Chapter 1 #2
Millie’s gaze was fixed on the wall, though Orelia suspected she wasn’t looking at anything. She had seen that vacant expression too many times on the other pleasure girls’ faces.
“Where are you from?” Orelia asked, though she already knew part of the answer. Beron had recently procured a few girls off a ship from somewhere in the Golden Triangle—a moniker for the three grossly rich cities surrounding Goldbottom Bay.
“Ricaboro. I worked at The White Pony,” Millie said flatly.
She had heard tales of the Pony. Said to be the finest brothel in all the land, where girls were painted in gold and men were said to lose themselves in pleasure for weeks at a time, never seeing the light of day.
As Ricaboro was the wealthiest of the three cities in the Triangle, it was understandable that a single tryst with a White Pony pleasure girl cost the same as a week with one of Beron’s.
Orelia dipped the cloth into the bucket and rung out the crimson water. “How did you end up here? If you don’t mind me asking. The Pony is certainly more lucrative than this place.”
There was no way Beron could afford Ricaboro girls. Not with what little he paid his own, and her. Orelia had to stretch each piece of silver she earned, but at the end of some weeks she’d skip meals until he paid her again.
“How does anyone? I was sold like a cow for milking, then shoved onto a ship with my arms and legs shackled until we arrived two days ago.” Millie’s turquoise eyes softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rude.”
Orelia awkwardly fumbled over her words. “Please don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have asked.” She should have known Millie never had a choice.
Orelia cleaned the final cut before tossing the cloth onto her worktable. She wiped her hands dry on her skirt and said, “I’m going to place my hands over the wounds and seal them, okay?”
Millie nodded, curiosity in her gaze and apprehension in her stiff posture.
“I promise it won’t hurt,” Orelia offered. “You’ll feel a tingling, but that’s just the healing at work.”
She waited until Millie gave her another nod of approval, then placed her palms side by side at the start of the cuts above her elbow.
Orelia pictured a ball of light inside her and called on the Omnimagia— an internal place where all beings who could summon magic could pull differing abilities from.
She didn’t know how it worked, only that she had to imagine healing a wound, or a broken bone, and it just . . .worked.
Orelia’s palms glowed yellow as warm energy flowed through her.
Matching yellow rings and shapes appeared on her fingers, and similar designs worked their way up her hands, painting her in the medicinal power of a witch.
The final piece—a golden vine wrapping around the entirety of her wrist—meant the healing was ready to begin.
Millie’s eyes blew wide as she stared at the various shapes. “I thought you might have been a wizard, but I didn’t know you were a witch.” For the first time that night, the girl smiled. “What else can you do?”
Orelia chuckled. Despite the ordeal Millie must have gone through receiving the wounds, there was still the hopefulness of youth in her high-pitched words. The same hope Orelia tried to find each day.
“I can summon objects and call them to me,” Orelia said.
Millie twisted in her seat, not seeming to care much for her injured arm as it slid through Orelia’s grip. “Can you show me? I’ve never met a witch before.”
Orelia looked at the candles sitting near the door and curled her fingers until her long, pointed nails touched her palm.
The candles slowly ascended and followed the sweep of her arm toward the workstation.
When they hovered over the table, she motioned her hand toward the ground, and the candles descended into empty holders.
“Humans are so boring compared to you magic-wielders.” Millie gave a dramatic eye roll, but she smirked.
Orelia laughed, but her smile immediately dropped. “Did you not have anyone at the Pony who healed you or the others?”
The girl’s excitement faded, her shoulders slumping. “No. No one was there to help us.”
Orelia’s heart pinched. It seemed even brothel-keepers in rich cities did as little as they could to take care of their girls. It was like Beron had once said: as long as they weren’t dead, they could work.
“My older sister, Tara, looked out for me the best she could, stealing sana from our boss’s stash whenever she was able. But when Doyle found out what she’d done . . .” Millie swallowed, and her eyes went misty. “He sent me away, keeping Tara there as punishment.”
Orelia didn’t have siblings, but Teegan was like a sister to her, and she couldn’t imagine being forced to leave her behind. She gently squeezed Millie’s fingers. “I’m so sorry. I bet you miss her.”
Millie’s lips curled into a half smile. “I do. It’s cruel, but it’s the way of the world.”
A solemn moment of understanding passed between them. It was the way of the world. But that didn’t make it right.
“The girls here are lucky to have you,” Millie said, wiping away a tear.
Guilt swept through Orelia like a ravenous wind. People needed her here. Their lives depended on her service. How dare she want to leave just to see what else the world had to offer.
She set her selfish dream aside and let her light shine. She healed the rest of Millie’s cuts until her skin returned to its smooth texture. The marks were gone, but she knew the memories never would be.
Orelia called on one of the jars, grabbed it out of the air, and handed it to Millie. “I noticed you were in pain when you sat down earlier. This cream is safe to use on any part of your body, and it will help speed along your recovery. It works for tears and small cuts.”
Millie popped the cork and breathed in the chamomile-scented ointment. “Well, it doesn’t smell like poison, so I trust you.”
She couldn’t tell if it was a joke, or if Millie expected a trick.
With the life she must have already lived at such a young age, Orelia imagined every decision the human made was thoroughly analyzed to stay alive.
A luxury Orelia often overlooked as witches’ bodies naturally healed themselves and could withstand most poisons.
Feeling a pang of pity, Orelia fished out a candy from a pouch she kept in her skirt pocket. “I know it’s silly, but I like to give these out. It’s just a piece of homemade caramel.” A poor consolation prize to the horrors the girls had to suffer, but it was all she could offer.
Millie took the sweet treat and gave it a sniff before popping it into her mouth. “Thank you.” She tucked a long strand of her straight blonde hair behind her ear and fixed the belt around her waist holding the sage fabric to her body. “Teegan was right. You are nice.”
Orelia beamed internally at the praise, but she couldn’t find it in her to smile while looking at the too young, too thin, too sweet girl she was sending back into the dragon’s den. Her eyes went to Millie’s freshly healed arm as the girl headed for the door.
“It will get easier, you know,” Orelia called out.
Millie paused, gripping the door frame. “Easier to deal with fae, or violent men in general?”
Better the girl knew now about what to expect working for Beron. “Easier to accept the hand you’ve been dealt.”
Millie gave a grim nod of understanding. Her eyes dimmed as she slipped out of the room on bare feet and returned to work.
Orelia sent a prayer up to Santh—the God of Protection—asking him to watch over Millie. She begged him not to let this kind of life turn the human into a walking void like the girls whose empty laughter could be heard through the walls of their prison.
Beron’s gruff voice sounded down the hall. “I don’t have another girl to spare. Handle them yourself until someone is free. Rae should be done soon.”
This was her opportunity. Orelia hurried to catch him. “Beron, can I speak with you?”
He side-eyed her as she fell into stride. The grump of a man avoided talking to her whenever possible, and her job stability seemed to teeter on the edge of whichever mood he was in that day. “What is it?” he rasped.
Dim trulights hovered near the ceiling, poorly guiding their way through the narrow hall that perpetually smelled of mold. Still a more pleasant aroma than the unwashed man beside her. “I heard you got some girls from the Pony.”
Beron stroked his thick mustache. “Aye.”
The hall spilled out into the main room where people filled the space in varied stages of dress.
Pleasure girls lounged on tattered furniture with eager lips pressed to their bodies, some with eyes lost to the drink, others languid from whichever drug they chose to partake in to dull their glum reality.
The earthy incense hadn’t ever been enough to quell the potency of sex and sweat wafting through the smoky air.
The incense clung to the walls, the furniture, her clothes, her hair.
The patchouli fragrance was a part of her and everyone else here, lingering like the ever-present threat of violence disguised in the sensual sounds.
Maroon tapestries cloaked the gray walls, and trulights were substituted for sporadically placed candles. Dark. Gloomy. Windowless. The perfect place to forget what time it was so patrons would spend more money thinking the sun had yet to rise and that it may have been time to go home.
Teegan lifted a hand in greeting from a chaise in the far corner where she sat perched atop a dwarf’s lap, his thick, tattooed arm wrapped around her waist. Orelia gave her a tight smile and followed Beron down the adjacent hall and into his office.
She shut the door behind them, and the nightly chatter became distant murmurs.
With a groan, Beron plopped into his chair, the stitches in the seat straining. He began rifling through the papers on his desk, ignoring her, as was customary.
Orelia fumbled her fingers in her skirt as she gathered the courage to ask him her question. Be assertive. You can do this.
She lifted her chin and stopped fidgeting. “I was wondering if you would be able to pay me now. It’s been two days since you said you would.”
If Beron could afford Pony girls, he could certainly afford her measly salary.
The portly man scrubbed a hand through his beard, a few crumbs falling out. “About that . . .”
“Please, Beron. I really need the money. I can’t go—”
“Spare me your sob story. Here.” He threw a small coin purse at her.
The weight was more than she was used to, and Orelia excitedly dumped out the contents into her hand.
She smiled from ear to ear. “Six silver? Is this my new salary?” She thought of all the things she could buy with her new income—fresh fruit and vegetables instead of week-old scraps the marketgoers didn’t want, a larger sack of flour, perhaps even a few ingredients for sweets.
Orelia was so lost in her daydream she almost missed Beron’s condescending laugh.
“Consider that a kind gesture for your years spent here,” he said, thumbing through the papers.
The bright possibilities of her future disintegrated as quickly as they’d blossomed. “I don’t understand.”
Emotionless brown eyes met hers. “This is your last night working here.”