Summer descended on Greywater like rotting treacle. Dripping down chimneys, oozing through the streets, drowning its denizens in their own perspiration. Nowhere below the upper city was free of the cloying curse. Manure, horseflesh, and the unwashed massesโthe putrid pulse of a city, drifted into houses and squatted within them, unwilling to leave the shade and brave the boiling outdoors.
Within one such home, Cynthia Shipman despaired at the task left by her father. Dainty fingers plucked slender steel off a varnished tabletop. Licked thread was pushed against the needle's narrow eye, its crimson-dyed fibers protesting, refusing to pass. Cynthia sighed, sharpening the stubborn strands between her lips. Embroidery was a bitch. Idle work whose promised reward was an insult to the effort. Yet, reward was all her parents had on their minds.
Their raised voices plagued their home each muggy night. Talk of debt churned like a toxic mudslide into swearing and name-calling. Acidic words filled the air, corroding their bonds when her parents thought her asleep. Contempt flowed as easily from her father as disdain did from her mother, coating everything in their oily mix. Colouring her father as an idiotic buffoon and her mother a clueless spendthrift. Her two elder brothers were not spared. Labelled as dull labourers, bringing home meagre wages from the docks, incapable of inflicting even a dent in the family's financial predicament. And Cynthia, she prayed for the sweet oblivion of sleep before they talked about her. Deadweight. A burden. Her only hope of salvation? A suitor willing to pay a decent bride price.
And so she embroideredโa desperate play at a noblewoman's habits. To raise the value of her hand, in defiance of the family's common name. It had not always been like this. Debt had stolen her parents' love. Every waking moment of the Shipmans' existence was dedicated to feeding its insatiable hunger. She recalled her childhood, of days spent playing by the hearth. Of helping her smiling mother around the house, not the snarling gargoyle the older woman had become. Of Mister Mendes the tutor, showing up to teach her letters and numbers, who had not been seen in a year. Of following her father to the docks to meet the trade fleets, welcoming the merchant captains with their booming laughs. Of watching her equally jovial father signing off on consignments of fragrant nutmeg, and beautiful silk. Of her brothers preparing the horse carts for deliveries around the city.
All of it. Gone. Her father had come home a year ago, plagued by a perpetual frown and hushed whispers. Fickle storms had sent their fleets to the briny depths. Stoic promises soured into angry recriminations as the months passed. Everyone had a duty to keep the family afloat. For Cynthia, it meant obeying her parents' demands, to improve the dowry she could command from her future husband. The family clung onto the anticipation of suitors like shipwrecked sailors to driftwood.
They had come. Droves of equally poor dockhands and seamen. With backs as strong as their pockets were limp. In truth, Cynthia would have gladly answered their requests. To go on dates. To get to know the men behind the broad shoulders and callused hands. Anything to get out of the cage her house had become. But her parents had stood resolute in their door, barring the paupers from even stealing a glimpse of her. Rejected and dejected, the callers had trickled away. A month had passed since the last prospective suitor knocked on their door.
The door creaked open. She glanced up to see her father's white-knuckled grip on the knob. Furrows carved their way like canyons in his brow. He stood in the doorway, fixing her with his stony stare, and gave a quiet command.
"Come with me."
Cynthia left the interminable embroidery on the dining table, glad of any distraction from the unenviable task. It was not until she had pulled on her walking boots and followed her sullen father out into the blazing heat, that she thought to ask, "Daddy, where are we going?"
"Cynthia," he said, "if you had the chance to help our family, would you do it?"
When had "pumpkin" ceased gracing her father's lips? Where was the loving pet name he had for her daughter? Cynthia. An adult name with adult responsibilities. She was not sure she liked it. Her father who had always been her protector. She gazed upon him now. Tired. Haggard. The bags beneath his eyes and slouch in his strong shoulders. They spoke volumes of the sacrifices he had endured.
"IโฆI will Daddy."
"Good."
Familiarity faded behind them. This was not a part of town Cynthia frequented. The cobbles beneath their feet and shuttered windows around them loomed strange. Raucous laughter emanated from the buildings. Sounds of clacking dice and the sour scent of strong drink chased staggering drunks as they burst forth from tavern doors. Though it was sweltering, business in the pleasure district never ceased to serve those with more coin than sense.
Cynthia tightened her grip on her father's shirt sleeve.
"Where are we?" Her hushed whisper squeezed through pursed lips.
"Be brave Cynthia. Someone here has a job for you. You want to help the family don't you?"
"Yes, Daddyโฆ"
They paused before an establishment festooned with coloured silks. The flowing fabrics hid the harsh structure of its facade, giving the impression of smooth gentleness. Cynthia had seen these silks before. Packed in crates, received by her father from the ships. As he grasped her firmly by the shoulders and steered her toward the entrance, her heart leapt into her throat, lodging itself in the stillness of trepidation.
Two girlsโnot much older than she wasโflanked the doorway. The sheer silks they wore could cover a small loaf of bread. If combined. Their bodies were on full display, matching flower tattoos carved into the flesh above their right breasts. Filigree metal collars around their necks, attached to metal rings sunk into the wall, kept them leashed to their positions, like a pair of living statues. Two pairs of silent, kohl-ringed eyes followed Cynthia and her father's passage into the interior.
Perfumed incense assaulted her nose, wafting from a silk-curtained area. Soft music, plucked from the strings of a lute drifted from the same confines. The mix would have been welcoming if not for the scene Cynthia had witnessed at the entrance. Her father immediately turned her to the right, down a drab corridor, away from the music and perfume. Had he been here before? A brick of creeping dread settled in the pit of her stomach. Exactly what job had he arranged for her?
This section of the building was entirely bureaucratic. Officialdom seeped from its uniformly spaced, brass-knobbed doors. The corridor circled the building, terminating at an imposing portal of double mahogany, judging the two perspiring Shipmans with disapproval.
"Remember Cynthia. We're all very proud of you," whispered her father.
He grasped a polished handle and pulled Cynthia into the room by her wrist.
"It's customary to knock before entering another person's private office," admonished a grizzled male voice from within.
"Sorry Mr. Marwood, here is the girl we discussed," said her father. He stepped aside to present Cynthia's petite form. Ringlets of her long, black hair curled like froth upon the gentle waves of her simple yellow silk dress. Her breath caught on her tension. Cynthia's onyx eyes widened at the bearded stranger within the officeโevidently a person of importance within the establishmentโshe glanced at her father, whose eyes remained fixed on the other man.
"Daddy, what's going on?"
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