by Colin Tabor
At seventeen I stood slightly above average height with long arms and legs, all of it topped by blue eyes and wavy blonde hair. It was often said I had been blessed with the attractive looks of my mother.
Politeness is double-edged.
It’s true that my skin lay smooth and unblemished, but it’s also true that my face hung only neat and plain on an unremarkable frame. At the time I hoped it would grow into something worthy of the compliments. It never did.
It was the day of my first outing, an Ossard tradition at a young lady’s coming of age. In essence, I would be dressed up, reminded of my manners, and then put on show with a chaperone. An outing’s new lady was referred to as a Mint Lady, meaning fresh.
Wearing a new dress gifted to me by my proud parents, I was to be escorted out by a young group led by a distant cousin. On that sunny afternoon, my father and beaming mother saw our two open-topped coaches off at the door with Sef.
My father had arranged for us to go to a fine establishment that overlooked the sea north of the main port. The venue, Rosa Sorrenta’s, was the place for the young of the Heletian upper ranks to be seen. In all, it was an outing someone such as myself should aspire to, but never too seriously expect to achieve. That I was going at all was a gift in itself.
We were all dressed in finery; in the lead coach my cousin and his new wife, and another relation with his betrothed. Also accompanying us were two family friends, both Flet Mint Ladies in their own rights. We three mints sat in the final coach.
I was so dosed up on lotus - courtesy of my anxious mother - that I kept forgetting my companions’ names. Lost in that haze, I just knew that my objective was to find a husband, and looking at the competition, I felt that I wouldn’t be hindered despite being so plain. Forgive my unkind honesty, but one sat as burdened as a heifer, while the other had the face of a horse - an old horse fed on lemons. We spoke little, those nameless girls and I, but we all knew the truth of the day. Following the coach of our chaperones, the three of us sat studying each other and exchanging the most cordial of pleasantries, Horseface, Heifer, and me - Plainface.
The three of us wore similar dresses in the fashion of the time. They were all substantial, well covering, of rich fabric, and showed off a little of the curve of the hip and bosom - a taste if you like. White lace showed through in places as a symbol of our purity, but lay amidst the strong colour of the main body of each dress; mine a deep blue, Heifer’s an emerald green, and Horseface’s a brave violet that verged on burgundy. No one wore red; that would have sent out a whole new round of messages, none that our families were ready to associate with.
The main streets of Ossard were cobbled, seeing our meandering ride towards the northern district in the late summer sun as one of lazy pleasure. Before long we were earning glances from men alongside the road, all flattering and good-natured. Our duties of maintaining fixed, polite, but disinterested smiles in response to their looks and whistles became a challenge in itself. The longer it lasted, the more we gave in to quiet giggles as the iciness between us melted.
During our progress through Ossard’s streets another challenge brought itself to my attention; my undergarments were too tight. Some of the lacings felt as though they were cutting into me, a thing made worse by the constant rocking of the coach. I began rehearsing the conversation in my mind, the one that saw my mother scolding me for bleeding inside my dress. My reply would be that she shouldn’t have laced me up quite so strictly just to hide one of my more popular attributes with the gents, my breasts.
The streets flew by, the buildings changing in nature from the stout stone buildings of the market quarter, all signed and well kept, to the less affluent districts that would never be as successful as those on the high ground and main streets. Here the buildings were predominantly wood, some little more than daub-and-cane.
Horseface spoke, dragging me from my whimsy, “There was another kidnapping last night.”
I paled.
Heifer asked, “Where?”
Horseface indicated a passing alley. “This district, another boy stolen from his bed.”
Looking down the shadowed lane, a place lined with litter, occasional stalls, and a steady flow of residents, it seemed so unlikely. I asked, “Another Flet?”
“Of course,” she said with exasperation.
My father had said that the crowded slums, the most poorly governed districts of the city, were simply the logical place for such diabolical crimes. They were also home to the bulk of the Flet population, not just in Newbank, but also to a lesser degree in the low-lying districts on the Cassaro’s other side. It was just a matter of circumstance. Regardless, we all knew it would take the theft of a Heletian child before the city’s authorities took action.
In a fading voice, Heifer said, “My nephew disappeared a week ago.”
Had he been the redheaded boy?
Horseface and I didn’t know what to say. Her words left me numb, but nonetheless I found myself reaching across to pat her knee. “The Guild’s looking to help, my father’s talked to Heinz Kurgar, its head.”
Heifer nodded as she fought to hold onto her composure.
Horseface thankfully changed the subject, putting on a mischievous grin, “Look, we’re in the port!”
She was right, and we were all glad of it.
We passed along the edge of the district, one side of the road spreading as a seemingly endless row of warehouses, while the other lay thick with taverns, hostels, and brothels. We were supposed to be ignorant of the latter so we tried not to stare, but still took our time to look them over.
The amount of attention we gained from the stevedores, sailors, and other big men who worked the port thrilled us. From the small crowds outside taverns, to men walking the streets. None of them were shy or polite, and few of them settled for just a smile or a wink. They were free with suggestions, both in voice and action, and bold enough to see us blush while they cheered.
In front of a bar, to the roar of a crowd, one burly but drunk Flet stevedore pulled down his britches to let his proud manhood out.
I should have been mortified, instead I could barely contain myself.
I’d had far too much lotus!
We left that seedy place, heading up a rise to the northern district of the city. The quarter was built upon a small hillock that rose from the valley-side to loom over the port, it holding the homes of Ossard’s elite. I looked upon the ornate facades of the exclusive homes we began to pass, many with manicured gardens, walls, and even guards. With few exceptions, the district held an exclusively Heletian population.
Fate would allow a few maidens of Flet-blood to be married to the district’s eligible sons, but less than a handful every year. My plain looks could jeopardise my greatest hope. For a moment I considered my travelling companions; if I doubted my chances, what hope could they have?
For all of us, I slipped into nervous misery.
We passed by Ossard’s second cathedral, Saint Baimio’s, its two spires dominating the skyline of the quarter, and from the hilltop the city below. As with all the spiritual places within Ossard, it lay as part of the Church of Baimiopia, the only legal faith in the lands of the Heletian League. The stone building, vaulting and carved, stood exclusively for the wealthy locals, stopping them from having to mix with the commoners in Ossard’s first cathedral and lesser churches.
While the city stood united in faith, it knelt divided in prayer.
Our coaches finally turned for the cliffs at the west end of the district. My heart fluttered, the sight of gulls and the scent of the sea telling me that we were nearly there.
In moments, I’d be helped out of the coach and into the glory of Rosa Sorrenta’s.
I prayed, a silent thing offered up to Schoperde, the Flet god of love and life. “May today find me a caring and wealthy husband, one who can uplift my family and me.” Our people maintained no public temples to her or our other gods, but we kept our secret beliefs alive. The Heletians’ faith d
idn’t ring true to us, although we did feign piety.
The coaches rounded a bend and came into a street of brightly painted buildings, many fronted by window boxes full of well-cared-for blooms. There were wine bars, high-class taverns, theatres, and finally, up ahead, Rosa Sorrenta’s. Upon sighting it a tingle of excitement started in my belly and grew.
Our coaches slowed to a stop, waiting for one parked ahead at Rosa Sorrenta’s doors. I tried not to stare, but its dismounting passengers were young gentlemen, Heletians at that, and all tall, dark, and handsome.
I noticed the blue, red, and black crest of the Liberigo family, the rulers of Ossard, on the opened coach door. The Lord’s youngest son then stepped out from the coach to the street. His appearance left me stunned and anxious.
Pedro Liberigo was tall and solid with an olive complexion of near perfect skin, well-tailored clothes hugged him tightly, showing off a good frame covered in muscles’ meat. He turned to look at our waiting coaches, his sculpted face thoughtful and finished with dark hair and deep brown eyes. He exuded confidence, just like the man of my lotus-fuelled dreams. For a moment his mouth moved with the beginnings of a welcoming smile.
He then looked away to break the spell.
Horseface and Heifer gasped, one of them whispering, “He looked at us, did you see!”
Such hopeful words…
Then, as we watched, he glanced back and gazed directly at me.
My fellow mints let out another round of gasps.
In a heartbeat the moment was over. He and his friends had gone inside and their coach was leaving. It left me breathless, but also meant we were free to go forward: It was our turn to join the parade.
Rosa Sorrenta’s stood three floors high with its exterior covered in a subtle pink render, something akin to that of sun-bleached oleander blooms. Planters full of flowering geraniums nestled beneath window frames finished in gold leaf, it all giving a taste of the reputed beauty within.
For my own part, I wanted to see the glory that had given the establishment its name, its rose garden - the cliff-side courtyard was said to be amongst Ossard’s delights. But now, most of all, I wanted to catch another glimpse of Pedro Liberigo.
Had he really been looking at me?
Two doormen came forward to help us down from our coach. They wore cobalt blue uniforms, white leggings with matching caps, and reached up with white-gloved hands to steady our descent upon a set of portable steps. Once down, I looked about as I waited to be joined by Heifer and Horseface, and when reunited, we all shared a moment of innocent joy.
My cousin met us, leading the rest of our party.
Once everyone stood ready, he nodded to the doormen. Impassively, and in perfect unison, they swung open the gold leafed double doors.
The doors opened into a wide hall to reveal a beautifully chequered pink and white marble floor, from which the walls rose covered in burgundy suede, and highlighted in gold. Alongside both sidewalls climbed staircases leading to private dining rooms.
A uniformed host awaited us. Without speaking, our host dipped his eyes and gave a welcoming bow, then rose and turned to lead us through the hall and towards the open doors of a dim lounge. The room spread full of comfortable seats, all of them accompanied by small side tables lit by lamps capped with amber-tinted glass. We passed through the room towards another set of double doors manned by two more doormen.
The lounge was a social place, a space for fine liquor and smoking, and a place at the moment half full. Looking around, I was astounded by the faces I saw. I’d never met any of these people first hand, but I knew of more than half of them. Predominantly, they were of the establishment, and all here to socialise and do business. As we passed, conversations stopped and heads turned; the passage of Ossard’s latest mints always demanded attention.
We left the lounge through double doors that opened onto a hall servicing half a dozen different rooms, and at its end we entered a long and light space; the Sunroom.
The radiance and beauty of the Sunroom can only be described as otherworldly. All the woodwork had been painted white, with an absolutely decadent amount of glass fitted into one wall and part of the roof. A floor of white marble spread before us sporting clusters of chairs, all wooden and whitewashed, with matching cushions. An assortment of lush potted plants, huge and outrageous, worked to break up the brilliant space. Groups of patrons sat back enjoying the room’s light and ambience.
Midway along its glass wall stood another set of double doors, these also panelled in glass. Doormen opened the doors without a word, allowing our passage, and in a moment we went from the splendour of the Sunroom to the blooming glory of the Rose Garden.
The Rose Garden spread as a courtyard that ran the width of the building, making it perhaps sixty paces long and forty deep. At one end stood the glass and wood of the Sunroom, but facing it was a waist-high stonewall, also whitewashed in keeping. The cliff fell away beyond that, plunging to the sound a hundred paces below. The view was spectacular, and only challenged by the magnificence of the collection of blooms that lay within its walls. It was superb.
The area had been carefully planted to mature with an assortment of flowers. Jasmine climbed the tall, whitewashed sidewalls, and in some places the glass of the Sunroom. The rest of the plantings were made up of thick clusters of manicured roses, all perfectly pruned and magnificent in colour. Beneath them spread the soil of their beds, lying dark and moist, to peek from under a frosting of spent petals. The beds lay strung about to create between them large spaces amidst the paving for tables and chairs. All in all, with a variety of vibrant colours and luscious perfumes, the Rose Garden was a wonder.
All of it, its layout, colours, plantings, and the way it mixed with the sky’s blue saw me sigh, yet it lacked something…
Alas, where was Pedro Liberigo!
Our uniformed host led us towards the cliff wall, to a table being prepared by more blue-coated staff. In a moment we were seated, the ladies first, each with our chairs politely pushed in behind us amidst words of welcome.
The other patrons ranged as a mix of Ossard’s wealthy, but weighted with youth. The majority were male and Heletian, though there was also a smattering of Flets and women.
Many of the young men turned our way, some even getting to their feet and walking to the cliff wall to take in the view - a contrivance to enable them a closer look at the city’s latest mints. At this my thoughts of competing with Horseface and Heifer came back to haunt me: They ignored the other girls, I was the sole focus of attention.
Me, simple miss Plainface!
My cousin ordered drinks, something cool to soothe the bite of the sun. They arrived in beautiful glasses, iced, coloured with fruits, and all of it mixed with watered-down rum.
Not long after, the gifted drinks began to arrive.
The majority came to me. The first took me by surprise, the second saw me abuzz with proud pleasure, while those that followed set me to wonder if I’d drown in such generosities. Nonetheless, as the uniformed servers whispered in my ear whom each was from, I offered a coached smile of thanks, while everything was monitored by my chaperoning cousin.
My mother had warned me to watch what was served, and never to take more than a sip from each. In particular, it was not unknown for men to send drink after drink to Mint Ladies in an effort to win their befuddled favour.
The afternoon passed, and the staff began to move through the garden and light coloured lamps. It was then, after losing count of the drinks I’d accepted, that I began to feel quite flush and full and knew with certainty that I needed to get to a privy.
I left our table accompanied by my cousin’s wife, she leading the way. In trying to follow her I found myself delayed by a group of well-watered merchants, they weren’t quick to pass or part as they took their time admiring the evening’s favourite mint. I blushed at their leers as I rushed after Isabella.
The privy lay just off a small ladies’ lounge. After tending myself, it was
in the lounge that Isabella and I freshened up, spoke of the afternoon, and giggled as we compared our dresses. It was then, as she referred to one of my fellow mints as Horseface, that I nearly died of laughter. Still, the next moment saw me breathless because of my undergarments tight laces.
Isabella saw my discomfort. “Whatever’s wrong?”
“My lacings are too tight, it’s rubbing me raw.”
Before I knew it, she’d whisked me away to a side room to open the back of my dress.
“The knot’s tighter than a Burvois merchant’s purse!” she cried.
I realised then that her drinks hadn’t been watered down.
She managed to open my dress and began fiddling about with my undergarment’s laces, all the while straining and cursing. The pressure being put on my chest and sides left me breathless. Worried, I gasped, “Just leave it, my mother can see to it later.”
“Nearly there…”
“Really, it’s not that bad.”
“Almost…”
In the next moment, as she strained, our voices were silenced by the angry growl of ripping fabric.
I cried out.
She whispered, “Oh my!”
“What’s happened?”
“It’s the stitching on your unders’, the laces have come off!”
“Oh!”
“I’ll just leave them and do up your dress. No one will ever know.”
I held still as she fastened it. “Please, don’t do it too tight, at least let my dress survive the evening!” Already I knew the rest of the night would be a problem, without being restrained my breasts would be bouncing about like two drunken sailors in a brawl.
Isabella finished and appeared in front of me, laughing as she offered a glass flask that appeared from somewhere amidst the folds of her dress. “Take a sip, it’ll help you forget about it.”
I sulked, “Perhaps I should go home…”
“Go home? This night will mark out the rest of your life, and look at your competition; Horseface and Hog-hips!”