Page 17 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

He hadn’t meant it. He’d been at a party between the house lords and some of the higher-paid courtesans, drinking yet another glass of wine and skirting around the usual questions on whether he planned on “lending his services” to the House of Onyx again. Crystelle the Magnificent, who from rumor on the street had gone by that name since the age of nine, had been carried into the room on a massive silver dinner plate, naked save for a fabric leaf on a golden chain and a headpiece with an enormous pair of deer antlers covered in crystals. They’d gone to Laurent and Absolon, another former courtesan from the House of Gold, and thrown their arms around them both.

“Darlings! You look dreadful. Absolon, my love, my precious, look at your eyes! What has responsibility done to you?” Diamond rings glittered on every finger as Crystelle patted Absolon’s cheeks. “And Laurent. Always a delight to see old friends. It’s a good thing I’m the only one of us who has aged gracefully, or I’d have to push you down a well.”

Laurent had given them the pleasant, empty smile that Sabre took to mean that they hadn’t been friendly when Laurent was in the House of Gold, but that was politics in the pleasure district. No one ever admitted to hating each other if they could help it, and their threats were always treated like flirtation.

Then Crystelle had descended on Sabre.

The trouble was, they really were charming. They held themselves with the air of someone on the cusp of some great new discovery, and had gone from speaking quite earnestly to Sabre about his family theater school to grabbing him by the hands and dragging him over to a painting.

“Don’t you feel like you can leap into it?” they had asked. “I fucked the painter, you know—for free, but don’t tell anyone. I like to think I’m a patron of the arts. He did a scandalous one of me being fucked by satyrs. I met him through a sculptor who used to steal doorknobs, believe it or not. Do you want to know how?”

“I don’t think it would be wise to steal a doorknob at a party—” Sabre tried to say, but Crystelle had just called Absolon over, who smiled wryly and admitted he too knew the doorknob trick.

“We always thought you’d marry that sculptor,” he’d said, as Crystelle popped the handle to the bathroom free. Crystelle had let out a cry of horror.

“Matrimony? The only bondage I’ll allow involves rope and occasionally metal,” Crystelle had said, and handed Sabre the doorknob. “There, a gift. I like you, Sabre. How on earth did a man like you end up with a little snake like Laurent?”

“Oh, no,” Absolon had said. “Don’t, Crys, he’ll take it seriously.”

“He’s my husband,” Sabre had said, his bemused smile disappearing. Crystelle had sighed and stepped forward, laying a hand on Sabre’s arm.

“Poor thing,” they’d said. “Has he even managed to put you under? I could, you know. I don’t even need to be a dominant for it to work. Why don’t we find a quiet little nook and you can tell me all about how mean old Laurent neglects you, hmm?” They’d glanced toward the stair, head tilted so the antlers in their headpiece quivered.

Sabre had laughed. “No, thank you.” He’d stepped aside, and Crystelle had stumbled, banging their headpiece against the door frame. A number of people had turned to look, and Absolon covered his eyes with a hand. “I sincerely doubt you could put me under, but I’m sure you have other qualities that someone else would appreciate. They just don’t appeal to me.”

He’d been mortified in the way he always was when he had to navigate an awkward conversation in public, but he hadn’t thought much about it afterward. Not until now, with Crystelle standing in front of the House of Onyx with a mourning veil that reached past their six-inch-high stilettos.

He tried to disappear around the corner again, but the bushes rattled, and Crystelle turned to glare at him.

“You!”

“Oh!” Sabre grinned nervously. “Oh, hello. I was just going inside.”

“I have come with a message,” Crystelle said, stomping toward him. The front door opened, and Sabre saw that Rose, Nanette, and Margritte had also opened the window and were half hanging out of it to look. Crystelle whipped out a wooden box and dumped what looked like dust all over the garden gate.

“Why did you just throw dirt in our yard?” Sabre asked.

“It’s ash,” Crystelle said, “from the bridges you burned.”

“Oh, I like that,” Margritte said, and Rose hushed her.

“It was all a misunderstanding,” Sabre said, “I assure you. And you were the one who insulted my husband.”

“Of course I insulted your husband!” Crystelle cried. “I respect him too much not to! But you damaged my reputation. I don’t mind rejection, but diminishing my skills in front of my peers, at the most important event this season? I will have justice.”

Sabre knew it would be easier just to apologize, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Don’t try to seduce someone who isn’t interested and perhaps your reputation would have remained unscathed.”

“I can’t look,” Nanette said.

Crystelle raised an eyebrow. “I could have been a friend to you, de Rue.”

“This is completely unnecessary and I’m honestly lost,” Sabre said.

Crystelle tipped their chin up. “I refuse to leave until I am satisfied.”

“Fine,” Sabre said, and turned to go back into the house through the kitchen.

When he peered back into the living area, only Nanette’s feet were in the window, while Rose and Margritte held her up by the waist, and Laurent was pouring himself a glass of wine.

---