Seven Witches

four

The water dripped down Cythera's face, trailing down to fall onto her manicured toes. Her hair clung to her face like the unease clinging to her bones. The bathroom was no close to scandalous but it was enough for her to wash, big enough for her to move a little.

Stepping out of the cold water, she dried herself in a purple cloth, taking some of the aroma oil and rubbing it on her neck and wrists. She dressed in her usual white gown, waiting for her hair to dry.

She watched her reflection, eyes darting to her face and the rest of her. Cythera put a finger to the birthmark under her jaw, tracing the outline with the tip of her nail. "It looks like a candle flame," Hera whispered.

Some people believe that birthmarks are where someone was killed in a previous life. A small chuckle rasped out of her. Her previous self must have been one vicious bitch to have gotten a knife to the throat.

Stretching her long legs on her bed, she willed the glamour to vanish from her chest. The tattoo was stark against her pale skin, the swords driven into one another inside the triangle reminded her of the first time it had appeared.

The mark had appeared on her first bleeding. That day she'd felt the tingling of embers run over her skin, hot and small. She was afraid of it, thought she'd caught some terrible disease and went to seek a nurse. Until the day she dies, Cythera will never forget how the nurse's face had gone ashen when she saw the print on her chest, how she had bandaged it tightly with trembling fingers.

"Hide it and tell no soul. No eyes should see it, not even your mother would know of it." The nurse's wide eyes darted to Cythera's face, hands cold as they wrapped the cloth around her chest. "They will kill you—if anyone saw it. They will kill you with very little mercy so don't you ever dare tell anyone about it."

To this day, she was grateful for that nurse's help, visiting her every once in a while to check up on her. The poor woman had grown old and wrinkled, too tired to work in the infirmary. A little ugly voice in Cythera's head tried to convince her that it would be soon she dies, the secret dying along with her.

Tying her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, she wore a wool shawl around her shoulders to drive the cold away. Spring will be arriving soon, and she'd have to get new clothes for the coming summer. She was sick of the fur and the frost biting her fingers, glad that the weather would finally calm.

Heading down the hall, she practiced what she'd tell Tetka Helen once they meet. I would like to borrow a fortune from you, I'm not sure how I'll be paying it back but I need it today.

No, that would never work, Tetka was not a woman to risk her money. My sister and I need money to attend the annual ball. Will you lend me a fortune?

She sighed, already seeing Tetka Helen's twisted face, the crook of her lip as she beheld Cythera's request.

A small throb began in her temples and she massaged it away. Trying won't hurt anyone but her pride which she did not mind getting hurt. She would soon smell the dizzying perfume from the pleasure hall, feel the melody of the music dig into her flesh as she fought the unending discomfort twist her gut.

I'd work twice the number of hours, and I won't take my pay next week. But that was not right either, if she didn't take her pay next week Hera and her might both starve or die from the cold.

She spotted Tetka sitting among her other girls, eating grapes with her bony fingers, her black silver streaked hair loose around her fragile shoulders. Cythera had a wild thought that if she pushed Helen down the stairs she would easily die. She blinked at it.

Tetka's blue irises found her, thin lips painted red as she chewed slowly. A tight smile formed on that wrinkled mouth, her pearl earrings taunting. Her silk gown, all the jewellery on her throat and wrists, all of it was paid by the hard work of those girls, including Cythera.

Without a word, she sat beside Tetka, legs folded under her. She picked a cherry and popped it in her mouth, careful as she took the seed from her mouth. "You look lovely my dear," Helen finally spoke, eying the patch of skin exposing her slender arms, her breasts. She hated how Helen watched her, as if she was a flower she'd planted, a prize she had earned by simply watching her grow.

Forcing a smile on her lips Cythera said, "I'm here to make a request."

Helen nodded her head several times softly, puckering her lips as she ate a strawberry. "Go on,"

And so she told her, about the ball and her sister and how she would make sure to pay her every ruble hand to hand. Helen frowned at the sum, pressing her thin lips so hard they almost vanished. "You know I cannot give you that sum, even if I wanted to."

Anxiety dawned upon her but she was not disappointed, she knew this was what Tetka Helen would say, knew it was a lie as well. She'd seen the money she received that day, knew that she earned so much that she didn't ask Cythera to perform in days. "I'll pay you twice it," she said. "I'll work during the night hours, will make sure the clients pay you double." She could make the performance so outstanding with her illusions, could make the crowd feel ecstatic and pleasured so much they won't be able to leave.

She could do it all, and it still would not be enough for Tetka. "I'm sorry my dear, I wish I could help." Helen tucked a golden brown strand of hair behind Cythera's ear, touching her cheeks with her aging knuckles. "I have not seen love like that before, and it breaks my heart. Forgive me my dear " she murmured, letting her hand cup her cheek. "I could find you a suitable dress if you let me."

"It's fine," Cythera replied. But that was also a lie.

Back into her room, she found paper and ink. She had the rest of the day to think of what to write, of what to say and how to say it without sounding desperate or rude. Somehow, she always managed to be the latter without attempting.

Carefully, she wrote in perfect cursive handwriting: Make me an offer I cannot refuse.

Her Russian was poor on paper so the words did not really turn out as they were in her head. She contemplated signing her name below but then imagined the letter going to someone else and having to refuse proposals, or worse, the letter reaching his betrothed or lover and having to explain what she meant by offer.

After all, she signed it Aphrodite and left a peace of red lace inside the envelope. Not part of the lace dress she wore, but instead just a part of some old napkin she owned. She hoped he would understand, and fast.

Cythera had to walk all the way to the main wing of the palace to deliver the letter, and once she saw the guard stationed by the gates to the Tsar's private quarters, she handed it to him.

He eyed her scornfully, mouth pressed thin with a raised brow. "We don't deliver love letters." He said disdainfully.

She wanted nothing more than to smack that look from his face. "It is not a love letter,"

He sighed, handing her back the envelope. "I cannot give this to him unless it is a direct letter from the Commander or... a high born. I will not trouble his majesty with small talk." He turned his face, throwing another subtle insult at her feet.

Cythera did not feel awful when she had tricked the arrogant guard's mind. Did not feel a shred of guilt as she took hold of his thoughts and made him see the letter as a very important one that he should leave in the Tsar's room without saying a word. And finally, just to cool her head, she made him see blood trickling down his groin and let him freak out as she left.