Page 2

Chapter

One

ANYA

S taring in the mirror, I run a finger over the very fine wrinkle at the corner of my eye. It’s finally happening. Despite taking care of my health to the best of my ability and eschewing the “party favors” enjoyed by my clientele, I am finally starting to show my age. True, my auburn curls don’t yet have a trace of silver threading through them, but it’s only a matter of time and a reminder that my time is limited. It’s staring me right in the face—the same face my regular customers are no longer quite so eager to acquire as their companion for the evening. Every month, I seem to lose at least one or two clients. They just seem to drift away—to the sides of other younger ladies of my profession, I’m certain.

“Time to be put out to pasture for a nice rest, old girl,” I murmur.

It’s better to get out now before the bills of my extravagant lifestyle—one that my gentlemen expect to be greeted with so that they can enjoy indulging in all comforts within my rooms—pile up even more than they have. It is an unfortunate consequence of the profession that prohibits women within the business from getting ahead. The only things of value I have are the jewels, clothing, and fine lace lingerie that I wear for the pleasure of my clientele. All of which is being picked up this afternoon by a goods-peddler who has offered me a tidy little sum.

Truthfully, it’s a pitiful amount compared to what I spent, but coin will be needed to keep myself fed and reasonably comfortable as I travel on the rails. I already dipped into my meager funds to buy several gowns of common streetcloth available at the general clothing stores, sturdy boots, and a plain wool shawl to keep me warm. The only thing I’ve kept for myself is a ruby pendant on a gold chain that I’ve slipped within the bodice of my gown where the peddler will not see it, lest he think that he is entitled to this as well for his fee. I have heard of more than one woman of the profession being swindled and was well advised on the matter by a dear friend who retired earlier this same year.

“He will offer a fair enough price for your belongings, all things considered,” Mari said with a pointed look. One that I well understood, knowing that in polite society, courtesan or not, we are harlots, and no “decent” man or woman will do business with us. “He won’t swindle you as much as the other street peddlers. But if there are any treasures you wish to retain, keep them well hidden. His offer is for the lot, and he will demand anything that he believes he paid fairly for.”

It's enough to make me grimace with distaste. I never truly believed it would come to this. In all my daydreams and in every plan that I’d made for the future, it was with the hope that one of my gentlemen would eventually offer for me. Even if it was just to be a mistress comfortably set with all the legal protections allotted in Zyerk. But marriage was always a real possibility for a talented courtesan who found favor with a widow. In fact, I had hung all of my hopes on Giles Kenning, my benefactor, until he died just weeks ago in a tragic accident without leaving me so much as a token sum in his will despite all I did for him over the years. My eyes sting as I blink away the tears that will certainly ruin the powder, kohl, and rouges carefully applied.

I can’t make a mess of myself before I conclude my business with Mr. Barkley. One doesn’t look weak in front of a scavenger—it makes them brave enough to attempt a strike.

“Do you have any regrets after all these years, Anya?” Mari whispered in a haunting echo from that last day we enjoyed tea together.

“Of course not.” I laughed, secure still in all the promises Giles made to me in our moments of pillow talk. I shrugged as I tipped the teapot, refilling our cups. “What is there for me to cry over? I was orphaned young but was blessed with a fair enough face to attract the attention of Madrina Solas, who gave me an education I never would have had otherwise.” I sipped my tea thoughtfully. “It is a life that a street girl only prays for… a life floating on the edges of the higher social circles, enjoying the fruits that fall from their golden chalices and the entertainments that they indulge in.”

“There is that,” Mari murmured and sipped from her own cup, a wistful expression on her face. “I’m going to miss that.”

“Then stay,” I insisted, taking her gloved hand in mine, a bright smile on my lips.

She had returned my smile but slowly extricated her hand with a sigh. “To what purpose, Anastasia? I turn thirty-five next month, and you are two years older than me—it’s time you also think of other prospects. As much as I will miss the grand parties and entertainment, you forget that there is something we share with those street girls that we can’t deny.”

“Which is what, exactly?” I asked absently as I glanced over the pastries plated next to the teapot. I reached for a tart, but looked up in surprise when she laid her hand over mine.

“It’s an occupation for the young.”

Those words echo now in the quiet of my bedroom, punctuating the ache of disappointment within my heart that I’ve been carrying around for days now. I have lost faith in love. Now I can only hope for comfort and security.

Lowering my hand to my vanity table, my eyes skate toward the flyer that sits beside my elbow. With a weary sigh, I pick it up. I don’t know why I even bother reading it yet again. I have read it at least a dozen times and have already made up my mind. Hell, I even wired the service last week and received a response only yesterday with a ticket aboard one of the steam engines leaving the city tomorrow. Despite the slow response, I’m optimistic. Not so much because I believe that I will find love and adventure with lonely men who live in far-off lands like the ad promises, but because it offers possibilities that weren’t there yesterday. I skim the bold print and set it down to pick up the envelope sitting beneath it.

I smile as I run my fingers over the crisp envelope. Inside is a letter from my intended and the ticket that accompanied it. The letter from my intended is brisk at best, just three hastily scrawled lines informing me that he was pleased to welcome me to Ivywood Outpost, and that he will be collecting me personally from Tarnwood Town’s station when he comes by wagon with his men to get the monthly supplies for the outpost.

I try not to think of the fact that I am going to be conveniently carted off with flour and sugar as if I am just one of many goods he ordered. It stings my pride, especially since my gentleman clients have often showered me with flowers and jewels in appreciation of my company, besides the small payments of coin to go toward my upkeep. But those days are over. I suppose that I can’t get too deeply into my feelings about it given that I was less than truthful about some details regarding my background which is going to be a rude surprise for my soon-to-be husband if he ever discovers the truth.

I’m not twenty-seven, nor am I a mid-merchant’s widow looking to escape the painful memories of the city. I can only hope that those good qualities I possess more than make up for the small white lie. How many men in the wild lands of Fountainne can claim that they had an intelligent wife who not only engages them intellectually but also knows her way around the bedroom competently?

Unless the men of Fountainne are as boorish, uncouth, and uneducated as rumor paints them. My smile slips a little at the thought and I shudder. No, I won’t think of that. Besides, David Mallory isn’t just anyone. He is the governor of the outpost, and while that doesn’t mean much in the way of wealth and comforts, it’s something.

Although I am thirty-seven, it’s not like I am pretending to be a virgin, though in retrospect perhaps I should have made the attempt. It isn’t entirely unheard of and I’m not convinced that men can truly tell the difference, anyway. But I had gone for something a little more believable, eager to find a match as far away as possible. The less that my future husband knows of my profession, or the fact that certain gentleman came to me because they enjoyed the taste of the whip and leather from a petite female with an iron hand, the better. This new future is offering me a chance of family and children—a dream that I had long ago put away. I can do this.

I smile down at the ticket and set the flyer aside, my mind wandering. I am still young enough to bear one or two children; I believe. I would have the family that I sometimes saw in my dreams at night. My husband was always a dark shadow in my daydreams, one that towers over me and ripples with strength and confidence. His features are always obscured, hidden to me, but just being with him makes me feel protected and cherished. It doesn’t matter that I can’t see him, or my children. Just seeing them in my dreams strikes a longing in my heart. I slowly expel my pent breath and blinked. Yes, I’m making the right decision. My single trunk is packed and lying open so that Mr. Barkley can clearly see that the contents aren’t worth bothering about when he arrives.

But tomorrow—tomorrow I will be heading to Ivywood Outpost and David Mallory.

I jump at the sound of a heavy fist banging at my door, startling me from my reverie. There is no need to guess as to who that is. I stand from my dressing table and make my way from my bedroom out into the parlor, where my belongings are packed neatly into several inexpensive trunks. I skirt by them to the door and open it to admit Tom Barkley.

“Mr. Barkley,” I murmur in greeting and step back to let him in.

Although he barely tops my height by an inch or two, there is a shrewd look to his thin face as he steps inside with the smallest dip of his head in acknowledgment. He takes in the parlor with a sweeping look and hums to himself.

“You are leaving tomorrow, I presume?”

“In the morning, yes,” I agree, as I cast a regretful look over my elegant furnishings.

“Good, good,” he murmurs as he absently hands me a small sack of coins that fills both palms with its weight. “I will take the clothing and jewels today, but I will be by at sunrise to collect the furniture.” He turns to me with a pleased smile. “Show me the rest of the apartment, if you will.”

I nod in response. I expected this. “There isn’t much to show you,” I explain. “Although it is nicely kitted, the apartment is modest, with just a parlor, bedroom, and a small kitchen and washroom.”

He sniffs lightly and follows me through the house, his gaze flitting quickly around each room as if to commit to memory everything they contain. I don’t remark on it or say much of anything else. What is there to say? When he pauses at the sight of my trunk in the bedroom, I stand aside in stoic silence as he quickly sifts through its contents.

“Just a few things I purchased to replace my finer belongings,” I explain when he finally glances up at me.

“Smart,” he replies. “I hate it when women plead and cry to keep a few gowns that I’ve paid for so that they have something to wear.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a couple of silver coins and tosses them at me. “A little extra for saving me the time and trouble.”

I snatch the coins out of the air, nearly fumbling one, and slip them into the pouch with the others. “Thank you, Mr. Barkley.”

Although it’s humiliating to be so thankful for the scraps that he offers, I manage to hold my tongue and not cry when he returns to the front door to let in his workers. Neither man says a word to me, or even so much as glances my way, as they quickly begin to pick up my trunks and carry them away. I’m left to watch in stunned silence as every trunk and every neatly stacked jewelry box is carried out of my apartment. I’m relieved, however, when they finally file out with nothing more than a grunted reminder that they will be back tomorrow. That relief is overshadowed by a sense of numbness as I head back to my bedroom and collapse once more into the chair in front of my vanity to stare at my reflection bleakly.

It will all be fine. It has to be. I’m merely saying goodbye to the remnants of my old life before embracing the new. I wish that were more comforting.

Picking up a warm cloth, I wash my face and pat it dry before heading over to my plush mattress made up in its crisp linens and warm blankets. I suspect that my comforts will not be quite so indulgent at the outpost, but I will at least have a husband to keep me warm. Besides, it’s not like I’ve never known a hard life. And that life sharpened me. Born into a poor family in the meanest quarter of the city, I had been as brutal as the dirty streets of my childhood and destined for far worse following the death of my mother, whom my father followed shortly after. That was before Mistress Marina had found me. Beneath the dirt and the sneer, she’d seen potential and had taken me under her wing. She renamed me Anastasia Hightower, and by her efforts I was fashioned into the image of a lady and introduced to my first clients.

Those memories feel ancient now. Childhood memories of bedding down on a thin mattress stuffed with straw and covered with thinner quilts are distant after all these years, as are the memories of snuggling beneath the blankets with my siblings to share warmth. It’s the memory of the perpetual cold that plagued me for so much of early life that refuses to leave me. And that is what finally prods me into hurrying to my bed and scooting beneath the plush bedding. A blissful sigh escapes me as the layers of blankets practically swallow me whole. I stretch, savoring the decadent feeling. The outpost won’t compare to my current quarters, but at least they will be far better than what I knew in my youth.

Never again will I know such misery as that terrible cold.