He cannot possibly—
But why is he still looking at me.
For one long moment I think he sees through it. Through the costume and the enchantment and the silver wig to the truth underneath. His expression gives nothing away. That careful, total blankness he wears like armor.
Does he know?
No. Impossible.
Then the other thought arrives and it is worse.
He is here.
Svenn is here. In this place…
He promised to stay. He chose me over his freedom and said he wanted forever and now he is standing in a pleasure house with his hand in his coat and his eyes on the stage.
The thought carves into my heart deep inside.
"Her." His voice carries through the silent room without effort. "I want her."
Thorn's confidence cracks at the edges. "M-my lord, the bidding is still open. You would need to register—"
The shadows in the corners of the room grow heavier. The nearest patrons make themselves very small. Svenn reaches into his coat and produces a pouch. He tosses it to Thorn without looking at him. Thorn catches it with both hands and nearly drops it. His eyes go wide at the weight.
Then a second pouch. Then a third. Raw gold, unrefined, and something that glitters harder than gold at the edges.
"For your trouble," Svenn says.
Thorn looks at what is in his hands. He looks at Svenn, then looks back at his hands.
"Of course," he says faintly. "Of course, for such a distinguished patron. Perhaps we can make an exception."
No one bids against him. No one speaks. The red-haired fae commander with the ten thousand gold lowers his paddle and finds somewhere else to look.
Thorn clears his throat.
"Sold."his voice wavers slightly. "To the, ah, gentleman at the back."
Svenn extendshis hand up to me.
I have no choice.I take it.
His fingers close around mine and he helps me down from the platform, steady and careful, his grip not loosening even when my legs nearly give out beneath me.
My husband has just purchased me from a brothel.
We move through the crowd and the crowd moves for us. People press themselves against walls. No one meets his eyes. The red-haired fae is the only one who watches us go, his gaze tracking us across the room until we turn the corner.
Thorn appears at Svenn's elbow, smaller than he looked on stage.
"I must mention," he says and his voice is shaking. "This is the Painted Moth. The girl has the right to refuse her time. Even for distinguished patrons."
Svenn looks at him.
"Of course," he says, turning to me. "The choice is always hers."
If I refuse now it would draw attention. I’ve just secured an invitation to the Fae King’s ball.
