Chapter 5
Hannalinde
When Hannalinde had entertained the prospect of visiting a brothel, she’d imagined something dark and furtive, a cellar den with curtained alcoves and women in various stages of undress draped across paying laps.
The reality was more ordinary: a timber-fronted inn with a painted sign of a woolly lamb wearing a crown, flanked by cheerful window boxes of geraniums. The ground floor was a public house like any other, full of laborers and off-duty soldiers nursing their ale while they waited for an onion pie to bake.
Someone was playing a fiddle badly in the corner.
Carlijn marched through the door as though she visited brothels weekly. “Don’t stare at anyone,” she instructed, threading her arm through Hannalinde’s and steering her past the bar. “And don’t look shocked. It will draw attention.”
Hannalinde was not shocked. She was terrified.
She’d spent three days since the apothecary’s visit lying awake in the dark, one hand on her belly and the other pressed over her mouth to keep the scream inside.
She was tired of being scared, and her only hope of rescue was apparently a harlot named Pudding.
When Carlijn asked for her at the bar, the barkeep, a red-nosed man with a balding pate, jerked his thumb toward the stairs. “First door on the left.”
They climbed the narrow staircase to a landing where the tavern noise dulled and the air smelled of rosewater mixed with the ale. A row of closed doors lined the hallway, and behind one of them, someone was laughing.
Carlijn knocked on the first door. It opened to reveal a woman whose appearance matched her name. Round, warm, and inviting, she was perhaps thirty, with golden curls pinned loosely atop her head and a bosom that her ribbon-laced bodice presented like a gift.
“Looking for a job, are you?” Pudding asked, eyeing Hannalinde’s plain dress as she leaned against the doorframe. Then she gave Carlijn the same scrutiny, her gaze lingering on the heavy purse attached to her belt. “Or perhaps a bit of fun?”
“Neither,” Carlijn said, keeping her voice low. “We were told you help women in trouble.”
Pudding’s demeanor instantly transformed. She straightened and stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come in, come in. And shut the door behind you.”
The room was small and scrupulously clean. The bed was made with fresh linen, the washstand gleamed, and the floor had been swept recently. A vase of daisies sat on the windowsill beside a stack of folded towels. It was cozy and comfortable rather than the carnal den Hannalinde had anticipated.
“Sit anywhere you like except the bed, unless you want to pay.” Pudding grinned at her own joke, and Hannalinde found herself almost smiling. She took the stool by the washstand. Carlijn perched on a trunk at the foot of the bed, her ringlets bouncing as she crossed her legs.
Pudding settled into the room’s only chair, a sturdy thing with a plump cushion on it, and folded her hands in her lap. “How far along are we?”
Carlijn answered for her. “She’s a few months. Perhaps a little more.”
Pudding’s brows lifted, and she directed her reply to Hannalinde. “That’s late, love. Who told you about me?”
Hannalinde gnawed her lower lip, unsure whether to admit the source. “An apothecary.”
“Betje talks too much,” Pudding said fondly, but then her expression grew serious.
“I won’t lie. It’s quite risky at this stage.
The women I know who do this work are skilled, but they can’t put you back together if something goes wrong.
I’ve seen women come through it well, and I’ve seen women not come through it at all. You must be certain.”
Hannalinde’s fingers curled in her lap. “I understand there are risks. I just don’t see any alternative.”
“There are always alternatives,” Pudding said gently. “Do you have family?”
She shook her head, mouth pressed tight.
“Well, your friend here has a fat purse and a fine gown. I’m sure she’d help if it’s money that troubles you. And even if the father isn’t a good man, he undoubtedly has family who would step in to raise the child if you cannot face it.”
“Not likely,” Hannalinde murmured, hating how small her voice sounded. “He’s a gargoyle, and I don’t even know his name.”
“I see.” Pudding gave a sympathetic cluck.
“I hate to say it, but you gamble even more with your life if you’re carrying a gargoyle’s child.
They dig in their claws early and don’t readily let go.
I can put you in touch with a woman who might try.
She’s experienced and as careful as anyone in the trade.
But I won’t lie to you about the odds. At four months, with a half-gargoyle child, you’re rolling dice, and the stakes are your life. ”
Carlijn’s hand found her shoulder, squeezing hard. “She’s right, I would help you, if you want to keep it. I will help you. Only say the word.”
Sweet friend. “Your father will cut off your allowance if you share it with me, and you know it.”
“Then I’ll marry the wool merchant and give you his money.”
Pudding tossed her head back and laughed. “A good friend indeed.”
“What do you want to do, Hann, truly?” Carlijn whispered, her eyes round and glistening when Hannalinde glanced over at her.
The fiddle downstairs had stopped. In the silence, she could hear the muffled sounds of the inn: a creaking bedframe, a low voice, the clink of glasses and coins. Ordinary commerce. She’d come here expecting the same kind of transaction. Pay a fee, endure a procedure, walk away lighter.
But there was no guarantee she’d walk away. And even if she did, there was no guarantee the gargoyle wouldn’t just put another of his spawn in her. Only her death would prevent it. She had no other way to stop him.
The thought sat in her throat like a bone she couldn’t swallow.
“You’re not sure,” Pudding ventured kindly.
“I’m sure I don’t want this child.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “I’m sure I didn’t choose it. I’m sure I can’t raise a half-gargoyle baby alone in a city that already hates me enough.”
“But?”
“But I don’t deserve to die for it.” She stopped.
Her breath came in short, tight bursts, and she pressed her knuckles against her lips.
The baby hadn’t moved yet. She couldn’t feel it, couldn’t picture it, could barely accept that it existed.
And still, the thought of someone reaching inside her with instruments to remove it made her chest close like a fist. “Neither does the child, for that matter. We are the ones who must pay the price, but we are not at fault, are we? We did nothing wrong.”
“Of course not,” Carlijn said loyally. She scooted closer, looping her arm through Hannalinde’s, and leaned her head on her shoulder.
Pudding said nothing for a long moment, just watched Hannalinde with a shrewd expression. Then she reached into her bodice and fished out a few coins. She handed them to Carlijn. “Be a doll and order a tea tray at the bar, would you? We need some fortification to sort this out.”
Carlijn nodded, obviously grateful to be given something to do. Once she’d left and the sound of her heels on the stairs had faded, Pudding turned to Hannalinde.
“Don’t think too long on it, love. The longer you wait, the riskier it will be for you,” she said plainly. “It’s going to be hard either way. So you must pick your problem to solve. I will be frank with you: at this point, giving birth is safer.”
If only it were so simple. “Even if I survive a gargoyle birth, there’s still the problem of raising the child. I’m not sure I can. Every time I looked upon it, I would know how it came to be. How could I love such a child? And yet every child is deserving of love.”
“There may be another way to solve that problem.” Pudding’s gaze sharpened, reminding Hannalinde of when a scaccus opponent lit upon a move to play. “What if you had a protector? Someone with standing, who would raise the child as his own, give it his name and give you the safety you long for?”
Hannalinde’s stomach twisted. No one could keep her safe. “That sounds too good to be true. Like a child’s story with a happy ending that is impossible in real life.”
Though it was possible. She thought of her friend Idabel.
She’d managed a gargoyle pregnancy alone, had carried it to term and raised the child in the rookery while her mate was away at war.
But even though she and her half-gargoyle child were shunned by many, both inside and outside the Tower, she’d had her mate’s family to help in his absence.
And when he returned, he’d done everything in his power to protect her. To make her happy.
Hannalinde had watched with quiet envy, glad for her friend to have built a sweet little family but yearning for one of her own.
They’d written each other faithfully in the years since Idabel left Solvantis, though less frequently since she’d settled into her new home in the cliffs, absorbed by the demands of motherhood and her happy life among the gargoyles there.
But Idabel’s path had been carved by love, and Hannalinde’s had been carved by violence. They were not the same.
“It’s not impossible. You should visit the Nadir,” Pudding advised.
This was her solution?
Hannalinde’s jaw tightened. “I already did, to report the gargoyle who did this to me, much good it did. He turned me away. There was nothing he could do.”
“Hm.” Pudding stood and locked the door, then turned back to Hannalinde.
She studied her with the look of someone who held a great many secrets and was deciding which one to spend.
“What I’m about to tell you stays in this room.
If it gets out, I’ll know it was you who talked, and I won’t take kindly to it. Understood?”
Hannalinde nodded.
“The Nadir is in need of an heir. He told me so himself. He needs a mate and a child.”
She wanted to laugh. “Sadly, the child is not his, and I doubt I could convince him that it was, even if I could convince him to marry me. As you said yourself, I’m quite far along.”
Pudding pursed her lips and gave an exasperated sigh. “Must I spell it out? I have reason to believe he can’t father one on his own.”
The room tilted as Hannalinde grasped her meaning. Pudding was suggesting some kind of practical arrangement rather than subterfuge. “Why do you believe he’d want this? Want…me?”
“Because I know him better than most.” Pudding’s mouth curved into a smile. “He’s my client, though probably not in the way you’re thinking. He pays me for company. Conversation. A bit of entertainment. He’s never laid a hand on me, and trust me, I’ve offered. Begged, occasionally.”
Hannalinde flushed, trying not to imagine what she described. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need a protector and already have a half-gargoyle child growing in you.” Pudding’s eyes held hers, steady and unapologetic. “He needs an heir and can’t make one. Perhaps two impossible problems are each other’s solution.”
Hannalinde’s pulse throbbed in her ears. The Nadir? He was so grim and intimidating with his large horns and scarred face. He’d turned her away without compunction when she begged him for help. Now Pudding was suggesting she…marry him?
“He won’t want me,” she objected weakly. There was not a gargoyle in Solvantis who did not know of her father’s treachery. Who did not recognize her family name. It’d bring shame on the Nadir’s family to take her on.
“That, I can help with.” Pudding flung open a wardrobe that was stuffed with more gowns and petticoats than Carlijn’s. “I know just what he likes.”
A thudding knock sounded at the door and Hannalinde flinched reflexively. It was only Carlijn, who’d carried up the tea tray herself and was stopped by the locked door.
“What are you two whispering about?” she said as soon as Pudding let her in. She set the tea tray on the dressing table and began to pour for all of them.
“A new gown for your friend,” Pudding said, rifling through her wardrobe. She paused to accept a cup of tea with cream. “One that might solve several problems at once, if your friend has the spine for it.”
“Oh!” Carlijn clapped her hands, nearly upsetting the teapot. “I’ve been trying to get Hanna to get rid of that awful gray rag she wears for months.”
“Spot of rouge wouldn’t hurt her either,” Pudding added. The two of them were suddenly thick as thieves, poking about for ways to improve her appearance and therefore her chances at securing the Nadir’s interest.
The idea was absurd. Outrageous. The kind of scheme that belonged in a storybook, not in real life. Marry a gargoyle. Pass off another gargoyle’s child as his. Build a life on a foundation of lies, in a tower full of creatures who hated her.
But beneath the absurdity, beneath the fear and revulsion and sheer impossibility, something else stirred. A thread of logic, thin and bright, like a strand of gold thread.
He needed what she had. She needed what he could give. And neither of them had other options to speak of. Perhaps, if they were very honest with each other, very clear-eyed about the arrangement, they could help each other.
“I like the pink one,” she said, pointing at one of the dresses in the wardrobe.