Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
The Floralia
The barge that carried the women was quieter than I expected.
There was no laughter, no raised voices, no careless anticipation.
They stood or sat apart from one another, cloaks drawn close, masks worn carefully.
A few spoke in low voices, but most remained silent, gazes fixed anywhere but upon one another, as though acknowledging the strangeness of our shared journey.
The river slid past in darkness, the steady dip of the oars the only sound that broke the hush. Lanterns hung at the bow and stern, their light deliberately muted, enough to guide but not to comfort. The air was cold, damp with river mist, and I welcomed it. It helped keep my thoughts sharp.
The barge slowed as we neared a landing, the oars lifting in careful unison.
Lanterns glimmered ahead, set low along the shore, their glow filtered through branches that hung heavy over the water.
Beyond them, the faint outline of a path revealed itself, curving away from the river and into deeper shadow.
This was no public landing. It belonged to private property.
The house itself remained hidden, but its presence announced itself in subtler ways. Music drifted faintly through the trees. Laughter followed, softened by distance. Somewhere beyond the dark, the evening waited for us.
The ladder was lowered, and the women rose as one, movements hesitant, uncertain. One by one, they descended, boots slipping slightly on damp stone, cloaks gathered close. No one spoke. No one lingered.
When my turn came, I stepped down carefully, my boots finding purchase on the uneven ground. The river lapped quietly behind me, already indifferent to what it had delivered.
I did not look back.
The path away from the landing wound through a stand of trees, with lanterns hung at measured intervals to mark the way.
To one side, set back from the river and half swallowed by shadow, stood a long, low boathouse, its doors closed and its windows dark.
Gravel crunched beneath my boots, the sound swallowed quickly by the night.
Some of the women strolled ahead of me, others behind.
None by my side. We were a procession without fellowship, drawn forward for different reasons—curiosity, excitement, or something far darker.
As we walked, the house gradually revealed itself.
First, the glow of light through tall windows, softened by heavy draperies. Then the shape of the building itself, long and discreet, and kept deliberately apart from the river to avoid notice. This was not a place meant to impress. It was a place meant to receive.
At the entrance, servants waited. Women servants, their expressions composed, their movements efficient.
Surprisingly, my assumed name was not demanded.
“Your cloak, my lady?” one of the servants asked.
“No, thank you.” I wasn’t the only one who kept hers.
She shrugged and urged me forward.
Inside, warmth enveloped us, thick with perfume and candle smoke.
Music swelled from somewhere deeper within the house, lively and insistent.
The women were guided into a room already crowded with men who turned at our entrance with open interest. Hard to know how many were there, but certainly more than forty, I determined after a quick count.
They stood in loose clusters throughout the ballroom, coats discarded, glasses already in hand. Some had discarded their masks, most kept them. Laughter rang out loud, assured.
Conversation faltered as we crossed the threshold.
Not stopped. But shifted, subtly and unmistakably, as eyes turned toward us with open appraisal. Our later arrival had been intentional. I felt it in the way the men straightened, in the expectation that sharpened their expressions.
We were only a dozen or so women, all there by choice, all meant to amuse and entice. But we were not the true prize. We were merely the prelude. The main ‘entertainment’ would be the young women who’d been abducted. Who were not there of their own free will.
As we were ushered forward, the doors closed behind us with a sense of finality that did not go unnoticed. The warmth of the room pressed in at once, heavy with perfume, candle smoke, and wine.
I forced myself to breathe evenly.
The space had been arranged to encourage movement rather than rest. Furniture lined the walls, leaving the center of the room open.
Lanterns and candles cast a flattering glow that softened edges and blurred distinctions, making it difficult to judge distance or depth.
It was a room designed to dissolve certainty.
A low platform had been erected at one end of the hall.
I did not notice it at first, distracted as I was by the press of bodies and the hum of anticipation.
But then, a man stepped onto it, drawing attention without effort. He was well dressed, well fed, and utterly at ease. He wore a half mask that revealed his smile, one clearly intended to charm.
He lifted his glass. “Gentlemen,” he called, his voice carrying easily over the noise. “And ladies.”
The room quieted at once.
“Welcome to the Floralia,” he continued, smiling as though he were hosting a country supper rather than something far less wholesome. “You know why you are here, so I shall spare you unnecessary flourish.”
A ripple of amusement moved through the men. Some of the women laughed; most stayed silent.
“The evening will proceed as follows,” he said.
“For the next hour, you are free to mingle. To converse. To select your companion for a time or the night, should you wish to do so. Your offer must be mutually acceptable.” His gaze swept the room, lingering just long enough to make the meaning clear.
“This portion of the evening is entirely consensual,” he went on smoothly. “If either party declines, you are to move on. No explanations required. No offense taken. The night is long, and there are many pleasures to be had.”
A murmur of approval followed.
My jaw tightened, though my expression did not change. On the surface, the rules were almost respectable. Polite, even. That, I realized, was the point. It was what followed that revealed the rot beneath.
“The main entertainment,” the man continued, his smile sharpening, “will arrive in one hour.”
The room leaned forward as one.
“The young ladies will be presented to the gentlemen in two groups. All have been…carefully prepared for your enjoyment.” The phrasing slid past the truth without quite touching it.
“The nymphs are untouched. Unspoiled. Fully aware of the honor being extended to them. They are, of course, of age,” he added, as though anticipating the question no one dared ask aloud.
Except for the untouched and unspoiled line, his words were all lies.
“The gentlemen who have expressed a preference,” he continued, “will be permitted to bid for their company. Highest bidder chooses first. We will proceed from there.”
“Those who have been initiated—the votaries—will be presented privately at the appropriate time to the gentlemen to whom they have already been assigned.”
I forced myself to breathe evenly, to believe the stillness of my body would mask the fury and revulsion coursing beneath my skin.
“Until then, I encourage you to enjoy what the house has to offer.”
He raised his glass once more. “To the Floralia.”
The toast was taken up eagerly.
The rules had been laid down. The clock had been set.
I had one hour to find the women.
The platform emptied, and at once the room came alive again, sound and movement surging back into the space. Music struck up from somewhere, lively and insistent. Servants appeared with fresh trays of wine and food. The men began to circulate with renewed purpose.
I moved with them.
To hesitate would mark me as uncertain. To hurry would invite scrutiny. I allowed myself to be drawn into conversation once or twice, answering lightly, deflecting attention without seeming to avoid it. Compliments were paid and received without sincerity.
All the while, I scrutinized the perimeter.
I noted the doors that were guarded and those that were not. The staircases that led upward, the corridors that disappeared behind drapery. I watched which men moved with familiarity and which lingered at the edges, waiting for instruction or invitation.
And I searched for Nicky.
He should be here by now if all had gone according to plan. He would have arrived with the men, given time to blend in, to observe. I scanned faces beneath masks, postures beneath borrowed confidence.
Nothing.
A hand brushed my arm.
“Enjoying yourself?” a gentleman asked, his tone pleasant, his interest clear.
“Immensely,” I replied, smiling just enough.
“Will you join me?”
“Not at the moment,” I said lightly. “The night is young.”
He laughed and moved on, unoffended.
Minutes slipped by.
The women who had arrived with me soon began to disperse, drawn away into conversations, into corners, into rooms beyond my sight.
Some appeared eager, laughing too brightly.
Others were more cautious, their smiles carefully arranged.
A few drank deeply, as though courage might be found at the bottom of a glass.
Although I held one in my hand, I did not drink.
The weight of the coming hour pressed against my thoughts.
Somewhere in this house, a room had been prepared.
Not for pleasure, not for spectacle, but for containment.
A place where the nymphs and the votaries would be kept until they were required.
Guarded. Concealed. Deliberately removed from the revelry below.
I needed to find that space before their fates were sealed.
I had just reached the foot of the main staircase when a figure detached himself from the crowd and stepped into my path.
“Delilah.”
The name was spoken softly, pitched low enough not to carry. I did not need to see his face to know who it was. The tilt of his head, the stillness of him in a house given over to movement and excess—there was no mistaking Nicky.