Darting among the tables, I serve drinks and steaming plates with food and bat away a few naughty hands. It’s close to midnight when Myrtle finally appears. Elders, she has really made an effort tonight. Her unruly curls are gathered up in an intricate hairdo, and the deep neckline of her dress invites everyone to take a longer look. But the way she scans the men around is purely professional. Just like me, she is here on business. A child out of wedlock has put Myrtle on the streets. Forced to sell her flesh to strangers, she quickly accepted my suggestion for a partnership. If the evening is good, we will meet dawn with a decent amount of coin in our pockets.
Godey Goldtooth flashes his radiant smile behind the bar, pouring drinks and keeping a close eye on us, serving maids. He makes sure that the Bountiful Bosom provides everything a traveler craves after the soul-draining nights in the Wastelands but does not trade with flesh. So, Myrtle and the other girls take their customers to the dark alleys outside, where anything might happen.
The air is thick with the smell of booze, unwashed bodies, and tobacco. The travelers have attracted the usual crowd, starved for news and a good bargain: prostitutes, musicians, beggars, and all kinds of shady opportunists.
The next time I pass by Myrtle, the hands of a skinny stranger are wrapped tightly around her waist, and she winks at me as she stomps her new red slippers in the fiery rhythm of the drums. The candlelight gilds her brown curls, and her dark eyes sparkle with delight. My arms strain from the weight of the mead chalices, but I nod and smile, responding to her signal while navigating the crowd.
The man she dances with is the perfect target. He’s dressed in silvery brocade and probably has just arrived with the merchants’ caravan. The way he gropes Myrtle would have made my blood boil, but I know that Myrtle intends to be groped. It is part of our plan. She’s like those colorful blossoms Friar Ben has told us about, who lure the lost insects to their death. The merchant’s eyes are glazed from the mead, yet I place another chalice in his hand. The more drunk, the better.
Myrtle would exhaust him with dancing and invite him to a more private place later. She always takes our targets to the stables—the place where I’ve been spending my nights since I ran away from the Blessed Dawn orphanage. Depending on their state, she offers them her company, or if they are too sober—I’d join and suggest a game of dice or cards and more drinks. The goal is always simple—getting whatever is in their pockets. Judging by the heavy silver chain with rubies around the man’s neck, this will be one very profitable evening.
The crowd thins after dinner as many patrons take to the streets. There are always artists and musicians traveling with caravans, and there are people already gathering on Red Moon Square. A rare treat has been announced tonight: a puppet spectacle, and the whole city is crackling with anticipation. Each distraction in the dull life in Tenebris is more than welcome.
Myrtle and her companion are still dancing, but she nods at me when I pass by them. Her partner is barely standing on his feet. It is time. After wiping off the last table in my section, I untie my apron and hand it over to Godey.
“I am going to dress up and go to see the show, Godey,” I say while dropping the five copper pieces he gave me in my pocket. What he’s paying for helping out at the inn is enough to buy a piece of bread and some sour apples once a week but not to make a living. He took pity on me years ago and has been turning a blind eye to me sleeping in his stables ever since, but if he knew of my side business, he would hand me straight to the City Guard. Blessed be the Elders; he is not suspecting of my odd partnership with Myrtle.
“Go have your fun, lass,” he rumbles behind the bar as I head to the door.
The familiar smell of hay, laced with manure and horse sweat, welcomes me as I push open the tall plank doors. The stable boys have left already, probably eager to see the show or spend their scant wages at the merchant stalls on the Red Moon square.
The stables are nearly full, caravan horses are deeper in the longhouse, the animals’ breathing and shuffling echoing in the warm air. I throw myself on the hay-strewn floor in my corner next to the door, snuggling in my old blanket.
Elders, I’m tired. And the night is just beginning.
Resting my back against an old saddle, I dim the flame of the lantern. My hand finds the loose floorboard easily and slips underneath. I sigh in relief when my fingers touch my sparse belongings. Some clothes, a lock of my mother’s hair, Tayna’s old doll, a letter my father sent me from one of his many business trips that I know by heart, and most importantly—my purse. Since my sister got adopted by that horrible noble family, and I ran away from the Blessed Dawn orphanage, every coin I came across lands in it. It is our only hope, our way out, our escape. Soon, there will be enough money there to buy us a caravan passage to the Free Cities, where I can find a job, and Tayna can go back to school like a twelve-year-old girl should. By the hell pits of Atos, the night is so promising that it could be tonight!
A cackle makes the horses prick up their ears and snort. Myrtle is finally coming.
Slamming the loose plank down, I cover it with straw just when the door flies open, and she stumbles in, supporting the stranger she was dancing with. His hands are all over her tight bodice as they walk past me, my friend whispering something in his ear. They stumble deeper into the stables, and when the merchant leans into her neck and grabs her ass, Myrtle throws me a look over her shoulder. It is one of those looks we women use to communicate with other women only. He is totally drunk, her black eyes tell me. He will pass out soon. I give her a thumbs up, and they leave the light circle of the only lantern here.
Soon, it will be my turn.
I snuggle in my blanket, blending in with the straw and the grooming tools scattered around, the straw poking my skin under my worn-out cotton dress. I pretend to be asleep but watch carefully what’s happening under my half-closed eyelids.
The weight of the man is pulling her to the floor. Good. The sooner he passes out the easier for me and Myrtle. It will be over fast, and hopefully, we’ll get to see the puppet show and make some more money. There are two possible scenarios for this situation: if he passes out, we will just relieve him of his possessions and let him sleep it off. The other option is he stays awake and gets frisky. Then I’d pretend to wake up, startled by the noise, and offer them a game of dice or cards while he ingests the amount of alcohol needed to pass out. Then we’re going to check the contents of his pockets.
It has always worked so far. We have targeted travelers and rarely local men. All of them were too drunk to remember anything and assumed they lost their coin gambling. The business has been going great for two years, and Myrtle was able to rent a small room across the inn and take good care of her baby boy.
Should we take the heavy silver chain off his neck? There’s a pawn shop in the back alleys, and its owner never asks questions. Worth considering. An alarming thud from the shadows where Myrtle and the man went startles the horses. A grunt, some shuffling, and a muffled moan confirm my suspicion that something is not right.
Knowing every plank in these stables, makes it easy to sneak around the murky light from the lantern hanging high on the beams to the dark outline of two intertwined bodies on the floor.
The brocade tunic of the merchant is ruffled as he is struggling to stay on top of Myrtle. His white, bony fingers are rolling her skirt up. He looks far more sober than before, but the really alarming thing is the silvery glimmer of something pressed against her neck.
Elders.
He’s holding a knife.
Myrtle spots me over his shoulders, and we have another wordless conversation.
“I am fine,” her dark eyes say, “go ahead and do your part while he is busy.”
I believe her. Women in her line of work can protect themselves. A well-aimed kick in the groin always works, especially when they expect you to be helpless.
Proceed with the plan, she winks.
I drop and crawl nearer, soundless as a shadow. The man grunts, his blade not so close to her neck now. We all know that type. They like it rough and need an extra kick to do the deed. His pants slip down his thighs, and Myrtle’s eyes urge me to get closer.
