Trigger warning: implied sexual abuse
*****
"You sure this is a good idea?" Tawni asked as they walked Exousía's streets. She never liked the red-lipped Madame Bourcier, or her perfect house. She looked at Eliott, then down at herself with a hint of vicious pride. Neither of them dolled themselves up for the occasion; he still wore his favorite cheap wool coat and waistcoat (she swore, that man never seemed to get warm enough), and she a wrinkled, moth-eaten shirt and pants.
"'Course I am," he said. "Madame's called. It's only polite to answer."
They were out of place walking down the upper class residential streets of Exousía—rabbits in a fox den. What with the gargantuan houses, all various shades of white and cream and sometimes even salmon; their elegant but prison-like gates; the smattering of workers tending to the already-perfect shrubs and trees.
"Who says you've gotta answer in person?" Her eyes raked his face, but Eliott didn't give; he didn't even look at her. He shook his head.
"It'd be stupid not to. Letters aren't reliable. Neither is word of mouth. You know that."
"Yeah, but—"
"Look, I'm not fucking making you come in and watch," Eliott snapped—well, "snapped" was a strong word, but there was an edge to his voice now. "Go if you want. But I've got a fucking job to do. Stay outta my way, and don't make a fucking scene."
They arrived at the wrought iron gates of Madame Bourcier's property. Tawni shoved her hands in her pockets.
"I'm coming with you," she said.
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
He side-eyed her. He had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen.
As he strode through the gates, she swore she heard him mutter, "Well, thanks."
*****
"Come in, Eliott." Madame Bourcier's nasally, alluring voice beckoned from within her office. Her whole damn manor smelled of nauseating, rosy perfume, but with a burned, sickly sweet undertone. Tawni scoffed to herself. And to think she bragged about supplying Exousía's underworld with opium without ever having touched a drug. What a liar that woman was.
Eliott pushed himself off the wall with a little more effort than he meant to show and stalked into Madame Bourcier's office. Tawni followed, chin up.
The tall, moulded ceilings and cream walls might have felt freeing to some, but to Tawni, it reminded her of a bird's cage. A gold-accented, rosewood desk sat perfectly centered with the window behind it, and in front of the desk, a gold-accented chair. In the desk sat Madame Bourcier herself, her brown, grey-streaked hair swept into a stern updo and her mouth stretched into a red-lipped smile.
With her steel-grey eyes locked on Eliott, Madame Bourcier didn't spare Tawni a glance as she stood by the door. "My little worker bee. Tell me how it went."
Eliott rested his hands on the back of the chair, but did not sit. "You hardly coulda called it a poppy farm. It was just a couple of twenty-something amateurs." He jerked his chin toward Tawni. "We burnt the poppies and gave 'em a good scare."
Madame Bourcier's lips thinned. "You let them go?"
"'Course I did." Like Tawni, Eliott kept his chin high. Though he was playing with fire, she couldn't help but feel a ripple of pride. Way to stick it to her.
"Why?" Madame Bourcier did not blink.
"They were just a couple of fucking nobodies."
She said sternly, "Eliott."
