Page 62 of Spark of the Everflame

“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked.

“He... he...” Peony’s shoulders quaked as she dissolved into sobs.

“A customer wanted more than she was willing to sell,” another girl answered for her. “She told him no, and he tried to take it anyway. He got a few hits in before we could k—”

“Tulip,” the madam clipped. “That’s enough.”

Tulip looked down and pursed her lips.

I realized then there was blood on the floor, as well—not puddles, but long scarlet streaks that painted a path to the door. Suddenly I understood why so many of the girls were dripping with red. And why the madam had told me not to worry about it.

Like I said, Paradise Row women were nothing if not loyal.

I gave a sharp nod and set to tending the girl’s injuries, grateful that my examination revealed only bruises and scratches.

As I worked, I egged the girl’s friends into lighthearted conversation. With injuries like these, the kind that could scar your soul more than your body, laughter was often a better medication than any tincture I could whip up.

It only took one coy request for advice on lingerie to surprise the man I was seeing, and they’d instantly launched into a passionate debate on the merits of wispy scraps of satin versus silhouette-enhancing corsets. Even Peony had jumped into the fray with a soliloquy on costumes over negligees.

“What they really want is to pretend,” she said matter-of-factly, her tears quickly drying. “They want something they can’t have.”

“What costumes do they like best?” I prodded as I spread an arnica mixture along her collarbone.

“Actually, theylovehealers,” one of the girls answered, rolling her eyes and groaning. “They always want us to pretend to treat their poor, injured dicks.”

Another girl grinned at me. “Maybe you could loan us some props.”

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be deeply disturbed.

“But what they like even more is when you pretend to be Descended,” Peony said, joined by a murmur of agreement from the other girls.

“They all talk like they hate ‘em, but most mortal men would pay every cent they’ve got to sleep with a Descended woman,” another girl said.

That hardly surprised me. For too many mortal men, sex was about power and control in a world where they had little of either. Imagining the lengths they might go to exert their dominance over a woman in the ruling class made my stomach churn.

“There aren’t any Descended women offering... services?” I asked.

“I’ve tried to recruit some,” the madam said bitterly, “but the Descended think themselves too good to do our work.”

One of the girls snorted. “Well they aren’t too good to come screw us. Some of the Descended are my best customers.”

“And unlike mortal men, they don’t lie about taking the contraceptive tonic,” another chimed in. “They’re all too scared of the King to risk getting a mortal pregnant.”

One of the girls studied me intently, her gaze thin and suspicious. “I’ve heard about you. The mortal who’s got eyes like them.”

I rolled my shoulders under her scrutiny. Even after all these years, attention on my eye color still put me on edge.

“You could make a killing here, pretending to be one of them,” she said. “You could charge whatever you wanted.”

“And they wouldn’t beatyouup,” Peony teased, though a shade of sadness returned to her eyes. “They’d be too scared you might actually have magic.”

“I’ll, um, keep that in mind,” I lied. I packed up my things and handed Peony a small jar. “You’re all done. Keep putting this cream on the bruises, it will help them fade quicker.”

Her lashes fluttered as she fought back a fresh round of tears. “How much do I owe you?”

“This one’s on the house.”

Relief fluttered over her face, but she quickly hid it behind a defensive pout. “I can pay,” she insisted.

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