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The vanity also holds several scattered pots of colored powders. I snatch a couple up.
Esmae would not approve of the garish art I make of my face. Hasty smudges of crimson mark my cheeks and lips; smears of violet coat my eyelids.
I glance down at my dress, hesitate, and then loosen the lacing so I can tug the neckline partway down my shoulders. A pool of shadow forms at my meager cleavage.
There. That should be decently convincing.
Ivy…Julita says in a doubtful tone, but she doesn’t seem to know how to debate this subject with me.
I shoot a tight smile at my tarted-up reflection in the mirror. “Don’t worry. I’m only going to look the part, not act it out.”
In some ways, it’s harder to take on this persona than that of a noble. As a noble, I can be distant and wary, and no one thinks it’s strange, just snobbishness.
As a harlot, I’m supposed to let it all out. To ooze sensuality and confidence.
I’m not sure I have enough sexpot in me to ooze it, but I summon as much as I can and saunter out into the hall with a swing of my hips. As my pulse drums nervously through my veins, I prick my ears.
A couple of children who look to be five or six huddle against the wall farther down, one of them wiping the floor and another folding sheets from a heaping basket. I stare at them for a second before understanding settles over me.
These courtesans of sorts won’t have access to the pure mirewort like Casimir does. An occasional accidental pregnancy will be par for the course for the brothel-workers of the fringes.
Which apparently keeps the brothel set for cleaning staff.
A few feminine voices carry from a doorway closer by. I lift my chin and stroll into that room.
It looks to be a small lounge, presumably for the women to relax between patrons. Exactly what I was hoping for.
Two of the women are sprawled on the armchairs on either side of a small table. Another is perched on a windowsill, holding a slim stick between her fingers that’s giving off a spicy smoke.
All three of their gazes lock onto me the second I enter the room.
One of them shoves herself higher in her chair, her bodice sliding against the tops of her breasts, which are threatening to spill over the faux satin fabric. “Who’re you?”
“Lilac,” I say, in honor of my dress, figuring one plant name is as good as another. “It’s my first day. This—this is where we wait until there’s a client for us, right?”
The hint of hesitation seems to put the other women more at ease. Maybe it shows I’m not a real threat, not sharp enough in the claws to pry their best patrons away.
The woman in the faux-satin dress folds her hands on her lap, one missing its little finger—a common minor sacrifice, like Ewalin’s. What sort of gift would a woman of her calling ask for?
Did she already know what work she’d be doing when she dedicated herself at twelve?
“I doubt you’ll be in here long,” the one by the window remarks. “Madam will want to get you right into the rotation.”
Who knows how long I have before the woman who’ll know she didn’t hire me bustles in? I drift along the wall beside the door, where to my surprise I find a small bookshelf packed with assorted leather- and canvas-bound volumes.
I bring my thumb to my lips. “Is there a lot of business this early in the day?”
The window woman shrugs. “If they’re awake, there’ll be someone wanting it. More once it gets dark, of course.”
“Sometimes the ones in the day are better,” the third woman pipes up. “Sometimes they’re just odd.”
A couple of silver teeth flash beyond her lips—the gaudiest a fringe courtesan can afford to fill in that kind of sacrifice.
Jumping on the opening, I wrinkle my nose. “I saw a man just come in—Tomas, someone called him. It sounded like he takes more than one woman at a time?”
The woman in the faux-satin laughs, rubbing the stump of her sacrificed finger. “That’s hardly the strangest thing you’ll run into around here. But you don’t have to worry about Madam sticking you with Tomas.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Why not? He already has his favorites picked out?”
