Chapter 1
One
“Lady Courtesans don’t deserve half of what they get.”
“Issa wasted on ’em.”
“She should stick to High Market.”
I try to block out the never-ending gossip that mixes with the clatter of wagon wheels on the ancient cobblestones.
“Would ya lookie at that? It’s Tabitha Rilea over there—”
“Aye, and she’s even lovelier in person…”
Hand-painted signs sway above the bakeries and fruit stands as I weave along the narrow avenue, sidestepping servants in search of ingredients. Little children run underfoot, playfully butting one another, their curved horns protruding from their foreheads.
Newly arrived from distant realms, humans and beastfolk crowd the thoroughfares, all gawking at the banners that flutter against the cloud-swollen sky.
As the last kingdom in the Human Realm to still hold the Bidding Ceremony, the Kingdom of Alexandria draws travelers from every corner of the map—all curious about the fabled courtesans who glow brighter than the stars.
It’s a shame paint now peels from most of the half-timbered homes and shops—patches spreading across their thatched roofs like bandages on a dying man.
A strange, aching nostalgia settles on my chest. The newcomers will never experience our beautiful streets as they were before we started losing the war against the Witch-King of Ashland.
It hurts remembering when Alexandria used to gleam with vibrancy, when I welcomed every challenge as a debutante. Ignorance was bliss in that way. But now I’m twenty-eight, and the capital city’s decline matches the cracks forming within me.
The Bidding Ceremony is today. So I’ve been indulging in the distraction of shopping.
Born with a keen eye for spending, I always find a reason to open my coin purse, whether that’s for the fourth-generation dressmaker or the local minotaur farmstand, but most especially for the bookshop to buy romantic novels—usually the ones with racy titles that make the noblewomen blush.
Though they pretend not to read them, these same ladies will send their maids to purchase copies in order to mask their guilty pleasure.
Personally, I could never hide my weakness for books.
It would be like trying to conceal breathing, and I’d sooner go without air in my lungs.
The same dinners and balls, repeated endlessly, make the literary world a vital escape, one I’ll pay any inflated price for.
But I know, deep down, no amount of my patronage will fix the invisible fissures afflicting the common people running these shops—neither would it change their opinions of me.
The surrounding voices continue as if I’m not there. I keep pace, focusing on the rainbow-colored silk bolts at the stall.
“Didn’t expect her to be out on the day of the Bidding Ceremony.”
“Think she’ll retake the highest bid?”
“I would hope not!”
A half-kraken fisherman, reeking of stale rum, slithers by as he heaves a weighted barrel of salted fish with his purple tentacles. Voice coarse from drink, he mutters, “A pretty tabby cat I’d pet all night…”
I keep walking, pretending not to hear, and he passes by.
“—whore!”
The word hits like a jagged rock meant to maim. I lose my balance and stumble into the filthy puddle I’m avoiding. Water—and what I hope isn’t excrement—invades my ankle-length boot, seeping between my toes and causing a shiver to run up my spine despite the late-summer air.
Across the street, the apothecary’s cracked window reflects my vexed face.
My glow flickers.
Aware that all eyes are upon me, I keep my luminescent features expressionless and my posture graceful.
I don’t want to give them something new to write about in their scandal papers.
Their rumors grow increasingly wild to spur sales, and unfortunately, it works.
So much so that the wicker basket hooked onto my arm conceals the gossip newspaper under a heavy stack of novels.
Even I can’t help but read the horrid things they publish about me—they’ve successfully turned me into a mockery in their salacious renderings, complete with my signature waist-length curls.
And if I’m being honest, it’s not the first time a commoner has called me a whore either, but it hits differently now, my Keeper’s voice echoing in my head, calling out the same slur. My stomach tightens with a barbed pinch, but I steady myself, taking a deep breath through my nose.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I twist just enough to peek at who said it.
A group of lowborn women huddles around a wooden wash barrel.
Soapy water overflows in waves as they scrub homespun clothes on corrugated washboards.
Their eyes drop when they notice me looking, yet they continue whispering until one bursts with shrill laughter.
Whore.
Courtesan.
Property.
It’s all the same to them. They don’t see me as Tabitha Rilea. They don’t see me as a person at all. I exist solely for their entertainment, which sometimes comes in the form of malice and contempt.
The finery I wear and the decadent food and parties I enjoy with the nobles make them both obsessed with and disgusted by my kind, despite neither of us having control over our fates in this aging kingdom.
We both trade our bodies, just in very different ways.
Sadly, we are more alike than they care to admit.
The cathedral bells ring out; it’s late, and I can no longer shop for peace of mind. The spire towers over the market, casting its crawling shadow. The warning hum vibrates through my tense muscles, making me hesitate.
I need to head back to prepare.
But the corners of my mouth slowly turn into a feline grin, and my feet choose the path leading to the shore instead.