tepid water. “I’m not working tonight,” she barked.
“Not that sort of business.”
The woman lifted her head. If someone had come to seek her alternate services, it would be far more exciting—and lucrative—than her usual work.
Conjuring a splash as she rose, Cerise dropped the cigarette into its watery grave. In the mirror above the basin, a pair of wide crimson areolae reflected back at her as she blotted herself with a towel. She inspected her face in the looking glass. Scarlet curls and ruby eyes flashed back at her.
She slipped into a black silken robe. Perhaps she was too large for it, but that’s what her patrons preferred. The men of Belbarc liked their women cushioned and curvy, with a jiggle to their tops and backsides. Cerise more than fulfilled those qualifications. As such, she was Madame Hollie’s most profitable employee.
She sighed, running over her lips with a touch of rouge, and did not bother to tighten the cord at her waist as she gripped the doorknob. Out she prowled from the warm washroom into the drafty bedchamber, and followed her employer into the sitting room. With a nod, Madame departed, securing the door behind her.
Cerise stared at the two strangers at her settee. At first glance, they weren’t exactly what she’d expected. To start, the man was youthful and olive-skinned. His broad shoulders and firm jaw gave him an air of solidity and strength, although he was altogether too traditional and clean-cut for her tastes.
And then, there was the girl. Sensual and exotic, with glowing caramel skin and moody eyes that seemed to hold a thousand secrets…she could make for a formidable rival, should she wish to join the ladies at Madame Hollie’s. But Cerise was certain that was not her intent, as the young woman glanced about with an air of snobbery, her distaste for everything in the room—including Cerise—wrought plainly upon her otherwise bewitching features.
Cerise strode up to the chaise lounge and sat comfortably, sprawling out her limbs. She cared not what parts of her peeked out from her robe’s confines; in all her years, she’d learned sex to be the best tactic for intimidation. Her position seemed to further offend the girl, giving Cerise all the more incentive to remain in the pose. The man, however, appeared unfazed…so far.
She glimpsed the ashtray on the side table. A long holder clutching a half-smoked cigarette rested inside. She relit it and puffed, waiting until her face was ensconced in an aura of smoke before breaking the lingering silence. “And what brings the pair of you here?”
The man surveyed her through deep brown eyes. “Are you Cerise?”
She shrugged. “Depends.”
He stiffened, saying no more.
When her noncommittal reply had rendered him silent for too long, she exhaled again. Smoke poured out between her cleaved lips, swirling round her scarlet locks. “Who sent you?” she demanded.
Something in his expression twitched, and his voice carried a twinge of irritation. “No one sends me anywhere. I go where I will, of my own accord.”
Her interest was certainly piqued. If the boy’s pride was prickled at the notion of doing another’s bidding, then he must be someone accustomed to power. And with power came, invariably, wealth. “What is it you seek?” she inquired, this time with more courtesy.
“We’ve come to solicit your skills. If you are, in fact, Cerise.”
“Some call me that.” She reclined further in the chaise. “Harlot by night, hit-woman by midnight.” Her lip curled. “Or so they say.”
“So you are an assassin?”
“I can neither confirm nor refute the statement,” she replied lazily, although she granted him a tiny wink of her ruby eye. Despite her stalling, she was eager to uncover his identity, or at least his background. For she was beginning to sense something familiar about his appearance, and his manner of speaking came across as dignified, refined. She tossed back her locks. “At any rate, even if I were to offer said services, my costs would be exorbitant,” she drew out the word. “I doubt you could afford it.”
“Actually,” he countered, withdrawing something thin and shimmery from the bag by his boots, “I doubt anyone can give you what I have.” He raised the curious item and nestled it within his hair. In the candlelight, it sparkled golden against his ash brown strands.
Cerise straightened, gazing across at the coronet. Her mouth had gone dry. “You are royalty?”
“I am the Prince of Tybiria.” He spoke with such steady command, Cerise did not doubt it. “I have embarked upon a treacherous venture to seek an end to your king’s intolerable reign. As I need not tell you, Ira’s madness has wreaked undue suffering upon both our nations.
“If you can help us eliminate him, you will be among the wealthiest women in East Halvea, and may live out the rest of your days in all the comfort you desire. No need to spend another hour,” he made a subtle indication to her bedchamber, “working.”
Cerise’s pulse thumped as she stared across at the young prince, forcing her face to remain bland. “Let me get this straight.” She deepened her voice to a whisper, crossing her generous thighs. “You will pay me to rub out King Ira?”
The prince gave a flinty nod.
“How much?”
“Name your price.”
Cerise examined him, her thoughts at work. All of her past assignments paled in comparison. Sure, she’d offed common thieves and thugs, snuffed unfaithful husbands, even seduced a few unpopular noblemen to their deaths…but murder the king? The proposition was ludicrous, impossible….
And irresistible.
She couldn’t help her intrigue. Although failing meant certain death, the prospective rewards far outweighed the risks. To dwell in luxury with the finest food and clothing, servants at her beck and call, to only receive a man into her bed when she desired one, and not out of necessity. How could she decline the chance?
She wasn’t old, but neither was she young. Thirty-three years had surpassed her already, fifteen of those spent in her current profession. She didn’t want to do this forever; yet, at the rate she was going, she would wind up like Madame Hollie if she wasn’t careful. And she did not wish to inherit the Dollhouse.
She studied the prince. For a man who appeared more than capable of combat, with surely an army at his command, why was he enlisting her? Then again, perhaps the youth was wiser than most. He must have realized that she possessed what no army of men ever could: the wiles of a woman.
He knew what was good for him. As did she. “My price,” she finally said, “is a lifetime stipend.”
“That goes without saying,” he was prompt to reply. “But what do you require up front?”
Cerise was taken aback. Being generous, was he? No doubt he was intent upon gaining her uncompromising loyalty. “Twenty gold pieces,” she decided.
“Done.” He reached for his bag.
“And….”
He looked up, the sconces glowing against his clear skin. Cerise rolled her tongue along the inside of her cheek. Though not exactly her type, he was good-looking enough. Besides, she’d never kissed a prince before, and didn’t imagine the opportunity should arise again. “A kiss,” she pronounced.
He blinked. “What?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of sealing it with a kiss?” She uncrossed her legs, grinning. “Or is it a custom unique to Llewes?”
The prince’s companion shot him a warning look.
“Er,” he laughed uneasily, “would a handshake suffice?”
Cerise pursed her lips. “Nay. We seal it with a kiss, or no deal.” Of course, that was bollocks; she was already sold. Only, she wished to exert her upper-hand.
The man slowly rose, and Cerise did the same. An expression of outrage overcame his companion’s face, and Cerise’s grin broadened. He came forward, standing several inches taller than her, and Cerise took hold of his sides, taut and well-formed. His clothing smelled of mountain breezes, his
breath sweet like wine. She brought her mouth to his for a taste, his lips firm but smooth.
It was over as soon as it had begun. He pulled away, looking uncomfortable, though he did not blush. Neither did she. Ah, well. They were immune to each other. Indeed, nothing more stirred within Cerise, other than a vague satisfaction at the girl’s furious frown.
The royal removed his coronet and counted up the gold. Cerise received her payment and saw her guests to the door. Before the girl could pass through, however, the woman clasped a hand on her shoulder.
“Try not to look so haughty, darling,” Cerise advised her. “It does not become you.”
DRIP. DRIP.
The rain was meek yet laborious. Dmitri sat slumped upon balled woolen blankets in his cell, face in his hands, listening as it fell. Occasionally, the wind blew his way through the pane-less barred window, and droplets sprayed his sleeve and neck. But he didn’t care enough to move. He wondered how cold the cell would become in winter.
Then he remembered that he would never find out. He’d be long dead by then.
In the corner sat the pages of his novel, untouched since Pavola had brought up her letter of acceptance from the University of Vündtgen. The book was nearly complete, but he’d been unable to think of an ending. Apathy rolled over him like a lazy tide. He saw no reason to finish. He saw no more reason to do anything.
Death was inevitable, all over again. He was going to perish there, as soon as Pavola left. He would never tell her so. Of course, he had no getaway plan—that was an outright lie. To escape the fortress would be impossible for him…but not for her. If Pavi had a way out, who was Dmitri to keep her locked in? She’d already spent her whole life at Wintersea. He wanted nothing more than her freedom, above his own.
Perhaps he should have spent the last number of weeks devising an outbreak. It’s what anyone else would have done. But Dmitri had, fortunately or unfortunately, never been much like anyone else. And Pavi—well, she had brought him hope, had caused him to believe that he could somehow survive like this, indefinitely. Had he become complacent in his routine of writing by day, and receiving her sustenance and company each night? Alas, such life-prolonging rituals would soon be over.
