Prince of Traitors

Owin

The healing salve cools my skin under the bandages wrapped around my midsection. It's the one thing I am grateful for in this wretched place. My jeweled sandals scrape against the floor as I swipe a broom along a small section of the parlor. The dust gathers in a tiny mound on the stones.

Madam Camilla tasks me with cleaning the pleasure house while my back heals. She has deemed me unfit for her customers until she can train me to and please her customers with feigned enthusiasm like her other girls. She says I will learn to arch my back so my chest looks bigger, make the noises men like to hear, or she will whip me again. She promised to whip me as many times as she needs to. She says I'm too ornery. Too savage.

My back still aches days later. I keep my spine as straight as I can, careful not to bend over too far.

A woman reclines on a sofa in a sheer red dress like my own. She's a girl, really, her body not quite grown into itself. She rises when the front doors open, and a man in fine clothes strides in. She takes his hand and leads him into the courtyard, taking him to one of the private rooms on the ground floor.

I watch as he pinches her rear in its translucent fabric. She pretends to smile. She glances at me, and her eyes are dull and dead.

I move up to the balcony overlooking the courtyard of the pleasure house. I sweep my broom in small motions along the walkway, only half paying attention to what I'm doing. I pass by a doorway that stands ajar and pause.

Inside, a wrinkled man mounts one of Camilla's whores. She moans mechanically, arching her back. She turns her head as the man leans down and kisses her neck. I watch as the woman squeezes her eyes shut, her face tight.

My heart thunders and I feel the blacksmith's clumsy hands on me again. I feel his rough skin as he forced himself on me, the stone bricks scratching my face—

Suddenly I feel sick. I drop the broom and it clatters onto the floor. I suck air in and out too quickly as I rush down the stairs and burst into the washroom off of the main parlor.

I retch, spitting bile into the chamber pot in the corner. I sit hunched over it, gagging though nothing more comes up. My stomach reels.

I slump back against the wall with my knees up. My chest heaves and the sash around my waist squeezes my ribs so hard I can barely breathe. I press the back of my hand to my mouth to muffle the sob rising up from my throat.

I'm trembling all over. I try to breathe through the sobs racking my body, but I can't get enough air. A shaking gasp breaks from me. I curl in on myself, wrapping my arms around my knees and tucking my face into the pocket of darkness it creates.

Slowly my breaths come easier. My panic begins to ebb. I raise my face, swipe the tears from my cheeks and neck with my hands. I lean my head back against the wall, my throat stinging.

I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing. My back is still raw from Camilla's whipping; it's the only reason I'm cleaning the parlor instead of removing this damned dress for a customer in one of the private rooms.

I have to get out of this place. I don't think I will survive here.

*

I let my back heal for a few more days, until it itches with scabs under its dressing. I emerge from my room one night to find the pleasure house crowded. I duck around the teeming clusters of people in the parlor, the whores in their sheer dresses and customers in nondescript clothing. The women sidle up against their customers, their bodies pressed close together.

The place reeks of wine. The clamor of voices and moans from the private rooms is loud in my ears. The men grope the whores openly, not even bothering with the private rooms. Madam Camilla's laugh is high and lilting over the cacophony. I glance at her; she's distracted, a glass of wine in her hand as she cools herself with the flit of a paper fan. She doesn't see me as I grab a cloak and a brimmed hat that a customer discarded, draped over a sofa.

I pile my hair atop my head, tucking the silver strands under the hat and pulling the cloak around my shoulders. I duck my head and slip out the door as a group of drunken men hold it open to get inside. I'm warm under my cloak in the summer air.

I stuff my hands into the pockets of the cloak as I walk along the cobblestoned streets of Highcaster, the stars above leading me north.