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She turned to find Madame standing with a girl who looked a few years younger than Melisande. She was striking, slender and delicate and dark-skinned, with a full mouth that blossomed into an easy smile.
Madame seemed unmoved by the girl’s cheerful demeanor. “Work starts in an hour,” she told the girl. “And the doctor comes the first Monday of every month to be sure you’re clean and not with child. If you come up pregnant, you can get rid of it or keep working until you can’t earn enough. Then you’ll have to go.”
“Yes, Madame,” the girl chirped. She must be brand-new to be so happy.
“Melisande will show you your room.”
Melisande waited for the girl to cross the kitchen, then led her down the hall toward the staircase. “The maids bring clean sheets every morning,” she explained. “You make your own bed and see to your own clothing.”
“That’s nice. We only got sheets twice a week at my last place.”
“You been working long?”
“About a year.”
Maybe her personality would sustain her through this life, but Melisande imagined some of her friendliness would fade soon. After a year of whoring, Melisande had still thought maybe she’d get out of it. She didn’t believe it anymore, not even with Bill there asking for just that.
“I’m Louise,” the girl said just as Melisande put a foot to the first stair. She glanced back to see Louise’s hand outstretched. “Louise Dupart.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said carefully. “I’m Melisande Angelle.” She shook the girl’s hand and then led the way up the stairs.
“Angelle,” Louise repeated. “There was a kitchen woman named Angelle at my old house.”
Melisande’s heart stuttered for a quick moment. “Marie?” she asked casually.
“That’s right. Marie Angelle.”
“My mother,” she said as they reached the top of the stairs. Instead of turning right toward her own room, she turned left.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Louise said breathlessly.
Melisande huffed out a laugh. “Was she that bad?”
“No! I just meant I’m sorry she passed.”
Melisande’s feet froze. Her heart stopped as well. Strangely, it still felt as if she were moving, the hallway sliding past her vision. “What do you mean?”
“She passed. In April. Didn’t you…?”
She felt the girl’s hand settle lightly on her shoulder. “My mother’s dead?” she managed to ask.
“You didn’t know?”
She shook her head, and Louise’s hand tightened on her shoulder. Then the girl’s whole arm was around her. “I’m so sorry.”
Melisande shook her head and took a deep breath before she stepped out of Louise’s embrace and continued on toward the last room. “How did she go?” she asked without even meaning to. What did it matter?
Louise’s feet scrambled to catch up, kicking up too much noise on the wood floor. Melisande’s ears rang.
“She got a cold that settled in her lungs. Never did stop smoking those cheroots, though.”
That brought back a sudden, vivid memory of her mother with a cheroot clasped in one hand and a hairbrush in the other, laughing so hard at something her sister had said that she couldn’t catch her breath. That was before she and Melisande’s aunt had fallen out because Marie had put Melisande up for sale.
Life had been almost sweet then. Not easy, but they’d had two rooms to live in, and her mother had kept Melisande’s door locked tight at night while she plied her trade. She’d even had a rich man to support her for a time after Melisande’s father had run off.
Melisande didn’t remember her father at all, though her mother claimed they’d been married for six years.
“Are you all right?” Louise asked as Melisande stopped in the doorway of the only empty room in the house.
