divertimento

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I only glanced down for an instant, but when I looked again, the man had disappeared. A forest of naked limbs separated us now, kicking up around me like a dust storm.

     Blinking, I wondered if I had temporarily gone deaf. It seemed the entire room had buzzed to sudden life in the wake of the noise, but only the sound of my own breathing rushed in my ears. The Matron was upon me before I could bend over to clean up the mess, her voice sweet but cracking under the effort, fingertips pressing bruises into both my arms as she steered me away from the tumult.

     I stood on tiptoe as I was pulled away toward the foyer. For another fleeting second, I saw him.

     He craned his neck and pushed up his thin-framed glasses, brow knit. An elderly gentleman who had held his attention moments ago now stopped mid-sentence to follow his gaze. There was something so deeply comforting about that stare, though I’d hardly had a moment to absorb it.

     The Matron whirled me about on my heels and pushed me forward, then strode ahead of me.

     When all eyes were no longer upon us, I felt myself pulled backward into the kitchen. I lost my balance, but the Matron held me steady and dropped her voice to a low, barely-controlled hiss.

     “You’re lucky our guests seem so fond of you,” she muttered.

     I wobbled unsteadily on my feet. The Matron bent down, angrily swatting at my knees and shins, brushing stray glass from my stockings. I teetered on my five-inch heels, jostled about by her frustrated hands.

     I opened my mouth to speak, to apologize, but I could only gape stupidly back at her as she stood tall over me again and jerked my chin high with the crook of one finger.

     “No more clumsiness tonight,” she said, the line of her mouth a dead branch set to crack at any moment.

     Stupidly, I nodded; the Matron shoved a heavy glass decanter of brandy into my hands and pushed me back into the parlor.

     I took a moment to gather myself. It was as though I’d dreamed it; the same lull hung over the room, the other girls meandering around the room in lazy, practiced circles serving their appetizers and offering cigars and drinks. I had to struggle to contain my urge to look for him again.

     No, I thought—surely if I followed orders, I would come face-to-face with him again before the night was through.

—-

The gala continued without further interruption for almost half an hour, but at last I looked up from my decanter and found the stranger’s eyes upon me again.

     It was a miracle that, this time, I only made the mistake of splashing the brandy a little. The gentleman before me, a very powerful duke whose son was also a member here, guffawed as I righted myself and apologized under my breath.

     “Have you been sneaking nips from the house stores, little one?” he asked as I dusted his sleeve with an embroidered cloth I kept draped over one arm.

     I blushed, biting my lower lip and looking over my shoulder again. Across the large parlor, I saw that the dark-eyed young man hadn’t looked away from me. He seemed vaguely amused for a moment by my gracelessness—but only because I suspect he knew the reason for it. Suddenly, his eyes went cold.

     I felt the duke’s fat, sweaty hand brush my inner thigh, starting at the knee and inching upward. My eyes fell back to him, but he was staring intently at the gap between my thighs, at the satin panties that scarcely hid my treasures from view. White and thin, they were practically transparent in this light. My fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, my back stiffening.

     The hand continued to creep upward. I could hear his breathing picking up, labored by drink and poor health and age, worsened further by the lecherous desire overriding his decorum.

     Slowly, I lifted my chin and cast my eyes over my shoulder in the direction of the dark-eyed man far across the parlor—my brow raised, my mouth slightly open, as if to tell him that I would call out for help if I could.

     It wasn’t as though this was the worst degradation I had suffered here, but to be subjected to it in front of this stranger… I couldn’t stand it. Perhaps, if I was lucky, he really was different than these other men.

     Or, perhaps, he was more dangerous than the rest of them put together.

     In that moment, I felt I would have preferred to meet my end at the hands of that beautiful gentleman than to endure another torturous moment being humiliated like this, being pawed at like a slave at auction.

     “Sometimes I think I might, you know,” the old man muttered, his fingers spreading the flesh of my thigh between them. “Leave that bastard boy of mine nothing… Buy you, and keep you all to myself.”

     My heart raced, a sickening taste rising up in my throat. I felt the urge to take a step back but suppressed it. “Your sleeve, Master White,” I murmured. “It’s going to stain. Let me clean it for you.”

     I reached out for his other arm, but he was quicker. His fingers encircled my pale wrist and bit into them, pulling a cry out of me. Frozen, I stood, his other hand still splayed out between my legs.

     “All to myself…” He licked his lips.

     “My dear Master White, you’ve had her all to yourself for a while now.”

     I felt myself being freed and stood, blinking. The man seemed to come to his senses and sat back in the dusty velvet chair. I felt another hand pressing at the small of my back, this one warm and tentative.

     “Ah, Maestro,” the old man said, pressing a finger to his temple as though staving off a sudden headache. His voice carried a hint of defeat. “I didn’t know you were a member…”

     “I’m not, in point of fact,” came the voice behind me. The hand on my back held me in place, steadying me, pulling me against him. “I’m a guest-of-a-guest tonight. Your son’s.”

     “Of course you are…”

     Master White gestured, waving us away, swatting at the wet stain growing on the sleeve of his jacket now as though he only now noticed it.

     I felt myself steered away again, but I didn’t dare look up.

     “Come over here, poppet,” I heard him say. The voice, unmistakably familiar: soft, unassuming, and powerful all at once.

     He took a seat on the dark velvet bench in a nearby alcove, patting the empty spot next to him. We were far enough away from the other guests and serving girls to offer some modicum of privacy. As I obeyed and took the seat offered to me, I saw him up close for the first time. There could be no mistake now who my rescuer was.

     He hadn’t removed his coat, as though he hadn’t intended to stay long. He was of somewhat diminutive stature, but carried himself with a confidence and security that made even the stoutest and typically handsome of his peers incredibly dull by comparison. His smile lingered in his nature even after it faded from view. I simply hadn’t recognized him because I could never have expected to see him in a place like this—a fearless fox shoulder-to-shoulder with slobbering, baying old hounds.

     “I didn’t believe…”

     “I didn’t want to, but here we are,” he said, taking my hand. He turned my wrist, examining it, looking over my arm, eyes flitting over me as if searching for injuries. “How long.”

     “Two… Almost three months,” I stammered, my eyes following his as he examined my other arm, my neck and shoulders. I wondered if I had fallen asleep; his touch, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his skin, the sensations seemed surreal and distant to me now.

     “Have they hurt you?” The question came out a demand and his fingers seized my chin, impelled me to look at him. I finally felt tears welling up, but blinked them away.

     “Not physically—not yet,” I said.

     His nostrils flared. He seemed to imagine the worst, and the mere thought cast a dark shadow over his features. After a beat, he nodded decisively.

     “Good. …That’s good.”

     I felt so naked, suddenly: so much worse for the practically-sheer satin panties and garters; the demi-cup corset that only contained the pink peaks of my nipples if I adjusted it constantly; the ridiculous heels that had taken months to learn to walk in; the heavy braids pinned to the top of my head with girlish white ribbons trailing to my neck. I looked like a stupid, terrified bird.

     After all this time, if I had to be seen here, I would have rather been done up like the other girls, naked but for black sashes and strings of obsidian beads. Somehow, it had to have felt more dignified than this. They looked almost frightening. Unapproachable. Safe.

     He released my chin but took one of my hands in his. Speechless, I glanced down and at last noticed the brilliant glint of gold on his ring finger. He followed my eyes and took a slow breath, seeing where my eyes had fallen.

     “You got married,” I murmured, my expression blank.

     Quietly, he nodded, rubbing my hand between both of his.

     I shook my head and began to stand. “I can’t stay here,” I said. “I have to get back—”

     “You can’t stay here,” he repeated, but I realized then that he meant something else entirely.

     The decanter felt impossibly heavy in my hands as I stood before him. He leaned forward, knees on his elbows, thinking.

     “I don’t know what to do now,” I confessed, the tears threatening to return. “I’m scared.”

     He stood and held out his glass for me to fill. He never drank, and I knew it; that was unlikely to have changed since I last saw him. He only offered his glass to me to buy himself time to think.

     I poured slowly, pressing my lips together.

     “I can’t leave you here,” he said under his breath. “At least two men in the club are seriously considering turning their boasts into action. They’re already making deals between them. If we wait…”

     I almost fumbled the bottle again, my eyes going wide. “W-what?”

     “Shh…” Holding the glass to his lips in pantomime, he averted his gaze, keeping an eye on the room. “I’m going to take care of it.”

     “I… I can’t let you do that. It’s too much.”

     Locking eyes with me, he frowned softly. “This isn’t up for debate. You don’t have to stay with me… But you aren’t staying here.”

     Part of me suddenly feared the worst. It could all be so simple, and yet it could all go so horribly, horribly wrong.

     “Show me you understand,” he said, his voice firm but kind. “I need you to answer me.”

     I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked him in the eye, then slowly began to nod. “Yes, Sir.”

     It had come out so easily.

     “Thank you. Now, I want you to return to your tasks, but keep me in your sight. Never lose sight of me, do you understand?”

     Again, I nodded.

     He ushered me forward; I obeyed, trusting, but fighting to ignore the chill of uncertainty prickling in the pit of my stomach.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away—

     You surely know the rest. Every fairy story has its dark, disturbing first half; my own is no different, though because I know the ending, I must ask you to keep heart as you hear it.

     I wore no collar, then; My service in this place was meant to be voluntary, temporal, and by mutual contract. Unfortunately, the agreement proved more concrete than I had been led to believe.

     I was one among many girls, carefully vetted and paid well for the privilege of waiting hand and foot on the most unattainable of the intelligentsia. We, the downtrodden, having found ourselves here out of desperation for something better and only granted the privilege by virtue of our youth and good fortune—were glorified waitresses and statues with little to cover us but our limbs and the odd silver tray, spared only from the title of “whore” by the rules of our employer.

     I had served at the Chateau du Cygne Noir for the last three months. The payment I could receive for only an hour serving wine would have taken weeks to earn had I still been painting portraits. The “training” I received upon my debut, however, proved empty and useless to me.

     We were only to speak to offer our services. If we let our appearances slip—a scar,  a rash, even an errant bruise—we might be released at any moment, our precious tasks given to the next foolish girl in desperate need of money. That I bruise so easily didn’t work in my favor, at first; soon, however, my fragile constitution became something of a draw for the patrons, and they began to come in greater numbers.

     And, short of direct penetration, our guests could do anything they wished with us.

     I soon came to realize that, were a guest to become aggressive with me, to hurt me, I would have simply been put on the shelf until I’d healed, like a China doll on the mend. Other girls would have been replaced within the hour, but I could count on no such fortune.

     As well, many of the other girls found themselves ushered out as quickly as they came, but my own mistakes—some deliberate, some honest—seemed to go unnoticed. I might have started a fire or taken a knife to someone’s throat and been sent out to service with a half-hearted warning. At first, my errors came naturally, startled by a groping hand or unable to control a sound of disgust as some bawdy guest threw me across his lap. But later, when I grew bolder, I found that any gesture of rebellion only worked against me. The mistress had been irritated by my insolence only to indirectly encourage it. Our guests, it seemed, found a kind of sport in trying to get a rise out of the innocent lamb she had lured into her flock.

     My only defense, then, was to fall in line. I prayed that my novelty would soon wear off.

     The mistress of the chateau had told me that I had great gifts: my youthful face, my generous figure, my quiet demeanor. Next to the other girls, I stood out, even on the first day when I had been made up exactly like the rest of them. After the first week, I was adorned with white ribbons and pearls rather than black. A week later, rather than parading about without a stitch, the mistress had begun dressing me in creamy satin garters, slips, and lingerie, expensive garments I couldn’t have afforded in my wildest dreams.

     My seeming youth, she said as she dressed me one day, made covering me up that much more enticing to our customers. Somehow, the fact that I found myself attending our guests in brocade and silk made me feel far more naked than the girls who glowered hatefully at me from the shadows. They, at least, had safety in numbers.

     I had hoped, upon my arrival, that I would meet someone like me—someone optimistic, someone who could surely see some kind of possible beauty in this arrangement. From my first day, however, I went from hoping for a single friend to the realization that I had gained enough enemies to outnumber every wish I’d ever dared speak aloud.

     These girls, these impoverished princesses, were hard and cold like dull, imperfect jewels. Each had a kind of symmetry between them, a silent, unforgiving mask that hardened day by day. I only wanted to hold out long enough to see if it really was true—if diamonds and furs, gold and wrought iron really could turn a warm heart to marble.

     I’d always dreamt that, if I’d been more fortunate, I could have never let that kind of emptiness overtake me. But in my very first week at the Cygne Noir, I’d already lost hope; I was donning the visage my hateful sisters had been wearing since long before I’d been brought into the wings.

     So, from that moment on, I felt that artificial and hollow half-smile beginning to form—the uniform of the empty-souled coquettes of the Chateau du Cygne Noir—and, strangely, the one accessory I might ever share with my clients, these pillars of power and status.

     These men marked the zenith of human accomplishment. They were men of great breeding and standard. Men so rich they had nothing else to aspire to. Men in hardly advanced years, already preoccupied with the passing on of their estates before their sons had even had sons of their own, because life now held no other mystery.

     They were men of a certain predilection. Men seeking deeper and deeper depths of debauchery. Men who needed something more to whet their appetites, because every other delight had—until now—been so easily bought and paid for.

     To speak plainly, our guests possessed dark tastes. They spoke of “delights” that would horrify even the most well-seasoned traveler. And each day, as such knowledge became more commonplace to me, I felt my faith give way to an acceptance that buried my hope until only a weak will to survive remained.

     Every morning, I wondered when it would be my turn—when the horrors I heard whispered about in hallways would ultimately be visited upon me. Was our mistress saving me for the highest bidder? How much would he pay to have me brought to him, drugged so that I couldn’t fight back?

     How much would it cost to buy the little white swan, to be the one who made the light drain from her eyes?

     I tried not to think such things. After all, my experience thus far had been met with degradation but our Mistress had never let harm come to me. But, as I filled their glasses, as I bent to pick up deliberately-dropped napkins and gilded forks, I saw in the eyes of my patrons a dark, primal hunger that called for more than what I could ever willingly offer.

     No… I saw a need that only innocent blood would meet. And, frighteningly, I found myself hoping that if they were pleased, it would be by anyone but me.

     At first, I told myself, “It isn’t forever.”

     Then, “A few months, and I can go.”

     And after that, each morning it became, “Another day more.”

     An hour. Minute by minute.

     After that, my spirit had been so thoroughly defeated that the idea of returning to a quiet poverty painting someone’s fat, adorable children would just be another day prolonging the inevitable.

     I began to wonder, what would happen if I ran? I had been told I could sever my contract at any time, but had I really thought about what might happen as I stepped across the threshold?

     The world I’d always dreamed could be mine had been the fantasy of a naive and very stupid girl. If my employers had let me live, they would have disfigured me just for the thrill of it.

     Just to ease the boredom for an hour.

     And so, the Cygne Noir got what it wanted. I woke up each afternoon and I did what I had agreed to do. I made myself beautiful, at least on the outside; I carried myself with grace in spite of the fact that I rarely slept, anymore. My voice fell into disuse over time, so that when I heard myself speak, the sound of it startled me. But what was there to say? “Yes, Sir”, as a withered hand caressed my thigh. “Thank you, Sir”, as I fought not to recoil at the stale stench of gin and decay from a patron’s kiss—but I didn’t mean it. I never had.

     I didn’t know which was worse—that these men of power, their eyes slithering over every exposed inch of my fair skin, could hardly manage to hide their erections as I passed… or that the rest of the time, they looked right through me as though I were carved from crystal. Invisible.

     Worthless, for all my effort. And no less deserving than they of happiness. Only less fortunate.

     Sometimes, I thought I might drop whatever tray or decanter I held, bring my hands to my face and scream until my tiny voice gave out, and not a head in that dim place would have turned for a fraction of a second.

     So it was, on that rainy afternoon—as I seriously considered letting the tray fall from my hands, truly wondering what might happen to me if I did scream as loud as I could—that I saw him:

     A silent creature, dark-eyed and beautiful. A man of high status with unmistakable cleverness behind the glare he cast about the room, betraying an altogether different kind of boredom. A man as full of contempt and brilliance as I had once thought I had been, before I had signed my soul away.

     For one instant our eyes met, and my silver tray clattered to the floor before I even realized it had left my fingers.