A TRUE GENTLEMAN KNOWS WHEN TO DIE QUIETLY
Irode him until he stopped breathing, the burlap sack stretching beneath my palms each time I tightened my grip.
I’d soaked it in aconite the night before and it was still damp, carrying that bitter, metallic scent I’d come to recognize.
His wrists and ankles strained against the bindings, the rope biting deeper with every panicked pull, each breath growing more desperate than the last as the poison worked its way through him.
Three minutes, that’s how long it took. Three long, guttural minutes of my hips rocking in time with the headboard as it thudded against the wall, his gasps wet and uneven, until there was nothing left.
At The Oily Cat, we don't fuss over folks who can't follow the rules. Fussing leads to questions, questions dig up secrets, and secrets get you in trouble.
This place, my place, runs on discretion. But make no mistake: the rules aren't suggestions.
No Glove, No Love.
No Back Talk.
No Dwelling.
No Touching Without Permission.
They’re everywhere. Posted in every hallway, every room, carved onto mirrors with lipstick, and framed behind the bar. Ignorance is not an excuse, as they are impossible to miss.
First offense: An introduction to Emil, our bouncer, and a fine equal to your tab.
Second offense: Your body left bruised and broken in the alley.
Third offense: Let's just say that one doesn’t make it on the posters.
Lay a hand on my girls without their say, and you’ll be gone before dawn. Harm them in any way, and I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever do. So, as I look down at the lifeless man lying before me who had beaten one of my girls until her face was swollen and bloody, I didn’t hesitate.
The parlor glows with candlelight, lavender clinging sweetly to the air while sweat, smoke, and desperation fester underneath. The piano rattles out a lively tune, and the room rises to meet it with beer mugs clinking, foam sloshing down arms and onto the floor, and laughter filling the air.
Mr. Cromwell slips in just after sundown, offering the gentleman at the bar a passing word about heading out West. Strangers usually shine too bright in our little brothel, and the moment I see his shoes, I know immediately that he isn’t from around here.
His coat is tailored, too clean for the miles he claims, and he moves through the doorway without drawing notice from the others.
But I catch him the moment he crosses the threshold and there is something about him, something dark. And I don’t like it.
He lingers in the center of the room while the others lounge in their chairs, glasses raised in mid-conversation, lost in liquor and laughter.
His gaze moves across the parlor, taking in each girl, until it settles on Maeve.
I watch him carefully, following the sweep of his eyes as they pass over every detail, noting the way he focuses, and I feel that familiar prickle of unease.
She’s wearing a red silk dress edged with black lace, the skirt slit high along her right hip to reveal a matching black lace garter.
All my girls are beautiful, but Maeve has an aura that draws attention without effort.
Her full lips, almond-shaped green eyes, and copper curls falling softly around her heart-shaped face make her impossible to ignore.
I weave through the crowd, my gaze locked on the new visitor, “Welcome to The Oily Cat,” I say, proudly.
He turns, his eyes dark and empty. “Why thank you, Miss . . .?”
“Bernadette,” I reply, extending a hand adorned in a sleek ivory silk glove. “But you can call me Birdie.”
He takes my hand. “Bridger Cromwell,” he says, a grin brushing his lips before he presses a kiss to my knuckles.
“Passing through?”
“Westbound. Just thought I’d treat myself.” His chin lifts toward Maeve. “That one of your girls?”
“She is,” I confirm.
“She’s reeeal pretty,” he says, one eyebrow rising as his gaze roams over her.
“They all are. But she’s twenty-five for the night, ten more if you want an hour of drinks first, and you buy the round. No exceptions.”
He nods, handing over the cash in one fluid motion as I slip it into my bodice and whistle for Maeve.
She takes her time on the stairs, each step measured, her movements smooth, and unhurried.
“This is Mr. Cromwell,” I introduce. “He’d like to spend the evening with you.”
Maeve’s smile is practiced, warm and effortless, captivating in a way that draws people in without question.
But she feels the warning in my touch: two quick squeezes at her wrist, our quiet signal here at the brothel, letting her know that this one makes me a bit nervous.
She nods, just once, telling me she understands.
I watch their interaction carefully, as there's something in the way he looks at Maeve, a possessiveness that makes my skin crawl. But I can't interfere, not yet. I need him to falter first, to reveal himself, and when he does, I’ll be ready.
The upstairs overlooks the lower level, open and exposed. A wooden banister curves along the edge of the second floor, wrapping the space like a frame, with two bedrooms attached to each side.
The rooms upstairs are small and designed for comfort, with heavy curtains framing the windows, offering little light and plenty of privacy.
The beds are large, the sheets clean but worn, and the rooms smell faintly of lavender, incense, and the soft lingering scent of the women who have spent countless hours there.
Each room has its own distinct personality, though all share the same dark and intimate atmosphere.
Some rooms are draped with satin, the furniture covered in dark lace and velvet cushions.
Others are more modest, with only a simple wooden bed and a few chairs.
There are small vanity mirrors and dressers, worn down from use, where the girls sit and prepare for their nightly routines, painting their faces with rouge and powder and carefully arranging their hair.
A strange mixture of elegance and grit permeates every corner of The Oily Cat.
It is a space where men, and women, can escape the dullness of their lives, a place where they can lose themselves in a world of whispered promises and fleeting pleasures.
Yet, beneath the surface of every delicate gesture, there is an edge of danger, a reminder that beneath the silk sheets and velvet curtains, there are consequences for those who step out of line.
Maeve and Mr. Cromwell head into the second door on the far-left side of the building.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly before turning my attention back to the bar and the patrons filling it.
I'll check on Maeve in a little while, I remind myself while smiling in the direction of Elona, who is leaning up against the piano while the crowd of men beg her to dance a little for them.
Elona is wearing the dress I got her for Christmas, a sage-green velvet dress with lace detailing around the bodice that compliments her tan skin.
Her long black hair is in a signature tight braid down her back—“The way my people wear it,” she says—and her stunning hazel eyes with flecks of gold in them are outlined with charcoal, giving them the illusion of fire.
These features, along with her high cheekbones and sharp chin, make Elona desirable to these men.
She’s like a goddess, and they treat her as such.
I give her a quick wink, and she returns the favor before I walk over to the rowdy table to my left.
A group of men, covered in soot from the mines, is seated at the table, with their attention focused on one young man, hunched over in the corner.
I walk up to a pile of money being gathered in the center of the table as the older men lay a few slaps on the young man’s back.
“How you gentleman doin’ tonight?” I ask in my sweetest voice.
The young man hiding in the corner doesn’t look up at me, and I’m instead greeted by one of the older three.
“Just fine ma’am, just fine.” He cocks his head in the young man’s direction and says, “This here is Timothy. He just started at the mine this week, and we thought we would welcome him by paying for his first whore.”
I take my hands off my hips and walk around the table to face young Timothy, who looks so much like my boy that it takes my breath away.
“Pleased to meet you, Timothy,” I say, holding my hand out. He takes it and looks up at me with shy eyes, and I crouch down so we are face-to-face.
“You know, you don’t have to sleep with anyone if you aren’t ready,” I whisper, so that the other men can’t hear.
“You could always just tell them that’s what happened,” I suggest, quickly tipping my head towards the three men at the table with the pile of cash.
This seems to capture his attention, and he gives me the slightest smile before nodding in agreement.
“Good,” I say while patting his hand and standing back up. This time when I speak, it’s louder so that the entire table hears me.
“I have a real pretty young thing that I’d like to introduce you to.
” And I whistle for Violet to come over to the table.
Violet is the youngest girl at The Oily Cat, with baby blue eyes, blond hair, and innocent features.
She resembles a Victorian doll with her youthfulness and perfectly smooth pale skin.
I introduce the two of them, making sure to explain the rules to our newcomer.
“Violet, this is Timothy,” I say before adding, “he’s a little shy and was hoping to spend the evening with you, if that’s alright?
” I never make my girls go with someone they aren’t interested in.
It is always their choice. Violet looks at Timothy for a moment before a sweet smile creeps onto her face and she nods in acceptance.
“Timothy, honey, Violet charges fifteen dollars for the night and an extra ten dollars for an hour of talking and getting to know one another at the bar before heading upstairs.”