Month 11, 919
Overlook Park, Endergaln
Mist clung to the lamps along Overlook Park, turning their light into pale, floating halos. The rain had stopped, but the stone still wept; water ticked down the wrought-iron gates and pooled in seams of the cobblestones.
The house waited beyond the fence — a squat, gilded carbuncle wedged between better addresses. Stained-glass gables caught what little light there was, throwing fractured color onto wet brass fixtures. Even the gargoyles looked embarrassed.
Ethan stood inside the foyer now, coat collar turned up, boots still shedding droplets onto a rug that probably cost more than his desk. The air was heavy with heat and a sweet cologne that clung to the throat.
Beside him, a squat man gleamed like a candied hog — rings thick on his fingers, a gold tooth flashing under the chandelier each time he grinned. The two men looked out at the porte-cochère and the carriage that just arrived.
A girl stepped from the carriage. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her makeup was smeared in fine lines, hair clinging in wet ribbons, but her spine stayed straight. Jack and Marco flanked her in velvet-trimmed jackets, each with a fist locked around an arm.
She twisted once against their grip — not to break free, but to test it. Her dress, once tasteful, was creased and wet, its fabric stretched where it shouldn’t be.
As she was escorted nearer towards Ethan and The Boss, she stilled.
Her eyes dropped, not in shame, but in resignation. She smoothed the dress with deliberate, slow hands, taking control where she could.
The Boss stepped forward. His cologne was stronger up close, laced with cigar smoke. He brushed a damp lock from her cheek with the back of a ringed hand. She fought the instinct to flinch.
“Tsk,” he said softly. “Look at you. Not even trying to dress respectably.”
His gaze lingered — shoulders damp beneath the fabric, the clinging outline of her chest, the hem twisted high at the thigh. She was still catching her breath.
“You found her fast,” he said to Thorne, rolling a coin between thumb and knuckle. The gold caught the light and painted his skin in warm flickers. He added it to a collection already settled within small pouch, gesturing a tip, before passing the coin purse into Ethan’s hand. “She’s clever, I’ll give her that. Damn shame she’s got no taste. Who was it this time?”
Ethan pocketed the coin pouch without looking at it.
“Vaelo Quent.”
The Boss gave a low chuckle, almost impressed. “The playwright? Hah. What’s a girl like you doing with a fancy lad like that?”
Ethan’s voice was flat, humorless. “Guess she liked his dialogue.”
She spat.
It caught Ethan clean on the cheek, warm against the cooling air. He reflexively turned his head, as if slapped.
The Boss laughed. “They always come back with a little fire left in ’em. Part of the charm.”
He offered his monogrammed, embroidered handkerchief. Ethan wiped the spit away, folding the cloth neatly before handing it back.
“Still—you do good work. Discreet.” The Boss’s eyes hadn’t left the stairwell. Jack and Marco were leading her upward, their hands like iron on her wrists. Her dress rode up again, bunching against the backs of her thighs. The Boss followed the motion with a slow, satisfied grin.
Ethan weighed the coin purse in his hand. Gave a shallow nod.
“Well then,” the Boss said, smoothing the front of his jacket. “If you’ll excuse me. This one needs another very long talk about respect…”
Ethan turned. The foyer doors opened to the night, letting in the damp breath of the park.
Behind him, footsteps retreated up the stairs.
Somewhere above, a lock slid home.
Next time, Ethan decided, he wouldn’t find her.
…if there was a next time.
Episode navigation
Previous
Previous:
Stories, Part 2Next
Next:
A Thorne of Lies
Back to: