Page 9 of Crown of the Courtesan

It’s time.

I rush downstairs to join the crowded departure as teams of horses, their hooves clopping and bells jingling, announce the carriages’ presence. They fill the breadth of the avenue with lines of gleaming cabs, all stamped with the royal emblem—the silver letter A with green ivy wrapped around it.

Madame Phyrne, dressed in a gown of deepest amethyst, stands with her silvery-white hair swept elegantly on top of her head as she directs the courtesans, one by one, into the carriages’ leather interiors. Never one to shirk her duty, she always ensures we arrive at precisely the right moment for the best impact.

Phyrne’s bony fingers coil around my arm as she detains me for the last coach. With everybody gone, she pinches the underside of my flesh before I can place my foot on the step stool. I wince and turn to her, mouth gaping open and brow furrowing, more than ready to tell her off.

“Good. I have your attention. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but you’d best make amends with Chancellor Black.” She releases me and pulls a piece of thread off my sleeve. “If he’s not your Keeper, your standing at the Bidding House will only sink lower and lower. You won’t come out as the winner.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I have very little to do with Balor Black’s decisions. So if I lose his bid, then so be it.”

She squints with those shrewd, beady eyes lined with age. “The higher the position, the greater the fall. If you think somebody else will make an offer on you, reconsider how precarious your circumstances truly are.”

Some Lady Courtesans have a new Keeper each season, but Balor has always ensured his bids for me are the highest, driving out every bit of competition. It isn’t something I ever thought about—until now.

“No one would dare go against the Chancellor and incur one of his grudges. I’ll have no alternative but to place you as an instructor, like Beatrix. My hand will be forced—don’t you understand?”

Her words twist the knife already lodged in my gut.

I nod.

A few years ago, my best friend, Beatrix, was forced to leave the Bidding House after failing to bring in a bid. One day, she was a Lady Courtesan; the next, she was on a stagecoach to the Northern Province. Even though it wasn’t her fault that her Keeper had died, nobody wanted to deal with her broken heart. If she’d refused her new role as an instructor, she would have been forced to forfeit herself to the Spirit-Fae Cathedral. Instead, she chose an academie to prevent the priestesses from taking her tongue, as they do with all their new recruits.

It was a hard transition, losing Beatrix.

Crying myself to sleep for almost a year after she left, I felt something break deep inside of me. It was then that I stopped caring about the rules as much. Stopped caring about anything other than getting lost in a book and hiding from the world.

But if my fortunes falter now, there will be very little within my power to fix them, and tonight, under Madame Phyrne’s sharp reminder, I fear for my future. I’ve become too accustomed to nice things—the hours of leisure, the grand rooms, the delicate fabrics. I’m as soft as my surroundings, and I don’t know if I can handle life outside the Bidding House.

A wave of panic grips my ribcage.

What a fool I am.

This fear makes me question the decisions leading up to my most recent fight with Balor. My teeth gnaw at my bottom lip.

The horses stomp impatiently, ready to depart, as Balor’s voice screeches in my mind: Why would I bid on you again? It’s the same thing every year, yet you still refuse... Perhaps I need a younger courtesan who’s too stupid to argue.

What he wants is too great.

I can’t do it.

I won’t.

I’ve done too much already.

Madame Phyrne strokes my curls like she’s just discovered her maternal instinct. Disliking the sensation, I bend out of her reach, but she stops me by snatching at my collarbone. “Try to search for him before the ceremony. He’s the only Keeper you’ve ever had. It counts for something. Show him you’ll be the woman he wants you to be. There’s a reason he keeps you. Find it, dig it out, and secure his bid once again.” She grabs my palm and assists me into the cab, but as her skin meets mine, she hisses and pulls away, clutching her hand.

Phyrne closes the door with a SNAP before I can ask her if she’s all right. The horses trot off, lurching me backward into the bench seat. I twist to peer out from the tiny rear window and see her collapse as several servants rush to her side. My heart drums against my chest, feverishly fast.

The whispers fill my mind, tangled and garbled.

Is she hurt?

Sick?

I want to bang on the roof and demand they return, but the drivers refuse to listen to Lady Courtesans. They only obey commands from the Master of Horse, who receives direct orders from King Xander. Sour acid rises in my throat when I think of how helpless I am to do anything for her.

People line the roads as they feast and party. Laughter and music fill the air, and women in long dresses dance in the streets with their partners. Their bare feet pound to the rhythm of fiddles and drums beneath hundreds of colorful lanterns that light the way to the castle. On every corner, Alexandrian banners blow in the night breeze as rum barrels are placed under them for all to enjoy.