Chapter 4
Four
She’s not a very good High Lady Courtesan…
The debutante’s harsh remarks place me in such a surly mood that eventually my attitude drives off my poor maid, and she never returns. My head submerges into the depths of the copper bathing tub, but the debutante’s words follow me down, deeper under the lilac-scented water.
It’s true: I don’t particularly enjoy being High Lady Courtesan, especially when teaching new girls ruthless manipulation is vital to their survival. Eventually, that tires out a person more than any romp in the sheets ever could.
Sex is easy.
Sex, I’m good at.
Sex doesn’t scare me like the constant judgment does. I reemerge, the water clinging to my features and dripping down the curves of my flesh, my nipples hardening as the cold air encircles them.
My feet pad onto the rug, and I wrap myself in a long dressing robe of evergreen velvet and step into matching slippers. Perhaps a little too thick for the lingering summer heat—but my skin remains chilly from the dampness, so the added warmth is welcome.
I grab the wine bottle I opened before my bath and try to pour another glass. It’s empty. The bottle is stupidly tiny, but if I’m being honest with myself, no amount of alcohol will take the edge off tonight.
Grumbling, I brush the knots from my soaked hair, but it needs to dry.
Instead of succumbing to my bad mood, I venture downstairs, onto the terrace, and out toward the manor’s garden to employ the breeze of the warm early evening.
Luckily, the summer storm has faded, and droplets falling from the blooms are the only remnants of its passing wrath.
Near the ceramic containers of pink cosmos, a weeping courtesan sits on a wooden bench surrounded by a handful of other ladies, their silver ceremony dresses twirling as they flit around her.
The crying girl is the young debutante I heard earlier in Vennisa’s chambers.
My heart twists. The sight of their group friendship serves as a bitter reminder of what once was with Vennisa and our other friend, Beatrix.
No matter how hard I try, rumination follows me everywhere.
The circle of women grows quiet at my approach. Worse than torture, the awkwardness is more than I can bear. I bite my inner lip.
“Are we being too loud?” the one with golden curls and freckles asks as the crying girl gives a great wail, her chest heaving with gasping breaths. “We are so sorry,” she adds, giving a warning look to her distraught friend.
“We didn’t mean to disturb anyone. Alisse is just upset,” a different debutante offers, her chestnut waves whipping her tan face as she tries to control the situation.
The younger ones are always nervous because of my status, and that nervousness makes it harder to connect with them. Making new friends or mentoring has been an impossibility for a long time. And after Beatrix left, I began to avoid social gatherings unless it was required attendance.
“You aren’t bothering me,” I say before another girl can interject. “This is your home just as much as it’s mine.”
More silence.
Alisse breaks into sobs once again—her coiled black hair melting to her forehead and tears slicking her rose-tinted cheeks. They cling to her eyelashes as she half-heartedly wipes the tears away while I come closer.
No glow emanates from her rich brown skin because tonight will be her first participation in the Rite of Allurement.
I’m struck by how young she looks despite her debutante age of eighteen.
I hadn’t questioned my own maturity when I debuted, but looking at her now, I get a sour taste in my mouth. She’s barely more than a child.
Had I appeared that young?
Surely not.
“Oh, sweetie,” says the older courtesan, her glow flickering with the stress of it all.
Alisse gasps out, “This—isn’t—my home. I miss my village, Borealla, where my academie is.
I miss the crisp air. I miss the people.
He’s there. And he loves me. But now I’ll be forced to become the plaything of some High Lord while we gallivant in carriages and preen about at balls.
This place is horrible, and I hate, hate, hate that I can’t leave. I want to go home to Robert.”
Everyone sucks in a breath, their eyes darting among one another.
A courtesan explains to another in a loud whisper, “The farmer’s son who dropped off the eggs…”
Nobody ever dares to complain in public. Behind closed doors with trusted friends, perhaps—but never in the gardens of the Bidding House. And we especially never confess to forbidden lovers.
My lips would crumble from my face before I admitted the existence of Captain Lir. His name dies on my tongue. A secret locked away, never to be uttered.
Being accused of simple harlotry, which is outlawed, is not something I would bring upon myself or any of my peers. The punishment would be at the hands of the priestesses, and they are to be avoided at all costs.
Alisse pushes her friend away and cries, “I’d rather fall on the sword of an Ashland warrior than be here in this prison.”
Their eyes snap to mine.
As High Lady Courtesan, I have a duty to inform Madame Phyrne, who would then make a report to the Spirit-Fae Cathedral. But truthfully, I see myself in Alisse and could never unleash those consequences on her.
“Ours is a unique burden to bear, but we have a life that most only dream of—free from poverty,” I say, twisting my fingers together.
“Some would call us lucky not to be toiling all day and to have the luxury of education and finery. If this Robert is smart, he’ll be glad you’re well cared for.
” I look around before adding the last part, “But most importantly… you shouldn’t let the wrong ears hear you.
It could jeopardize everything you’ve worked for. Don’t test the priestesses.”
“You don’t know Robert,” Alisse hisses, her heavy lashes drooping over fury-laced eyes.
“Don’t pretend that you do. He wanted to marry me.
At least the commonfolk can go home—a home no one forces them to leave.
I’d trade a life of toiling for that any day.
” She leans forward. “And sic the priestess bitches on me! I don’t care! ”
Arguing is pointless. “Just make sure Madame Phyrne doesn’t get wind of this.” I eye the exit beyond the terrace. “You’ll feel better after tonight. At least the uncertainty will be over.” I know it isn’t what she wants to hear. But what else is there to say?
I stride back into the Bidding House, intending to steal another bottle of wine from the kitchens.
* * *
The chiffon of my silver ceremony gown caresses my skin like rose petals, so tantalizingly soft that goosebumps rise along my arms. Unlike our everyday gowns, which often feature bodices, stays, and thick layers, these dresses require none of those.
The high waistlines cinch under our busts, making undergarments unnecessary, and the shimmering fabric leaves little to the imagination as it cascades to the floor.
With a swooping off-the-shoulder neckline, the thin material cups each swell of my scantily contained breasts.
I groan inwardly.
I’d be lucky if one didn’t fall out during the ritual dance.
As I tuck a strand of curly brunette hair behind my ear and catch one last glimpse of my reflection, I notice how drained and pale I look. Even as my glow shimmers across my skin, it’s no match for the sheer exhaustion that the anticipation of this night brings out in me.
Something catches my eye, and my heart freezes.
I blink, and it disappears, but I could have sworn that black shadows had curled in the mirror’s corner—a trick of the light as dusk envelops the kingdom and sinks the sky into a crimson-and-lavender haze.
Streetlights ignite in their globes as street workers make their rounds.
It’s time.
I rush downstairs to join the crowded departure as teams of horses, their hooves clopping and bells jingling, announce the carriages’ presence. They fill the breadth of the avenue with lines of gleaming cabs, all stamped with the royal emblem—the silver letter A with green ivy wrapped around it.
Madame Phyrne, dressed in a gown of deepest amethyst, stands with her silvery-white hair swept elegantly on top of her head as she directs the courtesans, one by one, into the carriages’ leather interiors.
Never one to shirk her duty, she always ensures we arrive at precisely the right moment for the best impact.
Phyrne’s bony fingers coil around my arm as she detains me for the last coach. With everybody gone, she pinches the underside of my flesh before I can place my foot on the step stool. I wince and turn to her, mouth gaping open and brow furrowing, more than ready to tell her off.
“Good. I have your attention. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you’d best make amends with Chancellor Black.
” She releases me and pulls a piece of thread off my sleeve.
“If he’s not your Keeper, your standing at the Bidding House will only sink lower and lower. You won’t come out as the winner.”
“Contrary to popular belief, I have very little to do with Balor Black’s decisions. So if I lose his bid, then so be it.”
She squints with those shrewd, beady eyes lined with age. “The higher the position, the greater the fall. If you think somebody else will make an offer on you, reconsider how precarious your circumstances truly are.”
Some Lady Courtesans have a new Keeper each season, but Balor has always ensured his bids for me are the highest, driving out every bit of competition. It isn’t something I ever thought about—until now.
“No one would dare go against the Chancellor and incur one of his grudges. I’ll have no alternative but to place you as an instructor, like Beatrix. My hand will be forced—don’t you understand?”
Her words twist the knife already lodged in my gut.
I nod.
A few years ago, my best friend, Beatrix, was forced to leave the Bidding House after failing to bring in a bid.
One day, she was a Lady Courtesan; the next, she was on a stagecoach to the Northern Province.
Even though it wasn’t her fault that her Keeper had died, nobody wanted to deal with her broken heart.
If she’d refused her new role as an instructor, she would have been forced to forfeit herself to the Spirit-Fae Cathedral.
Instead, she chose an academie to prevent the priestesses from taking her tongue, as they do with all their new recruits.
It was a hard transition, losing Beatrix.
Crying myself to sleep for almost a year after she left, I felt something break deep inside of me. It was then that I stopped caring about the rules as much. Stopped caring about anything other than getting lost in a book and hiding from the world.
But if my fortunes falter now, there will be very little within my power to fix them, and tonight, under Madame Phyrne’s sharp reminder, I fear for my future.
I’ve become too accustomed to nice things—the hours of leisure, the grand rooms, the delicate fabrics.
I’m as soft as my surroundings, and I don’t know if I can handle life outside the Bidding House.
A wave of panic grips my ribcage.
What a fool I am.
This fear makes me question the decisions leading up to my most recent fight with Balor. My teeth gnaw at my bottom lip.
The horses stomp impatiently, ready to depart, as Balor’s voice screeches in my mind: Why would I bid on you again? It’s the same thing every year, yet you still refuse... Perhaps I need a younger courtesan who’s too stupid to argue.
What he wants is too great.
I can’t do it.
I won’t.
I’ve done too much already.
Madame Phyrne strokes my curls like she’s just discovered her maternal instinct.
Disliking the sensation, I bend out of her reach, but she stops me by snatching at my collarbone.
“Try to search for him before the ceremony. He’s the only Keeper you’ve ever had.
It counts for something. Show him you’ll be the woman he wants you to be.
There’s a reason he keeps you. Find it, dig it out, and secure his bid once again.
” She grabs my palm and assists me into the cab, but as her skin meets mine, she hisses and pulls away, clutching her hand.
Phyrne closes the door with a SNAP before I can ask her if she’s all right. The horses trot off, lurching me backward into the bench seat. I twist to peer out from the tiny rear window and see her collapse as several servants rush to her side. My heart drums against my chest, feverishly fast.
The whispers fill my mind, tangled and garbled.
Is she hurt?
Sick?
I want to bang on the roof and demand they return, but the drivers refuse to listen to Lady Courtesans. They only obey commands from the Master of Horse, who receives direct orders from King Xander. Sour acid rises in my throat when I think of how helpless I am to do anything for her.
People line the roads as they feast and party.
Laughter and music fill the air, and women in long dresses dance in the streets with their partners.
Their bare feet pound to the rhythm of fiddles and drums beneath hundreds of colorful lanterns that light the way to the castle.
On every corner, Alexandrian banners blow in the night breeze as rum barrels are placed under them for all to enjoy.
On a typical Bidding Ceremony night, I wave at the people and toss coins, but now my arms refuse to move.
In the dark cab of the carriage, my palms struggle to stay bright.
I shake my hands vigorously as if I can fix the fading glow.
Passing a group of screaming children, I toss the entire bag of coinage out the window, slumping back in my seat.
I’m unable to think about anything except Madame Phyrne and her haunting words.
But would it be too late to make amends?
Deep down, I already know the answer. Balor will not bid on me tonight.
The bruises after our last fight are still faintly visible under my gown—every tender touch a reminder.
A little part of me is glad Lir couldn’t see the marks when he ran his hands over them.
This isn’t something he can protect me from.