Chapter 3 Witch #2
Because while the Church of Scion had been the most popular religion within Ereba for hundreds of years, the complete integration of Church and State had been the result of the war that raged on across most of the continent.
The Church of Scion, with all the power and authority they had, fighting the meagre yet scrappy resistance movement.
Those who fought for the separation of Church and State, my father among them, had lost. Now, even though the governing body was still elected democratically, the head of state was the archbishop, and he had final say on any and every law.
The only higher authority was the god that Scion worshipped so fervently.
“Maybe the tattoos were for a performance piece. This square is always full of street performers.” I had to change the subject. This was far too uncomfortable.
“No. Those were runic tattoos. She’s a witch.
Probably a whore too,” Seff hissed. I didn’t know what to make of it.
I hated to get political. I wasn’t fond of the tactics of either side in the war.
My father had been killed in a reckless battle that was organized by resistance leaders who didn’t care about the casualties that ensued.
In my mind, both sides were to blame. But Seff was a believer.
He had always followed the Church of Scion.
I tended to change the conversation whenever the subject of religion or politics arose.
“How long are your parents in town?” I asked.
Seff’s shoulders lowered as we drew farther ahead of the tattooed woman. Aside from that first sneer at Seff, she made no indication that she even noticed us.
“For a few months—at least until summer. My father has business here to attend to.”
We didn’t speak much for the rest of the walk, but Seff seemed less on edge by the time we arrived back at the modest apartment I shared with Carlotta.
Even though Carlotta was the prima donna and made a much higher salary than I did, we still couldn’t afford a luxurious home.
This place was quite a bit nicer than anything I could have afforded on my own, though.
And it was in a prime location, so close to the opera house.
As we hardly spent any time here, I don’t think either of us minded.
“Are you hungry? I’m starving after that rehearsal.
” I groaned as we made our way into the little kitchen.
It was small, but cozy. We had mismatched plates in several different colours.
The curtains were a cheerful red gingham pattern and the walls were decorated with a floral border that had tiny flowers in the same shade as the curtains.
Seff shook his head, sitting at the kitchen island that served as our table.
I gave a suit yourself shrug and opened the chestnut cupboards looking for something to eat.
I winced at how messy the little kitchen was.
My dishes were still stacked by the sink from breakfast. I shouldn’t have brought Seff here when it was in such a state.
I rummaged around for a bit, finding two croissants wrapped in brown parchment paper that Carlotta had bought the day before.
I grabbed them and some strawberry preserves, and I started to dig in.
“You must be hungry,” he noted, watching me scarf down the first croissant. “I didn’t think girls ate that much—or that quickly.”
It wasn’t exactly a dig, but it made me self-conscious as I eyed the second croissant, my stomach growling.
“Yes, well, I guess you haven’t known many ballerinas.”
“I have known a few, but they were usually pretty conscious about their figures,” Seff responded. Again, I eyed the second croissant. I was still famished, but I didn’t want Seff to think I was a glutton as well as a slob, so I changed the subject again.
“What business does your father have in Lutesse?”
“He’s made a large investment. I’m not supposed to talk about it before it is announced officially. I’m sure you’ll hear about it soon enough.”
Fine. If he wanted to be cryptic, that was fine. Talk of investments and wealth made me uncomfortable anyway. My upbringing was not as financially well-off as Seff’s.
“What are you going to wear tonight?” Seff, taking a page out of my book, also changed the subject, interrupting my train of thought.
He probably wanted to ensure I impressed his father when he introduced me.
Feeling emboldened, I brushed some errant croissant flakes off my shirt, crossing the tiny kitchen to stand in front of him.
“Hmmm, I was thinking about wearing some skimpy little flapper dress. Maybe a plunging neckline?” I leaned in, pressing a light kiss to his lips.
Seff’s eyes widened. He looked scandalized.
“Or maybe I could save that one for the after party?” I raised my eyebrows.
He glanced down, his eyes conveying a different type of hunger as they raked over my body. “Probably best to save that one,” he gritted out. “You know how my father feels about ladies’ fashions these days.”
Seff’s father, as an important member of the Church of Scion, apparently did not approve of the more popular Lutessian fashions.
In some of the more conservative countries in Ereba, the dresses we wore here had already been outlawed.
Lutesse was one of the last bastions of freedom of expression.
But if I wanted to be with Seff, I had to impress his father, so I would cow to his preferences.
“Sure. In that case, I’ll go with the blue one.”
Seff’s father owned Montmartre—one of the most exclusive clubs in Lutesse’s vast entertainment district.
On the outside, it was unassuming—a white stone building nestled among the artist studios and other clubs of the district—but the inside was opulent.
Montmartre’s floor was a sea of glittering black tiles with crimson velvet banquettes.
Sparkling crystal chandeliers adorned the high ceilings.
At Montmartre, writers gathered to discuss their latest satires, pounding wine at a rate that would shock and alarm most. Artists and painters would huddle at the little round tables and argue about the latest trends in colour and expression.
They came from all over the world to live and paint in Lutesse and experience her rich art and culture.
I had been shocked to learn that the viscount owned the place. Montmartre was the club to see and be seen in the entertainment district; it went from a high-end dining room during dinner hours to a sultry nightclub in the evenings. And while it was luxe and fancy, it wasn’t exactly conservative.
The women there were always dressed to the nines, twirling in a sea of fringe and feathers, knee-high stockings and high-heeled shoes. There were neat finger curls and short bobs atop every head, and large gaudy jewels adorned the necks and ears of all attending.
The men would be dressed in sharply tailored tuxedos, hair sleek and slick, their solid black and white colouring the backdrop to the flashy ladies’ peacock blues, violent purples and shocking gold and silver.
There were risqué cabaret dance performances throughout the night, and the jazz band played on through it all.
The dance floor was the place to be, and bottle service was a must. Free flowing champagne and laughter provided the soundtrack for the evenings.
And while champagne was the drink of choice for many at Montmartre, the club was most famous for its champagne and absinthe cocktail called Death in the Afternoon, which could knock a full-grown man on his ass.
In typical Lutesse fashion, the food was also not to be missed.
Montmartre employed the best of the best in the culinary world, and the kitchen was rumoured to be a brutal and unforgiving place.
They regularly made it onto all the “best of” lists in the city, which added to the list of reasons why it was difficult to even get into the club.
I had only been to Montmartre a handful of times, each time as a guest of Carlotta. Maren and I took full advantage of her fame when we could. We were no strangers to a Death in the Afternoon cocktail, or the trouble that ensued following its consumption.
Tonight would be a different sort of night.
Seff’s very conservative father would not be impressed by our usual drunken antics on the dance floor.
I would have to stick to a strict two-glass maximum when it came to the free-flowing champagne, and absolutely no absinthe allowed.
Seff would also not approve of our usual nightclub attire, which was risqué at best and bordered on scandalous.
It wasn’t that we were exhibitionists or trying to lure all the men at the club into our beds.
Men rarely factored into our fashion choices at all.
Maren and I were so used to the discipline and strict uniforms of the ballet that when we had a chance to shed all the propriety, tights, buns and restrictive clothing, we took it.
The jazz clubs we frequented when we were not VIPs at Montmartre were even more laissez-faire; Montmartre seemed stuck-up in comparison.
And Carlotta was Carlotta: she was going to be photographed and her nightlife appearances would make an appearance in the paper the next day.
Part of her job was to look amazing, and that rarely meant donning something modest.
My palms prickled and my tongue turned to sandpaper whenever I thought of meeting the viscount.
It was such an important meeting, the outcome of which could decide the trajectory of my entire future.
So I picked out the most modest dress I owned and practised making demure faces in the mirror as I dressed.