Only with Hope did Violet Bidwell use such a tone. With all others she was hearty, or bellicose, or motherly, or exasperated. But when addressing Hope, she was as deferential and timid as a penitent before a priest. Because the unshakeable Violet was in awe of Hope, who she truly believed was a sorceress. And it paid to be respectful of someone who could talk to spirits and summon fire with a snap of her painted fingers.
"Yes, Mrs. Bidwell?"
"I have the fee for your pills. And Amelia's been under the weather again."
"Thought I hadn't seen her tonight," Harry said, sipping her second pint. Anne's Arms, unlike the busier inns, had far fewer wenches than was typical; normally it was just Violet, Tessa, and one other girl to manage the evenings. Of course, the clientele here was more select, and Tessa was happy to do the work of three girls just so long as she got paid an equivalent amount. "And where's Lucia?"
"Her sister is having another baby," Violet said, "Her fourth. So she went to help until she's on her feet again."
"How bad has Amelia been?" Hope asked.
"Not as bad as she's been before. I haven't had to watch her around the knives. Mostly she's just taken to her bed and been unable to get out of it. Crying a bit, and a lot of staring and silence. I've been doing all the things you told me," she added. "Talking to her, and tempting her with her favorite foods. Making sure she eats every day."
"How long since she fell into the pit?"
"About a week."
"I will see her," Hope said firmly, standing and opening her drawstring bag. "And here are the pills. Three-month supply."
"Thank you, Miss Hope." Violet carefully tucked the box into one of the pockets of her voluminous petticoat as if it was worth its weight in gold. Which, for a lady in her position, it truly was. Plenty of apothecaries and witches in Bogo offered concoctions that did the same thing as Hope's little white pills—namely, prevent the need to see the sawbones on Blood Alley if you were a working girl and found yourself unhappily in the family way—but they also charged more for an inferior product. Hope's pills did what they were supposed to without also giving those dosed awful nausea, splitting headaches, dizziness, and rotten teeth to boot.
She led Hope through the hot, steam-filled kitchen and to the back bedrooms, where she and her girls slept when they had the time. Only one of the four doors was closed—they passed Tessa's room, which was positively wallpapered with the wanted posters of her favorite regulars—and they paused to knock on it before opening it. "Ames, it's me," Violet said. "I've got Miss Hope with me."
The light of the kitchen spilled into a dark, simply-furnished room. A bed. A trunk. A small table with a basin perched upon it. There was a cracked mirror hanging on one wall and a pretty painting of ships in a harbor—this harbor, in fact—on the other. Amelia was a talented artist and a vibrant girl when she wasn't in the grip of what Violet called her 'black spells' and what Hope referred to as 'the pit'.
Amelia was exceedingly lucky to have found a proprietress like Violet. Anyone else would have thrown her into the street by now, unwilling to believe that she was truly ill and not just being lazy, convinced that she was addled and willful rather than struggling with a very real disorder. For all that Violet tended to bluster and boom, she was genuinely fond of her girls. Not many employers would give their wenches time off for sister's babies or clean their rooms when they were near-comatose from depression. And it was clear that a broom had swept through this narrow space recently.
"Miss Amelia? May I sit with you?"
The lump beneath the blanket moved. A gray, listless face turned towards the light and stared at her. "Alright," she said tonelessly.
"Thank you. Mrs. Bidwell," she said to Violet in a quiet aside. "Would you please bring me a kettle for tea? And something sweet for her tongue?"
Amelia Toussaint was not a beauty. Her teeth were too uneven, her nose too beaky, and her forehead too large. But she had riveting eyes: one brown and one green, with a ring of gold around the pupils. With her black skin and kinky brown curls, that green eye was especially intriguing. Her eyes were what usually caught a man's attention first, then he would notice how lightly she moved, as if she had clouds beneath her feet, and how well she listened. Amelia had a gift for attention. She could focus on a speaker in a way that assured them every particle of her was interested. Men came to Anne's Arms and asked for her specifically for this very reason. Because after months at sea, they wanted someone to listen while they unburdened or bragged. Having a roll and tussle as part of the deal was a bargain, and a perfect way to spend an evening.
So while Amelia was not as physically beautiful as Tessa, or as skilled in the sexual arts as Lucia, she was still popular. She worked hard, she made good money, she ate well, and she usually had time left over for her artistic passions. But sometimes, without warning, she would fall into the pit. For a day or two, for a week or three, and—when it was truly black—for a month or more.
Until someone like Hope came along, with her magical bag, and helped her climb back out.
"I'm sorry," Amelia said as Hope took her cold hand, squeezing it gently before running a sure finger over her palm and wrist, locating pressure points. "I'm just so stupid and useless..."
"That is the monster in the pit talking, not you," Hope said firmly. Cases like this were unique, and each afflicted had to be handled a different way; with Amelia, she had learned, it was best to be practical. "When the sailors develop scurvy, they do not apologize. They may curse themselves as fools, perhaps, and the very stupid may blame imps or black magic, but they understand that it is an illness. So they visit a doctor, who tells them to eat more vegetables and less beef, and they do these things, and by and by, they are better. It is the same with your pit. When you stumble into it, you look for a ladder to climb or a hand to reach for."
"And it's always your hand—you must be tired of pulling me up so often," Amelia said, looking away, because Hope had taken a packet of extremely sharp pins from her bag. If she stuck pins all over her arms and chest the only result would be blood and dirty pins. When Hope did it, everything tingled and burned in a way that was both invigorating and relaxing. Her body hardly felt like hers afterwards.
"Think of it as a form of meditation," Hope said, placing the next acupuncture needle with a deft twist of her fingers. "When things are repeated often enough, we can find clarity and peace. Thank you, Mrs. Bidwell," she added as the barkeep set a stool, a steaming kettle, and a small plate with some kind of pastry on it beside her. "Now, we will have tea and you shall have some of my syrup."
"The one that tastes like dirt?"
"I am afraid so. But Mrs. Bidwell has been kind enough to supply you with a treat to follow."
"She's so good to me," the girl said, sniffing. "I don't deserve it."
"Hush, child," Hope said, though Amelia was only a few years younger. "You deserve to have friends and be treated with kindness. You do nothing that would earn you reproach or banishment."
"Don't I, though?" Amelia countered. "A lot of people would say I'm a fallen, unclean, sinful woman."
"You do a job, Miss Amelia. One that is actually, despite what those people may think, necessary. If you do not wish to do it any more, if you hate it and feel as though you must continue with it because you have no other option, Captain Harry will help you find a new position," she said.
Amelia blinked at her and accepted the fragrant cup she was handed, reaching out an arm that looked like a pincushion. "...No, I don't want to quit," she said finally. "I like my job. I like the Anne. Pious prigs may say I'm sinful, but I don't really feel like I'm bad. I don't lie or steal or murder."
"You are a saint by most standards," agreed Hope, sipping from her own cup. "Now, drink that down. We will give the needles a few more minutes to do their work. Have you any of the medicine I gave you, or have you used it all up?"
"I keep forgetting to take it," Amelia confessed, almost sheepishly.
"Understandable. You are a busy girl with much to reme
mber. Still, you should try to take one small spoonful of powder a day, mixed into a good cup of strong tea. Even on days when the pit seems nothing more than a bad dream. Do that, and the monster in it will find it harder to catch you. I will make you more before we leave again, enough for three months."
"Thank you, Miss Hope." She was an aptly-named woman. Amelia still felt heavy and numb, too cold and aching in a bone-deep way. But she would do as she was told, because when she had followed Hope's instructions in the past, things had improved. She knew better to think she'd be cured; not even Hope could cure such a sickness. But her powders and advice—to sit out in the sunlight for at least an hour every day, to eat even when she didn't feel hungry, to talk to Violet or Tessa when the pit felt especially deep—could make it bearable.
"You are welcomed, Miss Amelia."
The clock hanging in the common room bonged one o'clock, an asthmatic cuckoo bird popping out to chirp shrilly. An excited squeal, the clatter of feet up the stairs, and the enthusiastic slamming of the door to room two promptly followed.
"Tessa's been pining longer than I have," Amelia said, holding out her cup for a refill.
"Zora's been complaining for days," added Hope. "We were on an island that could be called celestial, and all she could do was frown."
"Glad I'm not in love. I'm exhausted and out-of-sorts enough as it is." She sighed. "I'll get up and see what Vi needs done."
"Good girl," Hope said approvingly. "Let me reclaim my pins and you can wash your face."
"It'll only be a couple hours," Amelia said, almost to herself. "Just while Tess is occupied. I can manage that."
*~*~*
"How do you manage these laces?" Zora huffed. "I'm good with knots, but these are devilish."
"Probably because all sorts of devils have had their fingers on them," Tess laughed. "Here, let me, you're making a mess of it."
"Hmm, you smell so good." She bent her dark head to kiss the soft neck and breathed deeply. Unlike most wenches, who tended to bathe in cheap rose perfume, Tessa dabbed vanilla oil at her neck... her breasts... her wrists... "Good enough to eat, even."
"I should hope so," came the light reply. "Oh, I've missed you, love."
"How much?"
"Every morning I lie in bed, think of you, and burn. Nobody touches me the way you do, nobody pleases me like you. They're all dishwater in my mouth and you're brandy. Hot and sweet..."
"Damn these petticoats."
"Mmh-hmm."
They were always too rough and fast and impatient at first. Time apart made them clumsy and desperate. Zora pressed her against the wall, rucking up her green skirts until her questing fingers found their wet, warm goal. Tessa laughed, a breathless trill, and clung to her shoulders. Lifted a leg to press her thigh against the slimmer waist and give her better access. Kissed the lips chapped from wind and salt and moaned deeply, knowing what her moans did to her lover.
Tessa was a substantial amount of woman, with curves that had often overwhelmed sturdy men. She was an armful and a half, they teased. Taller and heavier than the trim Zora. Yet the woman with the dancer's grace and athletic arms supported her easily. It was hauling on all of those ropes and climbing up all of those masts, she supposed. That would give anyone arms like iron.
"God!" Tessa cried out as she came with a jolt, the rush of pleasure like a stab of lightning through her core. She'd bedded four men that evening, all perfectly adequate, but what she'd said was true: nobody gave her pleasure like Zora. Those nimble fingers knew just where to stroke and knead. "Oh God, Zora."
"There's too much fabric between us," Zora said. "Too much space."
"Yes," Tessa said, still dizzy and pulsing. "Too much."
Zora's red skirt fell to the floor with a musical crash, the dozens of coins and charms tied to her belt glinting in the lamplight like a spilled pile of treasure. Her blouse swiftly followed, then Tessa's emerald skirts. Her discarded corset had already disappeared into the corner. Zora buried her hands in Tessa's mass of red hair, which promptly shed a dozen hairpins—Tessa was forever buying hairpins, having lost an untold number of them to the cracks in the floorboards.
They fell back onto the bed. The springs shrieked in a coarse counterpoint to their laughter. Tessa, Zora knew, was so good that she could coax a symphony from those springs while in the throes of lovemaking. She knew just when to shift and rock to produce the right notes, in both the bed and her partner. "Any requests?" the wench asked playfully.
"Something slow and memorable."
"I'll see what I can do..." The blue eyes glittered above her as she slid down the taut, tanned length of her body, wild hair caressing her skin and giving her the appearance of a lustful Medusa. Tessa reached the crux between her legs and bent to kiss amidst the curly black hair.
Zora closed her eyes and abandoned herself fully to the sensation of those skillful lips, the sure tongue, the talented fingers. She balled the blanket in her hands so as not to pierce her palms with her short nails. Struggled to breathe as her hips bucked and shifted under Tessa's ministrations, smiled as Tessa pushed her legs open wider and laid a firm arm across her stomach to pin her to the bed. Her lover wasn't going to let her rush things, wasn't about to let her set the pace. She was fully prepared to draw this out until Zora throbbed and begged, until she was half-mad with tension, until she cried and writhed and promised her the world in exchange for release.
And what a release—her body melted and flowed like mercury, the pleasure coursing through her as searing as lava. Zora screamed as she convulsed, her back arching like one possessed. It was always incredible with Tessa, always unbelievable. The stuff of epic, supremely erotic, poetry. Perhaps because her body had weeks to forget her particular flavor of love, always craved it the way an addict craves the drug. Her own fingers could never reach the plateaus Tessa's mouth took her to.
She was panting, thrashing her head in an attempt to dispel the bursting stars, when Tessa lowered her face to hers for another kiss. She smelled of her own musk now and the way it blended with the vanilla essence was painfully arousing. "You taste so good," she murmured, voice low and sated. "How was that?"
"I won't walk for a week," Zora replied when she had enough breath.
"Perhaps we can do better than that..."
They grappled and twisted, slid and rolled, intertwining their bodies in a way that would have made the most pious rethink chaste vows. Olive skin against cream, breast to breast, flushed cheeks, bruised lips. And everywhere was red hair. So hungry for one another, it almost seemed possible that they would literally consume each other, teeth nipping over responsive flesh as moans verged on growls.
"No man could bed me like that," Tessa said finally, splayed comfortably over Zora's chest. "Never. Not if he was God Himself."
"I love it when you're blasphemous," Zora replied, counting the marks she'd left on her pale back and shoulders. "Six, seven, eight..."
"They say God loves everybody, even whores, but He's never paid me a visit," Tessa went on irrelevantly.
"He couldn't afford you."
"Probably not. I raised my price again, did I tell you?"
"And how has that gone?"
"Wonderfully. I've saved up a king's ransom already. Vi's keeping it all locked up for me. Safe as houses."
"The men been treating you well?" It took a little effort, but she kept her voice even and her face calm. Tessa, long attuned to her lover's body and moods, twisted to look up at her.
"Haven't laid a hand on me, except to put it where I tell them to," she said. "In fact, I've got a new regular," Tessa said after a pause.
If anyone else had been listening in, they would have thought such a comment rather heartless. Surely her lover didn't want to hear about the others she'd taken to bed. But Zora knew that Tessa would only bring up the men she serviced for one reason.
"Who?"
"His name's Morgan Yates. He sails with The Charon. Mans the cannons."
Zora sat up against the wall.
Tessa rearranged herself around her and rested her head on the tanned shoulder. "Be careful," Zora warned, serious as the grave. "Those men are a bad lot. Traitors and slavers. Allied with some very dangerous merfolk."
"I know," Tessa said, a little peevishly. "I've read your letters. I'm not taking any chances. But Morgan's not half-bad. Thick and dull, but not cruel. I know what the cruel ones look like. They've got a sheen in their eyes. Like that Wrath..." She shuddered. "I'm glad he's only got the one eye, because I don't think I could stand to have two of those on me."
"Does he come in here a lot? Wrath?"
"No, Drew hasn't been in for months. None of his crew have. Just Morgan. I think word got round that Harry's a regular. I think the rest of his crew is avoiding Anne's. Saying this out in public would probably get me in trouble, but…" Tessa paused. "I think Wrath's afraid of your captain. Really afraid."
"He should be," said Zora with feeling. "She's vowed to see him dead. And when Harry makes a promise—"
"She keeps it," finished Tessa. "Like when she promised to find you something better than wenching."
"Tess, things with Wrath are probably going to escalate. Soon. If that happens, you need to be ready to go to ground. If he knows this place is on friendly terms with us, he might strike here to get back at Harry."
"You really think so?" The smooth brow furrowed with concern. "But everyone knows Violet paid Hope for a blessing, and Wrath's supposed to be real superstitious."
"Even so. If he lives up to his name, he might overlook the threat of incurring bad luck."
"This talk is making us both cross," Tessa said, cupping one of Zora's pert breasts. "I don't want to feel cross. We don't have time to waste on that."
"You're absolutely right," Zora agreed, licking a lingering bead of sweat from the hollow of her throat. "Lie back. It's my turn to make you scream for mercy."
*~*~*
"Mercy!" croaked the man swaying on the opposite side of the table, tilting until he almost slid from his chair. "I surrender!" He slurred the last word so badly it was nothing but a sibilant 'S' and a rumbling 'R'.
The Search for Aveline Page 12