My sailor pissed on the cobblestones right before we got down to business, and the acrid smell of the urine tortures my nose as he gropes my breasts with his meaty hands.
At least they didn’t ask us to do anything to each other. At least we’re out of the wind and I’m warmer now. At least—thank the gods, he’s coming. It’ll be over in a few minutes.
Sometimes I enjoy my work, on the rare occasions I get to be alone and do things my way, when I can tempt men I find appealing and take them back to a room at The Winking Siren. The rooms may be plain and cramped, and the sheets might need laundering, but I’ve had good sex there, over the years.
It’s not that I hate my profession—I simply want the chance to do it right, on my own terms. I want to take my time and create an experience I’m proud of afterward, instead of rushing from dick to dick. I want to have returning clients who can’t stay away from me, who will pay anything just to touch me again. I want to entertain beautiful men and learn every part of their bodies, all the threads I can pull to unravel them.
I can’t have any of that as long as I stay with Sylvie at The Winking Siren. But if I leave her, she’ll end up as one of the castoffs, the wraithlike beggars in the streets of Knockaine. And it will be my fault.
The sailor gives a last grunting shove, then pulls out of me. He stuffs himself back into his pants. “See you at the Tub,” he calls to his mate, who is still balls-deep in my mother.
As my mark saunters away, he flips me an extra coin over his shoulder, not caring that it falls into the puddle of his piss, or that I’m still standing against the wall with my skirts hiked up and his cum dripping down my thigh.
I hate my life. I want the elegant existence of a courtesan—beautiful beds and delicate clothing, wealthy clients who bathe before visiting. I’m tired of sores in my mouth and on my ass. I want to be tended by a healer, purged of all the little symptoms that tell me I’m already diseased.
The man buried in Sylvie glances over at me. “C’mere, sweetheart. Give her a kiss and a grope while I’m fuckin’ her, yeah? There’s an extra two rills in it for ya.”
Sylvie groans eagerly. She wants the two rills—not for any escape fund, but for the powdered cinnar she takes when she thinks I’m not looking.
I feel as if insects are crawling inside my skull, chittering and nibbling—gnawing away the last vestiges of my sanity, my self-worth. Bile surges up the back of my throat.
This is a line I haven’t crossed, one I’ve held despite Sylvie’s insistence that it would earn us more coin. I can’t do it. I won’t.
I drop my skirts, and I flee the alley, racing blind up the street, my vision swimming with hot tears. The Winking Siren looms up on my left before I’m ready to see it—a pinched, squished-looking house, with a garish pink mermaid swinging from an iron bracket over the door. It’s wedged between a dice house and a sausage shop, and the space out front is prime territory, presided over by Orgul’s favorite eve-walkers.
Despite my beauty, I’ve never gotten a chance to be one of those favorites. Orgul hates me almost as much as he hates my mother. Maybe because, no matter what he does to me, and no matter how much I pretend to submit, I never quite yield on the inside. And I think he can tell.
My housemate Aisu is petting the scanty hair of a rotund man in a rich coat. Her dark eyes widen when she sees me, and she extricates herself from the man’s embrace to hurry toward me. I whisk away my tears, confused—Aisu never leaves a mark alone once she’s got her hooks in.
“Risa, where have you been?” She grips my wrist and tugs me toward the entrance. “Orgul has been looking everywhere for you!”
“I was at the docks with Sylvie. Ship came in.” I touch the drawstring bag in my pocket. “Made some coin—”
“Forget that. A gentleman came in asking for a redhead, see? And Orgul is going to burst if you don’t get yourself in there. He tried to pass off Sazmi in a wig as a redhead, but the gentleman wasn’t fooled, oh no. He became so angry—hurry, girl, hurry!”
She hustles me through the front doors of The Winking Siren, into a parlor hazy with smoke. One of this brothel’s specialties is a particular blend of the hannas herb, imported from Thannira, a distant kingdom known for its devotion to war and pleasure.
I’ve been breathing hannas smoke ever since I can remember. It accompanies all my darkest, strangest memories, like being plucked from my mother’s arms and planted in a makeshift crib while she grunted and humped with a client in the same room. Like being trained to serve drinks and drugs to the raucous guests lining the couches of the cramped parlor. Like the first time I was given a client to service.
I swallow the memory and the nausea that rises with it, and I arrange a soft smile on my face as I move through cloudy air heavy with men’s drawling voices and the shrill laughter of women.
A hand shoots out of a doorway, gripping my arm with enough force to bruise. I know that grip, and the thick beringed fingers compressing my flesh. Orgul, the house-master.
He hauls me into his private parlor—a place where I’ve endured one too many unpleasant lessons over the years—and he pushes me forward.
I stagger a little before righting myself. My inner thighs are still sticky and my corset is creased, thanks to the mauling hands of the sailor I serviced. My fingers travel self-consciously to my head, smoothing the wind-blown waves.
The gentleman Aisu spoke of is standing before me, broad and imposing, his face concealed by a wolfish mask. He wears gloves and a scarf—not a bit of his skin visible. His clothes are finely tailored, in a richer material than usual for the men who frequent this house.
“This is the girl you asked for,” says Orgul, in his most oily tones. “A true beauty, and skilled in all the ways of pleasure. She gives the best head of any girl on this street—or any street in the city, for that matter. Trained her myself.”
I want to shake him off, to shove him away. But I don’t dare. I’ve suffered too many bruises at his hands. So I keep smiling, even as he forces me to my knees before the stranger.
“Take out our guest’s cock,” he orders. “Show him your skill.”
“Do no such thing,” snaps the masked man. “What’s your price for a week of her time?”
My stomach drops.
A week?
I barely hear the price they settle on. Orgul is cautious—wants to be sure he’s getting me back at the end of the week. He doesn’t release me into the masked gentleman’s custody until a document is hastily drawn up and signed. If I’m not returned to him in a mostly functional state, he’ll receive additional compensation. He checks my pockets before I leave, taking my small bag of coin.
Then I’m cloaked, hooded, and hustled out the rear door of The Winking Siren, into a curtained coach that stands waiting in the back street. The vicious wind whips a few strands of my hair out from under the hood as I climb into the coach. The masked man enters the vehicle as well, seating himself on the bench seat across from me. He pulls the door shut, pounds on the roof to signal the driver, and with a rattling lurch, we’re off.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to anyone. For all I know, this coach could be carrying me to torture and death. Girls disappear from Knockaine all the time, and no one cares.