A clammy hand gripped her shoulder. “I don’t know why you continue to believe in goodness, Orelia.”
Better to have hope for a kinder world than to be a cynic, she wanted to say. Orelia wiped her nose and dried her tears on her sleeve.
A strange look came over Beron as he dropped his hand and stepped back. “Tell you what, if you want to put on the green dress, I’ll let you stay.”
She stilled. “What?”
“If you really care about the whores and want to keep healing, then you’ll have to make me money.” He showed his yellow smile that always made her stomach turn.
Orelia blinked rapidly. “I . . .”She couldn’t be a pleasure girl. She’d never survive it.
Beron patted her arm. “Think about it and get back to me. But don’t wait too long, or I’ll rescind my offer.” He brushed past her, leaving Orelia clutching the coin purse as her life fell out from under her.
With few options for work in the village, getting another job was going to be impossible. She’d be lucky to find employment scraping fish guts off the docks.
Feeling dizzy, Orelia gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. She stared at the purse, wondering how in the Three Hells she was supposed to make it on so little. Her emergency jar above the kitchen basin at home only had a few silver left.
It wasn’t enough.
No. She would not accept this. This place was all she knew. Her friends were here, and the girls needed her. Orelia was a witch. She had value she could bring Beron without having to resort to selling her body. She’d make him see that.
Orelia rushed out of the office and followed Beron’s voice, running fast enough that the orbs above the doors of each rental room flashed like sparks. She spotted him speaking to a patron, knowing she shouldn’t interrupt, but did anyway.
Beron silenced her with a raise of his hand. “Out. Now.”
“But—”
“Now, Orelia!”
Beron ushered the man he was speaking to down a hall, glaring at her over his shoulder.
Thankfully, the room was noisy enough that no one heard their altercation, saving her further embarrassment. She took a final look around.
Mara took a puff of her pipe and passed it to the naked man whispering in her ear. Sienna giggled as two dwarves fondled her over her dress while kissing her neck. Wren rode a human lost in bliss as he gripped the soft flesh of her hips.
She locked eyes with Rae who grinned like she’d already heard the news. Rae had consistently refused to come to her for healing and often whispered to the others when Orelia was around. She had never understood the woman’s dislike of her.
Even so, these girls were her home. Her only family. She rubbed her arm, the goodbyes dying in her throat. Everyone was too busy to notice the healer’s departure as Orelia dragged herself out of the brothel.
The haze from the incense followed her into the muddy street. She looked up at the crooked signboard swaying above the doorway. Beron’s name had faded over the years, and only the yellow ‘B’had withstood the elements. The cracks in the structure needed sealing, weeds encroached on the stairs, and the trulights bordering the entrance lacked vibrancy. Though, she supposed men didn’t care much about the exterior of a brothel, only what the interior offered.
She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the cool night air as she made her way toward her house. With limited job opportunities in Minro, she didn’t know who would take her on. Perhaps Morton, but his shop wasn’t frequented enough to be able to pay for another’s help.
Orelia clung to the hope of finding work as she crossed the bridge and headed up the hill to her home on the edge of town.
The porch steps creaked when she arrived a few minutes later, and the squeaky door hinges welcomed her back. Moonlight shone through the windows in silver beams, guiding her way to the kitchen table. The trulights stayed dark. They’d been there for almost ten years and their energy was close to expended, and she couldn’t afford to buy more.
Orelia summoned a box of matches off the counter and lit a single candle in the middle of the kitchen table. It was enough light for her single room home that used to belong to her aunt.
The loss of her caretaker had gone by with few tears, the same amount she cried for the parents she’d never known. Her aunt drank herself into oblivion for years, and one winter’s night when Orelia was seventeen, the crotchety witch succumbed to the drink, leaving Orelia to fend for herself.
The home belonged to her now, and though she loved it dearly, the patchouli wiggled its way into the wood like termites, solidifyingits hold. She let out a desperate laugh. Without the brothel, she wondered how long it would take for the smell to disappear entirely.
After kicking off her boots, she opened the cabinet door that never shut all the way and surveyed her remaining provisions: half a bag of flour, yeast, a sealed jar of pitted olives, and a small bag of dried venison.
Orelia grabbed a strip of venison and ripped off a piece with her teeth. She slumped into a chair at the table and chewed on the tough meat, letting her gaze land on the dark pines behind the back fence.
Knowing the girls would be left to fend for themselves sat like a rock in her stomach. She’d expected Beron to have more empathy toward his kind, being a human himself, but clearly even the weak enjoyed exploiting the weak.
