Page 19 of Garden of Poisoned Delights

Even with their hair pulled back in a simple low ponytail much like Laurent’s own, he knew it was Crystelle the Magnificent. Crystelle had met his gaze across the room and nodded, once, and Laurent had nodded back.

Other than that, any information came from stories told to him by his courtesans, clients, or a deeply amused Absolon at their weekly—then monthly—tea dates. He had no idea if Crystelle ever did displace Absolon as top earner before that title had gone to Gabriel La Nuit. Once, he’d strolled by with Sabre and had seen the salon in the House of Gold had new curtains, and it’d made him smile to remember that story of Crystelle measuring the rods years ago.

And now, Crystelle the Magnificent, courtesan, shit-stirrer, soup-kitchen attendant, gown-carrier-employer and whatever else, was dumping dirt on the steps of his house and shouting at Yves, who was laughing wildly. Laurent finished his wine and immediately poured another one, as he came back from his meandering about past and present courtesans in a dominance battle, both submissives, in fashionable clothing that was still absolutely ridiculous and unnecessary for this situation.

“Please explain to me why—no, no one can explain that—please explain to me –” Laurent found he couldn’t actually finish that sentence. “Why is this happening?” If it sounded a bit like a whine, well, there was only one solution, really—more whine, and more wine. “I haven’t been on their bad side since the summer lantern festival three years ago.”

“Oohh,” Margritte said. “I remember that! They left you those darling little people fashioned out of corn stalks.”

Laurent stared at her. “Those were intended to represent me.”

“And they did, if you think about it,” Margritte said, calmly. “The cornsilk is very similar to your hair.”

“The figurine had a nail through its neck with a red ribbon meant to simulate blood tied around the end of it,” Laurent reminded her.

“I know, because you wouldn’t let me keep it and it was so well-made.” Margritte gave a bored shrug. “We all get on Crys’ bad side occasionally, my lord. Why wouldn’t we want to, if this is what we get?”

From outside, as if on cue, Crystelle the Magnificent began to sing, or do something that was supposed to be singing, because it sounded more like musical notes dragged through the mud, wrung out on spikes, beaten like dirty rugs and thrown in a soiled rubbish bin. Crystelle could sing, so they were a deliberate choice, and it was going to cause problems sooner rather than later. They had a party of young nobles coming to the house in an hour, with the majority of the courtesans booked to entertain them. This needed to be solved as quickly as possible, before things escalated into a realm of absurdity better left for one of Rose’s plays.

“Sabre, come with me,” Laurent said, dominance heavy in his voice, so much so that Sabre winced and gave a slight nod, gaze shifting to the floor. He refilled the wine glass one last time, nearly to the top, and headed toward the stairs. Sabre, seemingly aware he’d angered his dominant, got to all fours to crawl.

It helped, but not enough. Laurent climbed the stairs to their bedroom and Sabre followed, like a submissive being led to some tower prison. Honestly, that might be preferable for a bit, at least until Crystelle took themselves back to the House of Gold.

“I simply told them I wasn’t interested,” Sabre said, from where he was making his careful, graceful way up the stairs behind Laurent, “and not to insult you. I won’t apologize for that, Laurie. You’re my husband. No one insults you around me and gets away with it.”

Laurent turned his gaze to the ceiling and rolled his eyes. “I’m sure they didn’t insult me.”

“They called you a snake!”

“Margritte called Yves a snake for convincing a client to commission two of her toys,” Laurent said, pushing the door open. “You’ve lived here long enough, Sabre, you should know that whores don’t show affection the same way other people do.”

He took a healthy gulp of the wine as Sabre crawled into the bedroom, then shut the door, and instead of doing what he wanted, which was to spank Sabre or string him up on the hooks on the ceiling and go at him with the flogger until they were both in a better mood, he went to his desk and sat down, the wine gently pushed to one side as he reached for his quill. “The thing you need to know about Crys is that, like most whores, they’re more than they seem. Let’s just say you can trust their offers of friendship, if nothing else.”

“If only someone would have seen fit to tell me that before,” Sabre said, a little stiffly.

Laurent turned and gave him a look. “Voice restrictions until I’m done with this letter.”

Sabre’s mouth snapped shut, but he looked annoyed. Good. Laurent snapped his fingers and pointed. “Come here, all fours, so I can at least be comfortable while I write this.”

Usually he enjoyed the way Sabre could crawl like a graceful, deadly large cat in times like this. Now, he just wanted him to get there, quickly, to get this over with. There was some kind of commotion going on in the hall—Yves, probably, who was as attracted to drama as a moth was to a flame, and had about as much sense. Laurent was used to that, if nothing else, so he simply stacked his perfectly-shined black leather boots on Sabre’s firm back and got to work.

When he was finished, he read over the letter, nodded decisively, and signed it with a flourish. He affixed his personal seal to it, waited for the wax to dry, then removed his boots from Sabre’s back. “Here. Take this to Crystelle and stay on voice restrictions. They’ll understand if you touch your throat and shake your head. Don’t read it. I’ll tell you what it says when you get back. No speaking under any circumstances, Sabre de Rue, I don’t care whose left hand you are. You’re my husband and my submissive and this is how I’m handling it.”

Sabre took the letter, looked askance at Laurent, then nodded once and looked down. He looked as if he were going to crawl again, so Laurent said quickly, “You can walk. Get back here before I finish this wine. Oh, and Sabre? Come back with the bottle.”

In case he couldn’t mitigate the chaos, he could just drink his way through it. Less ideal, but it would get the job done. And if it worked, Sabre might need a glass or two himself, when Laurent explained why he’d just told Crystelle the Magnificent that they’d hire them for an evening’s engagement in the de Valois suite in the palace.

Thinking of Crystelle in the palace—he might have to send Sabre back down for more wine.

* * *

Delivering the letter to Crystelle was troublesome enough. Yves was gleefully letting his client debauch him in what probably was supposed to be a wedding dress against his window, which Crystelle had taken as a personal insult given their mourning veil, and Margritte was so engrossed in the resulting drama that she was letting her client fondle her tits in the common area so she could look through the window. That was causing an issue in the stairwell, since several clients were realizing exactly how big Margritte’s bosom actually was and were too hypnotized to leave the doorway without bashing into each other.

Crystelle leveled a cold look at Sabre as soon as he came out, and their eyes flashed when he touched his throat.

“Well,” they said, snapping the letter out of his hands, “at least someone knows why you’re in trouble.” They read the letter quickly, lips pressed together in a tight line, then shoved it into the front of their bodice. “Tell your keeper that I accept, but I am not yet satisfied. You may go.”

Sabre almost hesitated just out of spite, but he had a feeling that would get back to Laurent. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked back into the house, where someone must have reminded Margritte that the living room was not for fucking. Only Nanette was left, dressed in a chainmail costume while a lady in a violet gown fanned her face.

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