Page 3 of Daghel

“You may call me Madrina, my little Anastasia.”

True to her word, I ate well and slept even better when cocooned in the warmth of the thick blankets given to me and warmed by the cheerful fire in my little apartment in Madrina’s courtesan house. And although I wake up a bundle of nerves, the whirlwind of shopping among the clothiers and perfumeries,followed by a visit to the doctor, flows along in such an orderly manner as Madrina is deferred to that I become more and more comfortable in my intended role. I can be a courtesan. I continue to chant this to myself when my virginity is sold, and tears prick and fall freely from my eyes as a gentleman’s cock pierces me and stretches me painfully in the midst of opulence.

I can be a courtesan. I will be a courtesan and never suffer again.

Chapter

One

ANYA

Staring in the mirror, I run a finger over the very fine wrinkle at the corner of my eye. It’s finally happening. Despite taking care of my health to the best of my ability and eschewing the “party favors” enjoyed by my clientele, I am finally starting to show my age. True, my auburn curls don’t yet have a trace of silver threading through them, but it’s only a matter of time and a reminder that my time is limited. It’s staring me right in the face—the same face my regular customers are no longer quite so eager to acquire as their companion for the evening. Every month, I seem to lose at least one or two clients. They just seem to drift away—to the sides of other younger ladies of my profession, I’m certain.

“Time to be put out to pasture for a nice rest, old girl,” I murmur.

It’s better to get out now before the bills of my extravagant lifestyle—one that my gentlemen expect to be greeted with so that they can enjoy indulging in all comforts within my rooms—pile up even more than they have. It is an unfortunate consequence of the profession that prohibits women within thebusiness from getting ahead. The only things of value I have are the jewels, clothing, and fine lace lingerie that I wear for the pleasure of my clientele. All of which is being picked up this afternoon by a goods-peddler who has offered me a tidy little sum.

Truthfully, it’s a pitiful amount compared to what I spent, but coin will be needed to keep myself fed and reasonably comfortable as I travel on the rails. I already dipped into my meager funds to buy several gowns of common streetcloth available at the general clothing stores, sturdy boots, and a plain wool shawl to keep me warm. The only thing I’ve kept for myself is a ruby pendant on a gold chain that I’ve slipped within the bodice of my gown where the peddler will not see it, lest he think that he is entitled to this as well for his fee. I have heard of more than one woman of the profession being swindled and was well advised on the matter by a dear friend who retired earlier this same year.

“He will offer a fair enough price for your belongings, all things considered,” Mari said with a pointed look. One that I well understood, knowing that in polite society, courtesan or not, we are harlots, and no “decent” man or woman will do business with us. “He won’t swindle you as much as the other street peddlers. But if there are any treasures you wish to retain, keep them well hidden. His offer is for the lot, and he will demand anything that he believes he paid fairly for.”

It's enough to make me grimace with distaste. I never truly believed it would come to this. In all my daydreams and in every plan that I’d made for the future, it was with the hope that one of my gentlemen would eventually offer for me. Even if it was just to be a mistress comfortably set with all the legal protections allotted in Zyerk. But marriage was always a real possibility for a talented courtesan who found favor with a widow. In fact, I had hung all of my hopes on Giles Kenning, my benefactor, until hedied just weeks ago in a tragic accident without leaving me so much as a token sum in his will despite all I did for him over the years. My eyes sting as I blink away the tears that will certainly ruin the powder, kohl, and rouges carefully applied.

I can’t make a mess of myself before I conclude my business with Mr. Barkley. One doesn’t look weak in front of a scavenger—it makes them brave enough to attempt a strike.

“Do you have any regrets after all these years, Anya?” Mari whispered in a haunting echo from that last day we enjoyed tea together.

“Of course not.” I laughed, secure still in all the promises Giles made to me in our moments of pillow talk. I shrugged as I tipped the teapot, refilling our cups. “What is there for me to cry over? I was orphaned young but was blessed with a fair enough face to attract the attention of Madrina Solas, who gave me an education I never would have had otherwise.” I sipped my tea thoughtfully. “It is a life that a street girl only prays for… a life floating on the edges of the higher social circles, enjoying the fruits that fall from their golden chalices and the entertainments that they indulge in.”

“There is that,” Mari murmured and sipped from her own cup, a wistful expression on her face. “I’m going to miss that.”

“Then stay,” I insisted, taking her gloved hand in mine, a bright smile on my lips.

She had returned my smile but slowly extricated her hand with a sigh. “To what purpose, Anastasia? I turn thirty-five next month, and you are two years older than me—it’s time you also think of other prospects. As much as I will miss the grand parties and entertainment, you forget that there is something we share with those street girls that we can’t deny.”

“Which is what, exactly?” I asked absently as I glanced over the pastries plated next to the teapot. I reached for a tart, but looked up in surprise when she laid her hand over mine.

“It’s an occupation for the young.”

Those words echo now in the quiet of my bedroom, punctuating the ache of disappointment within my heart that I’ve been carrying around for days now. I have lost faith in love. Now I can only hope for comfort and security.

Lowering my hand to my vanity table, my eyes skate toward the flyer that sits beside my elbow. With a weary sigh, I pick it up. I don’t know why I even bother reading it yet again. I have read it at least a dozen times and have already made up my mind. Hell, I even wired the service last week and received a response only yesterday with a ticket aboard one of the steam engines leaving the city tomorrow. Despite the slow response, I’m optimistic. Not so much because I believe that I will find love and adventure with lonely men who live in far-off lands like the ad promises, but because it offers possibilities that weren’t there yesterday. I skim the bold print and set it down to pick up the envelope sitting beneath it.

I smile as I run my fingers over the crisp envelope. Inside is a letter from my intended and the ticket that accompanied it. The letter from my intended is brisk at best, just three hastily scrawled lines informing me that he was pleased to welcome me to Ivywood Outpost, and that he will be collecting me personally from Tarnwood Town’s station when he comes by wagon with his men to get the monthly supplies for the outpost.

I try not to think of the fact that I am going to be conveniently carted off with flour and sugar as if I am just one of many goods he ordered. It stings my pride, especially since my gentleman clients have often showered me with flowers and jewels in appreciation of my company, besides the small payments of coin to go toward my upkeep. But those days are over. I suppose that I can’t get too deeply into my feelings about it given that I was less than truthful about some details regarding my backgroundwhich is going to be a rude surprise for my soon-to-be husband if he ever discovers the truth.

I’m not twenty-seven, nor am I a mid-merchant’s widow looking to escape the painful memories of the city. I can only hope that those good qualities I possess more than make up for the small white lie. How many men in the wild lands of Fountainne can claim that they had an intelligent wife who not only engages them intellectually but also knows her way around the bedroom competently?

Unless the men of Fountainne are as boorish, uncouth, and uneducated as rumor paints them. My smile slips a little at the thought and I shudder. No, I won’t think of that. Besides, David Mallory isn’t just anyone. He is the governor of the outpost, and while that doesn’t mean much in the way of wealth and comforts, it’s something.

Although I am thirty-seven, it’s not like I am pretending to be a virgin, though in retrospect perhaps I should have made the attempt. It isn’t entirely unheard of and I’m not convinced that men can truly tell the difference, anyway. But I had gone for something a little more believable, eager to find a match as far away as possible. The less that my future husband knows of my profession, or the fact that certain gentleman came to me because they enjoyed the taste of the whip and leather from a petite female with an iron hand, the better. This new future is offering me a chance of family and children—a dream that I had long ago put away. I can do this.

I smile down at the ticket and set the flyer aside, my mind wandering. I am still young enough to bear one or two children; I believe. I would have the family that I sometimes saw in my dreams at night. My husband was always a dark shadow in my daydreams, one that towers over me and ripples with strength and confidence. His features are always obscured, hidden to me, but just being with him makes me feel protected and cherished.It doesn’t matter that I can’t see him, or my children. Just seeing them in my dreams strikes a longing in my heart. I slowly expel my pent breath and blinked. Yes, I’m making the right decision. My single trunk is packed and lying open so that Mr. Barkley can clearly see that the contents aren’t worth bothering about when he arrives.

But tomorrow—tomorrow I will be heading to Ivywood Outpost and David Mallory.

I jump at the sound of a heavy fist banging at my door, startling me from my reverie. There is no need to guess as to who that is. I stand from my dressing table and make my way from my bedroom out into the parlor, where my belongings are packed neatly into several inexpensive trunks. I skirt by them to the door and open it to admit Tom Barkley.

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