Her guts still twisted unpleasantly and her bones felt thin, but she had this night and this night only to seduce secrets from the House of Gardenia, and she had no intention of letting it go to waste. It wasn’t just that she had promised Beatriz to look into Scarzan. It was that she could still feel the scum he had left behind on her skin. The way his eyes had trailed over her like a slug—as if he was weighing the cost of her, considering if she was worth the risk. The knowledge that he was harassing the women at the castle and out within Relaclave as well.
It felt personal now.
She hoped that whatever Beatriz needed this tip for, it would cut the man down like a blade of grass.
Over the years, Elysia had repeatedly made her peace only to lose it again when it came to what Gage did for a living. There were nights like the one where he eliminated the threat against her and what he did made sense in a brutal, practical kind of way. Then there were other days she couldn’t reconcile the man who had helped raise her with the one she knew went out and did terrible, violent things. She’d never asked how Gage decided which marks to take. But it was hard to imagine a world in which anyone was better off with someone like Scarzan still in it.
Elysia lurched out of the bathroom, still wobbly on her feet, and heaved herself into the chair in front of her vanity. Tying her robe a little tighter, she glanced at the old timepiece resting to her right and winced. She had far less time than she had been hoping for, but that simply meant she had no time to waste.
She pulled her hair back and got to work.
In spite of the explicit code of silence the House Gardenia demanded, many patrons opted for masks or a face covering to blur their features. Of course, there were just as many who wore their faces proudly into the den. They wanted the whispers of those who lurked outside the entrance. Wanted the rumors to carry out past the night.
Elysia would be donning a mask. It was the only way she would be getting in, after all. Scooping out a small blob of skin tint, she adjusted the shade until it was pale with a touch of pink, unlike her own cool neutral tones. She warmed the cream between her fingers, smoothing it over her face and down her neck.
So much of the Crown’s politics came down to the personal whims of people like Elysia’s mother. It was a flawed system propped up on a rotten foundation that had been painted fresh. But sometimes, someone like her mother actually did something good, even if it was just a selfish whim.
Georgia Parkerlovedthe arts. Theater, dance, music. Beneath her rigid exterior, she wanted to be swept away. So every year she laughed and smiled and plied Remy’s daddy with drinks and favors until he ended up giving more to the arts budget than was remotely reasonable.
During show season as a child, Elysia would crawl from her seat until she found all the dancers hustling and laughing in the back. They pinched and pinned and painted themselves until they shone like evening stars, and Elysia, delicate child that she was, fell in love.
And with her red sash and dark curls, they never dared escort her out. So, she sat quietly, watching as they set themselves up in front of the lights, enamored with how they carved new bones and noses on their faces with nothing more than pots and paints. A soft, plain woman could transform into one with edges and hollows and lips that could swallow a man whole. A sharp, stunning creature could become sweet and barely noticeable. With the right clothes and the right paint—you could be anyone.
Elysia thought it was magic. And she was right. It was a magic that anyone could claim, and not even the Crown could take it away.
With fingers that cradled plants and delivered daggers, Elysia fashioned herself into someone new. Someone with vigilant eyes and a strong, classic face. She pulled shadows out of powder and cut her jaw until it was wider than hers had ever been.
Elysia did not consider her eyes to be unique or beyond the ordinary. Alluring perhaps, with their velvety darkness, but nothing that would stand out in a crowd. And yet she would know her father’s or her sister’s eyes anywhere simply because they were theirs. Which meant hers had to change. Holding a small brown vial up to the light, she grimaced.It couldn’t be anyworse than the pukeweed, right?Head back and eyes wide, two small drops hit her eyes.
Fuck.
Her fist slammed down on the vanity, shaking all the little vials and pots. The burn in her eyes had her cursing and sweating in an instant. Gritting down, she counted.One. Two. Three. Four… Five.Blinking, she used a small cloth under each eye to catch any escaping liquid that would dare disturb her face. She kept blinking until the urge to rub her eyes finally quit, and then she looked up to see a disturbingly familiar face with light sea-blue eyes staring back at her.
The final step to her creation had been stolen from the arts closet. A long summery blonde wig, brushed to perfection. She secured it as tightly as possible, testing it before deeming her face and hair a success.
No longer herself, Elysia knew it made no sense to dress in her normal habits of deceptive velvets and ribbons and wide-eyed confusion. Tonight’s attire was an all too recognizable look. A black dress flaring into a full satin skirt paired with staggering heels. She threw on a red scarf, tying it around her wrist, and shook her head at her reflection.Terrifying.Elysia let out a disbelieving laugh and grabbed her already packed oversized purse. Dagger in her boot, she was as ready as she would ever be for an evening in the House.
The House was built on the undeniable truth that no matter how society disparages the spirit of pleasure—it cannot die. They can spit upon it. Place false shame on its name. But the spirit of pleasure in both its enticing and distasteful forms will never die. It will only grow stronger. Coming up through the cracks, taking solace in hidden rooms. Rearing up in even more twisted and delightful and curious ways.
Elysia stared at the old House and wondered how it had all begun. She was procrastinating, a bit nervous now that theHouse was in sight. She could hear the ruckus from here. The music, the shouts, the laughter. She’d never heard the House’s origin story. To her, it felt like the House had always been here. That the stories were as old as Relaclave itself.
Before the Fall, the House had been hidden from sight. Thick foliage and tall, dark hedges protected it from prying eyes. Now, there was no ivy curtain and the hedges were long dead. Naked and laid bare for all to see, the House became emboldened. She was a strange pillar in their city, flaunting her secrets and what felt like magic, but couldn’t be.
Elysia stopped her musing, her thoughts cut short by a new sound. A sweet piper played an entrancing tune. No words fell from his lips, but still, the song played. Bidding the people of Relaclave to come one, come all to the House where they would surely care for you.
Her feet were moving before she could even form a thought.
Prowling silently up the skinny cobblestone path, she followed the tune to the poisonous, envy-green front door. A sudden wind came, blowing her satin skirt out. Elysia hastily smoothed the fabric down before she unwillingly flashed any poor, unsuspecting bystanders. As she straightened, the door creaked and her night began.
Elysia’s pulse hammered. This wasnotwhat she had been expecting.
The Doorman stood with her hand resting gently on the door handle, bleached white hair rolling in smooth waves down her back. Orbs of the darkest night stared widely at Elysia, set against a backdrop of shimmering gold-brown skin and rosy, cherubic cheeks. She was magnificent. A frothy, lush dream of a woman. Curves poured into a dapper cream silk suit like champagne, bubbling up and out of the vest beneath.
The door creaked open a little wider, and curiosity had Elysia straining to see who would appear next. Long femininearms snaked out, wrapping lazily around the Doorman’s waist. Fingers splayed across her soft stomach, inching up toward her breasts. The newcomer stepped into the light, draping herself over the Doorman. Nuzzling her face down into the crook of her neck, smearing lipstick as she went.
Elysia froze.This wasn’t possible.
Only years of practice allowed her to keep her eyes from becoming saucers.
