The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  THE MILL

  Cornucopia Book Two

  Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Also by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  About the Author

  For those who have been so patient with me

  I thank you

  Chapter One

  Ready to pounce, her eyes focused, the hair on her neck bristled, she rocked back, preparing to leap forwards. With the fury of a mother seeing the slaughter of her newborn child, she would not leave until she had rescued, or was sure she could no longer save, her baby. Her tiny solitary kitten had been taken, disappearing beneath the vile and threatening noise, and the massive body of the ravenous monster.

  Her leap was aimed at the enemy’s shining eyes and its lurid tongue, snorting and devouring, its breath both fearsome and burning hot. Every muscle in her body strained to protect her baby.

  The lacine’s elongated snout crashed into the train’s side with a metallic echo. She fell back, her head crushed. The bright, eager eyes stared wide. Her furred chest and clawed forelegs were flung backwards as the train hurtled onwards into the north.

  For some moments the carriages rolled past. The whistle blew, low and deep in warning. The great cat’s limbs were sprawled out on the grass beside the tracks, her head a mass of splintered bone and matted blood.

  Carriage after carriage, the wheels rolled on until finally, it had passed. A tiny dark-furred kitten rocked backwards and forwards between the rails. So small, it had not been touched, having crept almost flat, and terrified by the disappearance of his mother, and the noise all around.

  Now he crawled from between the rails, smelling the familiarity of his parent. And he found the source, sniffing desperately and discovering the faded scent of something he once knew. But the body warmth had gone, and the call of the milk and the safe loving had blown away into the rank smell of blood and brains.

  At first he curled there, purring, tight to the soft furred side. But he was confused. Something was wrong. He snuffled at the belly where he was accustomed to the warm, welcoming smell of milk. But now everything was cold, and his mother did not answer his plaintive calls.

  Guessing his mistake, the baby scurried away, tiny paws scrabbling in the grass. Sniffing, hoping, fear mounting.

  Then running, calling, hungry and terrified, the infant lacine searched for his mother. But beyond the corpse, nothing replied, and nothing moved beneath the trees.

  Then finally something moved. It was only shadow at first, but then it moved into the pale light and the kitten froze. Tall, thin-legged, this thing was heavy furred, but the fur was white, and the eyes were not his mother’s golden but a piercing blue. Quite slowly, it came towards him, but it stopped where the broken lacine’s body lay, bent down, and tore into the smashed skull, lapping up the crust of splattered brain. As it ate, its eyes looked up, never wavering from the kitten’s paralysed terror.

  The shout was as unexpected as the train and as the white wolf. The kitten did not move. The wolf waited just one moment, then turned and loped back into the darkness of the forested slopes. The man had rolled from his place at the end of the train, having seen the great cat’s carcass flung wide, followed by the interest of the white wolf. Not entirely sure whether he jumped to the rescue or only to investigate, Udovox scurried to the lacine corpse. He saw immediately that it had been killed by the train and not slaughtered by the wolf. Bending a moment, one knee in blood, fascinated by the beauty of a creature he had never seen before, its elegance and power, the glory of its golden stripes against black fur, its dark mane and huge claws, Udovox realised there was nothing he could do and therefore could only leave it to the hunger of the wolf.

  Plodding back down the slope, he saw something shiver in the grass, and bent. He did not have to bend far, for this son of a prosperous farming family had been born dwarfed and stood only to his lover’s shoulder. And his lover, although as beautiful as the Mandell blossom and the autumn sunset, was not a tall man. The lacine kitten, having stayed unmoving as he had been taught, now cried and tried to run as the human hand, although gentle, grasped him, bottoms up, and cradled him against a soft warmth of green velvet. The coat, although laced from shoulder to hem with golden cord, contained a pocket, large as a lacine paw, in the centre just above the waist. Into this cuddled green womb, the infant found itself cradled. Hearing the deep, steady reassurance of a heartbeat beside its ear, the kitten blinked in delight and settled down to sleep.

  The long walk uphill didn’t bother the man. Back to the challenges of the countryside he had loved since birth, this was exhilaration. He missed Tom, but not the rancid slime of fifty men’s semen and the chore of attracting some fool you had never seen before nor ever wished to see again. The weight of the tiny nursling against his ribs was pleasant, and Udovox kept walking until the great stone wall of his father’s farm wound along the top of the crest before him.

  Not the favourite son, but it was not the dwarfism which had antagonised his parents many years ago. It was his male lover and his home in a brothel. But they had never refused him their door. It was now open wide, smoke from the open oven billowing out, yet they had not been expecting him.

  “A spontaneous journey,” he told his mother, who bent to kiss his cheek. “I come on behalf of another, in fact. And this is a highly important reason.” He patted his pocket. “And frankly, it’s working well already.”

  “A bulging pocket, my dear?”

  “Something to love, and perhaps will love me.” Udovox grinned. “A little warm milk might help. Beauty in unexpected places should never be denied.”

  Winter had slipped in almost unannounced after the breezy showers and leaf fall of mild autumn. Now Eden froze. Freya wore her fur-lined cloak in her bedchamber when no customer was present. She had never wanted to undress while working and now she refused entirely.

  Cold, desperately depressed and absurdly defiant, she faced her friend.

  “Makes no sense, girl, nor never will,” Hawisa told her. “Snivelling now, after tis done? And anyways, the bugger is a prick-arse and a filthy turd. Not just to you, though what he did to you were the nastiest. He’s a little slime ball to everyone, and no doubt kicks his mother about as well. So he deserved it. Deserved more.”

  “I’m not sorry for him,” Freya whispered, head still buried in her hands. “I’m sorry about me. For what I’ve become. For what I’m capable of.”

  “Reckon you’re what that bugger made you,” said Maggs from the window seat, busily examining her four broken fingernails in the early evening’s softly waning light.

  Sosanna sat curled on the bed, her head on the piled pillows, one arm around Freya and the other tapping restless
ly on the pink velvet bedcover. “But you’re a strange one, pretty-girl,” she said. “I’ve knowed you to save a butterfly dying outside your window. Or a moth too close to a candle. But I watched you press that blade to that fellow’s miserable little pecker and slice it through.”

  Freya looked up. Her eyes were swollen. “I don’t mind blood. I don’t turn away from wounds. I’ve helped a dozen women give birth, and wiped shit from a man almost dead of the pestilence. I’ve cut out abscesses and helped women get rid of their unwanted pregnancies. It’s not the blood and muck that bothers me. It’s the hating. Hating so much and wanting someone to suffer, and then making sure he did. I hate myself for all that hating.”

  “Revenge,” nodded Edda. “Ain’t no harm in that.”

  “Just plain common sense if you asks me,” declared Hawisa.

  “She ain’t asking you. She’s asking me.” Sosanna tightened her embrace.

  “I’m not asking anyone.” Freya turned away. “I just hate myself. I hate Bryte even more, and I don’t regret what I’ve done. to him. But I regret not regretting it.”

  “You lost me, darling.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Freya sighed, extricating herself. “I hope the wretch lives long and suffers all his life. But I hope one day I can forget him and everything about him and feel good about myself again.”

  The next morning she asked Hawisa to increase the strength of her poppy juice. Hawisa scowled. It was bright. The rain clouds had all been blown away in the night, and the newly emerging sunshine shimmered across Eden’s wet rooftops, turning reflections pastel and the uneven tiles pearly. But it was the frost that glistened brightest, and outside the freeze never surrendered to the sun. Where windows were glassed, they peeped new washed. Where the gutters ran central through the narrow cobbled lanes, they gleamed clean, sluiced and fresh. Dawn’s sweet hope and sudden dazzle now climbed the church spires to take a place high beyond the horizon. Hawisa took down the window shutters and the day rushed in. It remained bitterly cold.

  Freya squinted. “I need something – stronger.”

  Hawisa put her hands on her hips. “So that’s it, is it?” she demanded. “Life too buggering hard for the grand whore of the Bridge, is it? Can’t face the future no more, can we? Can’t face the bloody truth?”

  “What truth?” Freya turned her face to the pillows. “There isn’t any truth. Life’s all a lie.”

  Plumping down on the edge of the mattress, Hawisa regarded the quivering heap beneath the tired old bedcover. “Feeling proper sorry for ourselves, is we?” she said, her voice softening. She patted Freya’s humped shoulder. “Reckon you’re stronger than that, lass. Here, I got your medicine all ready – so tis too late to give a stronger dose for this morning.”

  “I don’t want to wake up.” But Freya emerged, sat hunched, and drank from the cup Hawisa held out for her. She drank quickly without pausing to breathe. In only moments the furrowed expression gradually calmed and she sighed, leaned back, and shook her head. “Don’t ever give me stronger,” she said softly, gazing up at Hawisa. “It doesn’t matter whether I beg for it, or whatever the reason is. This works well enough, and it keeps me moving. So however much I dream of absolute escape, any stronger and I’d be lost forever.”

  “Say it like it bloody is, girl,” Hawisa said, taking back the empty cup. “Any stronger, and you’re like to die.”

  “No,” Freya said. “I’m so habituated, I doubt I’d die if the dose was just a little more. But I’d lose my mind and be a slave to it forever. I nearly am anyway. And already I’m not the me I used to be. But I want – a little – of my sanity left to me.”

  “It’s settled then,” Hawisa agreed, smiling. “You finds yourself in a trap? You finds your own way to escape. A little dreaming’s good for all of us, and we all knows you lost your handsome lover. But that’s a good while over and tis time to face the future.”

  “It’s facing the future that disgusts me,” Freya said, but she also smiled. “Though if I’m a woman capable of anything – then my future might be – anything.”

  “Then go wash your face in the bowl, lass,” Hawisa nodded. “For Tom wants to see you and will be here soon enough.”

  Freya remained in bed, the covers pulled to her chin. “Tom’s the last person I need to prepare for.” But now cheerful, she sat up and pushed back her hair. “He doesn’t care what I look like.”

  “But the little sod carries tales back to Edith Webb,” Hawisa insisted. “And you ain’t been fulfilling your quota lately, so we don’t want no arguments nor threats of turning off and throwing out, now does we?”

  “Only because I brought you here, and you think your job depends on mine?”

  Hawisa was examining the stains on the bedcover. “Might as well forget about me, lass, and think of yourself.” She pointed. “Knowing full well where them dirty old marks come from, reckon this quilt needs a wash and a brush.” She stood, still frowning. “This ain’t Sal’s old dump of a stewe you know. Getting lazy and uncaring, ain’t we, lass? Tis the poppy does that as well. Why wash – why care – why dress – why eat – why work – just drink the cup o’ forgetting and no need to think on ort else.”

  “Take the damned bedcover and wash it yourself.”

  Not bothering to knock, Pimping Tom entered before Hawisa had left. Tom said, “Well, my darlings, it’s a fine morning, and a good day for making resolutions.” He sat on the little window seat, stretching his slim and beautiful legs in their silken blue hose. “Resolutions to work harder, for instance my lovely, to appreciate, to persevere.” He waited until Hawisa had closed the door behind her, then spoke again. “But you don’t deserve the men you get, Symon’s girl. You’re lucky you’re so pretty, or they’d be complaining about the lack of service and asking for someone with more finesse.” He waited for her reply, but she said nothing. “You don’t deserve me, either,” he added.

  “I get the nicer men because that’s who you bring me,” Freya answered him from the bed. “Finesse is for romantic lovers in silly books. And if my customers want to look elsewhere, they can. I certainly won’t miss them.”

  Tom sighed with exaggerated disappointment. “Ah, such self-delusion, and from someone I once thought intelligent.”

  Freya looked away. “So I haven’t been working hard lately. I admit I’ve avoided customers. But I’ve had other things on my mind. Revenge, for instance. You once encouraged me in that. And I hate the work. I don’t care if I’m given a smaller share.”

  “You’d miss the money, and the poppy cake it buys,” Tom reminded her. “And if she catches you speaking that way, Madam Webb may throw you out, my dear. And what will you do then, Symon’s friend? Stop your morning medicine too abruptly, and you’ll be puking in the gutters and sleeping in the alleys, begging for your crusts and selling your pretty body for a mere crumble of opium cake.”

  “That’s – that’s horrid.” Freya gulped, staring back at him. “I haven’t hurt you, Tom. You aren’t usually so cruel.”

  “Not me, my darling.” Tom twirled one slender ankle. “It’s our Pearly Webb who complains, and, sadly, my dear, has reason. I have argued on your behalf, and indeed explained your troubles and your needs. But this brothel is a grand house and has high standards. Profit is what makes those standards possible. A girl who takes a whole chamber for herself but does not bring in her share of the profits, will not be welcome for long.”

  “I’d leave.” She stared down at her lap. “I want to leave. Desperately want to leave. Except for –”

  “Except for the poppy.” He smiled, leaning back against the window frame. His dark hair grew a sunshine halo. “So – accepting destiny’s wheel as we all must, my dear. Take your work seriously, and it will seem less dull. Shall I give you lessons in technique? When to squeeze and when to suck and when to pull and when to pause, breathe deep, and start again? I doubt you even know how to smile.”

  “Once they’ve got their hose unlaced, there’s remarkably littl
e to smile at,” she replied. “I think men are smelly, sticky creatures full of arrogance and nasty demands. You sent me a man last who wanted me to spank him, pretending I was his mother. I should have sent him to Hawisa. She’d have spanked him purple.”

  Tom sighed. “Better spank him than be spanked yourself, my dear,” he said severely, “and I shall start sending you louts and ruffians if you don’t treat my offerings respectfully. I wonder any man trusts his foreskin to you. I would certainly not do so.”

  “We don’t serve louts and ruffians in this stewe,” she laughed, “and I imagine your foreskin is so highly perfumed and oiled, it would slip from my hand.”

  “I thank our many gods, you will never have the pleasure of discovering that, or any other detail of my personal anatomy,” Tom threw up both hands and rolled his eyes to the ceiling beams. “Women are such common creatures.” Indeed, the bordello’s principal and most prized pimp had already tutored Freya at some length. He had not, however, used his own precious parts as an example, only demonstrating with diagrams and hand signals. In this way she had learned and now understood matters she actually had no wish to know. Tom had seen her naked many times. She had never seen more of him than his delicate neck and wrists, small sensitive hands, and a face of exquisitely feminine beauty. Only when he had bathed her had he rolled up his fine pin-tucked shirt sleeves, showing the muscled upper arms which hinted at the hidden strength and ability to protect the girls in his care from sudden acts of cruel brutality, or threats of rape without payment. “For instance, Symon’s lady, it is not only the more cultivated amongst us – I refer to those of refinement like myself – who enjoy the stimulus of all sphincters. But, my dear, we are slipping back into the same dreary subject whereas I came here to discuss something else entirely –”