#protolith chapters

Charlotte Ujunwae died thrice before her twenty-eighth year.

1

August 30, the 184th Year of the Mother In the eighth summer of her life, Charlotte witnessed the murder of her parents. A deafening gunshot woke her. In the moment between opening her eyes and cognition, she thought it was a crash of thunder that roused her. But the sound of heavy rain banging on her bedroom window was accompanied by the scent of acrid gunpowder and burnt flesh. The slick smell of blood brought to her primal fear, the kind of fear where her body knew she faced mortal danger before her mind. A fear which made her veins run with ice before she even realized that it was indeed her mother’s body strewn across the floor. Her mother lay between her and the bedroom door with a hole in her chest. In her mind’s eye, lightning struck then, but her memories of this night warped with time. This moment of light revealed to her the stranger who’d murdered her mother. He held his gun to her father’s head. That night, Charlotte escaped by throwing herself out of a third-floor bedroom window. She did not remember how her head unceremoniously collided with a stray rock in her garden. At three o’clock in the morning, she gasped for air. Shards of glass were embedded in her bronze skin. Blood soaked her auburn hair. Yet, she dragged herself nearly three miles that morning on a broken femur until she reached her uncle’s farmstead. Under the tumultuous clouds, her scattered brain matter looked just like the dirt.

2

July 2, the 200th Year of the Mother In her twenty-fourth summer, Charlotte was unmarried. To her uncle’s chagrin, she had run away from any acceptable proposal. Had he not stolen her inheritance, she’d be a university student. Instead, she spent her nights downtown. On this night, the sky was clear and dark. The moon hung loosely, like a butcher’s hook above her. The first man who sought to hire her services instead wrapped his hands around her neck. She remembered most clearly his eyes, brown and yellow, his breath sick with alcohol, and the callouses which scratched her skin until blackness crept across her vision like a spider web. At three o’clock that morning, Charlotte lurched back to the land of the living. An undertaker stood above her, puzzled at this unexpected resurrection, perhaps upset at the loss of income, but more than anything, curious about the frightened and angry woman who was suddenly shouting at him. Her instinctual fear arrived too late, and though her return to life was met with a friendly face, she threw herself backwards and reached for the knife hidden in her boot. The undertaker was a tall and dark man, with a large smile and an even larger desire not to die by the knife of a prostitute. Over a gin on the rocks, he told her that he collected cadavers for the university morgue and garnered gold from rich medical students desperate for time with a true human specimen. “If you promise not to nearly die in another alleyway, I’ll give you the family discount,” the undertaker told her.

3

Her third death has yet to come.

***

[TW: Self-harm, assault]

Charlotte Ujunwae had died thrice before this night.

Like the fungus she stepped on with bare soles, Charlotte died and rose with the seasons of her life. In this way, tragedy always struck her in the summer.

1 |

In the eighth summer of her life, Charlotte witnessed the murder of her parents.

A deafening gunshot woke her. In the moment between opening her eyes and cognition, she thought it was a crash of thunder that roused her. But the sound of heavy rain banging on her bedroom window was accompanied by the scent of acrid gunpowder and burnt flesh. The slick smell of blood brought to her primal fear, the kind of fear where her body knew she faced mortal danger before her mind. A fear which made her veins run with ice before she even realized that it was indeed her mother’s body strewn across the floor. Her mother lay between her and the bedroom door with a hole in her chest.

In her mind’s eye, lightning struck then, but her memories of this night warped with time. This moment of light revealed to her the stranger who’d murdered her mother. He held his gun to her father’s head.

That night, Charlotte escaped by throwing herself out of a third floor bedroom window. She did not remember how her head unceremoniously collided with a stray rock in her garden. At three o’clock in the morning, she gasped for air. Shards of glass were embedded in her bronze skin. Blood soaked her auburn hair. Yet, she dragged herself nearly three miles that morning on a broken femur until she reached her uncle’s farmstead. Under the tumultuous clouds, her scattered brain matter looked just like the dirt.

***

[TW: sex work]

Charlotte's Past ***

Charlotte spent her nights one of two ways: seducing wealthy men at lavish parties or studying the cardiovascular system of a stolen cadaver. Though she vastly preferred the company of cadavers to men, tonight, Charlotte attended the former.

She sat languidly in a velvet chair, a brocade fan balanced between her thumb and middle finger. What was typically a library now held more than a dozen rich men – either stag or with their adventurous wives – and whores. Regardless of status, the density of bodies left the air gelatinous. Unfortunately, the theme of the party was masquerade – just another layer atop sweat-covered skin. Charlotte fanned herself for comfort rather than flirtation.

“You’d think Lorenzia’s upper crust could open a window.” Edith leaned over and whispered in her ear. Edith, more practiced, hid her lips behind a pastel fan when she complained. Her every move felt intentional; when she angled herself toward Charlotte, men’s eyes dipped down her slender neck into the crevice of her décolletage. None of those men know the real her; they all thought her name was Eve! Expertly, Edith hid her real self like an old secret, comfortably tucked away like a library book. She taught Charlotte to do the same.

“Maybe they like to see us sweat,” Charlotte joked. The other whores – of either gender – wore just about anything: full skirts without a bodice, trousers and no shirt, or gowns cut mid-thigh. Charlotte and Edith wore the latter.

Charlotte didn’t know why Edith had decided to befriend her just a year prior. After too many dangerous encounters working the street, Charlotte had met Edith while searching for a safer boarding house. On that fateful day, Edith invited her to work at her brothel, an upstanding establishment by the docks and west of downtown. Though the customers ran the gamut – sailors and dockworkers, priests and soldiers, merchant men and the gentlemen – they were all kinder than those who prowled the street corners. 

“You should have seen the parties last year,” Edith replied. A halo of blond ringlets sat pinned on her head. Occasionally, she’d pat at the curls to make sure they remained in place. “Just a disgusting number of bodies crammed into this hall. One night, I swear I made enough gold to fill a breadbox.”

“You did not,” Charlotte teased.

“Oh, don’t be jealous. It’s not my fault they’re all clutching their purses,” Edith replied. Ever since the assassination of Emperor Ambrose d’Leone, the gentry became conservative: politically, socially, and unfortunately, financially. 

Edith stiffened. She changed how she sat, making sure just a sliver of her milky thigh was visible from fifty feet away. Only Edith could act so ludicrously and come across as a subtle tempress. Charlotte’s brown eyes flickered away, locking eyes with a man across the room. He smiled back at the two women with an asymmetric grin. His golden-brown hair contrasted the woman standing next to him, olive-skinned with jet black hair and clad in silk.

“Your regular has spotted you.”

With the flick of a wrist, Edith straightened her golden skirt. Unlike the wives at the party, neither Edith nor Charlotte had a large selection of gowns. Charlotte wore a dress she’d stolen from her family home: navy with yellow lace trim and sleeves which fell off her shoulders. Edith and Charlotte had shopped that afternoon for masks, and though Charlotte had bought her favorite, a lace black mask loosely resembling a bird, Edith was quick to point out that it did not flatter her brown eyes.

“I know.” Wary of eye contact, Edith peered only briefly in her regular’s direction. “You’d think Marc would be satisfied with one consort.” 

“Why keep throwing these parties?” Charlotte asked.

Their host, General Marc d’Atlas, was known for throwing intimate and exclusive parties for his inner circle. Though sacreligious, Marc’s relation to one of the five old houses gave him leeway that most war priests lacked. Thus, the soirees remained an open secret, attracting both married gentry seeking adventure outside of wedlock and the church-bound military men held by a mandatory vow of celibacy. This party in particular was not just the first of the social season, but also the first of Charlotte’s life.

“I heard he actually loves her,” Edith mused, ignoring Charlotte’s question. Her eyes didn’t move from Marc’s raven-haired consort, Rose.

“Why else take the risk?” Charlotte replied. Orthodox factions of the city considered consorts less than prostitutes. 

At least a whore knows her place.

“Desire,” was Edith’s only answer. Surely, men had made worse mistakes in the name of desire. Charlotte smirked, but said nothing else. After just a moment of silence, Edith rose with a sigh.

“I supposed I should take my leave.” She smiled down toward Charlotte. “Enjoy the party.”

As soon as Edith glided away, Charlotte smothered a frown. She knew the rules at the brothel or at a gala, but here, lasciviousness collided with aristocratic sensibilities. Absent-mindedly, Charlotte toyed with a lock of her auburn hair which had painfully tangled with the ribbon of her mask. In that moment of frustration, Charlotte wondered why these men needed such a pretext to pay for sex. She strived then to make herself unseen.

Charlotte had a talent for making herself noticed – an alluring aura, as Edith called it. Therefore, she could do the opposite. The thick air became overbearing. Sweat beaded at the swell of her bosom, drawing attention to the dark freckles which colored her otherwise tan skin and eroding her patience. In search of a window, Charlotte aimed to make herself imperceptible. 

The front of the library acted as a parlor room, decorated with velvet chairs and hors d'oeuvres, but just a few steps back the room was densely packed with bookshelves. The back wall had four large windows looking out onto the midnight streets. In the back corner, Charlotte cracked open a window. The welcome breeze smelled of rain and moist earth, intermixed with the scent of parchment behind her. She shut her eyes for just a moment.

“Looks like we had the same idea.” 

Charlotte nearly jumped at the deep voice behind her. She turned, and behind her stood a tall, dark-haired man. From his rigid posture and imposing presence, she immediately pegged him a military man. But when his eyes turned from the window to her, they nearly looked through her. His eyes were so dark, in this dim light she couldn’t tell if they were brown or navy.

Thankfully, the buzz of the party was loud enough to cover the slam of the window closing.

“Sorry.” His brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” she tripped over her words. 

The stranger was older. When he frowned, slight lines formed around his lips and the outer corners of his eyes. His sharp jaw was highlighted by an ungroomed beard, as though he’d just returned from a mission, or he simply didn’t care enough to shave before this event. In his calloused hand, he held a crystal glass of red wine. His face was concealed with an undecorated, green mask.

“We haven’t met,” he said. He leaned against the back wall, but he didn’t look at ease. Like his mask, he dressed plainly, with a black button down tucked into dark, linen trousers.

Charlotte exhaled. “I’m Chastity.”

[TW: discussions of sex work]

Charlotte's Past ***

With her weekdays packed with lectures and her nights alternating between the morgue and the brothel, Charlotte would set aside precious time with Edith at the bathhouse in center city. Sundays were slow days, since many of their clients would stop by after work. While maintaining hygiene was essential to their upper class clientele, the bathhouse acted more of a refuge where they could discuss science, politics, or gossip without listening ears. At the center was a fountain which spouted water up and over the bathers while filling the calf length pool.

On this particular Sunday afternoon, the sun reflected against the marble interior of the bathhouse and cast a golden glow across the gentle water. Most importantly, the open-air bathhouse provided an excellent view of the city.

Charlotte sat on the edge of the pool and looked out into the city. Center city Lorenzia was a mix of centuries old marble and contemporary brick. The cobblestone road was worn by frequent carriages which brought business men in each morning and away each evening. The bathhouse had been constructed more than one hundred years ago into the side of a rocky hill. Though outside of Center City, the height of the bathhouse provided a spectacular view. The west-facing, open air vantage gave bathers a view of roads, banks, and temples with moderate privacy from passersby. 

Charlotte stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes in the water. The hot summer air bothered some, but she didn’t mind the warmth which radiated from the marbled floor. Nearby, Edith leaned over to fill a carafe with water, ready to rinse the soap from her shoulder blades. Sinking into the water, Charlotte crossed her arms on the ledge and rested her chin atop them. 

“I hear they’re ordering another battalion out today,” Charlotte remarked. Below the bathhouse, she could just see the temple. As the clocks struck 2 o’clock, a squadron of the holy soldiers exited the marble temple and began to run drills in a straw colored yard just outside of center city. Beyond the yard was a grand stadium of golden veined marble. Some days, she enjoyed watching the patterns the young men formed; from this distance, they could just be toys arranged by a curious child. Today, the synchronicity of the soldiers formed a stone at the pit of her stomach. She did not rush to examine the feeling.

“I didn’t know foreign policy was a new interest of yours.” Edith raised the carafe above her head so the water could run through her flaxen hair. When wet, Edith’s hair held just a slight wave that disappeared quickly when dry. While she spent hours trying to form ringlets before each social event, Charlotte had the opposite problem. Her hair formed tight, ruby coils when wet. Each night, she’d painstakingly braid her hair so it’d be presentable for the following day.

Charlotte ignored the jab. “How many do you suppose pledge their lives out of piety rather than desperation?” A lifetime in the church seemed a large promise for a bed and full belly each night.

Edith shrugged. “Seems like a better trade than marriage. My life and womb, for what? Financial and sexual mediocrity.” She laughed as she sat beside Charlotte. 

“Death by sword does seem like a better way to go than death by childbirth,” Charlotte conceded.

“How is your commander?” Edith teased.

Charlotte scowled. The stranger she’d met just weeks ago had become her best client. Still, he perplexed her. Their relationship had reached this strange middle ground: no longer strangers, but still strange to one another. 

She’d last seen him three nights this week, three nights of firsts. On Monday, he warned her that he’d be away, rather than disappearing for weeks at a time. On Wednesday, he asked Charlotte to stay a moment, after he’d sent the other woman away, and offered her a drink. And on Thursday, he shared his cigar with her. She didn’t leave the bed when he handed the cigar to her. She’d decided to be boorish and risk the ash on his bed. His bed had morphed to something distressingly familiar; she longed to mar it. The stranger had sat in his armchair, like he had each time. When he watched her, he would lounge, his shoulder slouched and his arms on either armrest. Sometimes, he would lead forward, and the candlelight made his angular face harsh. Her mind’s eye traced his square jaw with her eyes. Her internal gaze caught on a scar above his right cheek before returning to reality.

“We don’t talk,” Charlotte replied. “Maybe he’s leading that battalion. Or maybe he’s on the moon.”

Edith splashed Charlotte. “What’s the point of keeping political clients if you don’t have gossip?” she asked.

“Not all of us have ulterior motives,” Charlotte replied. “Besides, he’s only gone a few days. Not long enough to wage a war.”

“Or go to the cosmos.” Edith’s eyes lit up. “You must know something saucy.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t even touch me, never mind tell me church gossip,” she said. They’d easily spent an hour in each other’s company after the session. Often they sat in silence, enjoying the taste of smoke and liquor. Occasionally, he’d punctuate the silence with a strange question or two. 

 He’d asked that night: “Do you enjoy your work?”

Worse yet, she still didn’t know his name, just his title. He was a commander, one level below general. He’d vowed not to reveal his name until she hers – and had only revealed his title by mistake, carelessly leaving his military regalia folding by the bed, his rank clearly stated.

“That’s good,” Edith said. “Can’t fall for a man you don’t talk to.” She laughed.

“Maybe it’s time you gagged Marc,” Charlotte replied. 

 “I’m already a lost cause.” Edith sat beside Charlotte. “Be careful before this commander ruins your prospects for marriage.” Her pale skin blended in with the marble stairs. She rested the back of her hand against her forehead, as though she’d fainted. 

However, marriage was further from Charlotte’s mind than it should have been. Most prostitutes would marry a nice working man after a few years. If not, a few would go on to manage the brothels. But no one would marry a former – even suspected – consort.

“You know all too well being a consort has never been an option. Either way, didn’t you just tell me not to wed?”

“Only if the sex is mediocre.” Edith winked …

*** Read the rest of the chapter here!

Charlotte's Present ***

The uptown rowhouse where Charlotte and Nathaniel lived was often frantic. Today, like most mornings, Charlotte nursed a cup of coffee while reading the latest scientific publication, a piece reviewing findings on the mucosa lining at the back of the nose. All the while Nathaniel pleaded for her help in finding his briefcase – a briefcase full of incredibly important documents which he could not possibly live without.

“Please, Charlotte, I’m sure you can finish your reading later,” Nathaniel insisted. 

The parlor was a cozy room with a tea table and two long couches. Charlotte sat beneath the bay windows to catch the morning light on her parchment. Gilded details on the wallpaper glittered, a stark contrast to the casual mess of the room. Papers strewn across the tea table, stacks of books on one end of the couch, a lone sock half hidden beneath a chair, and most notably, a pot of ink half spilled which now stained the table’s porous wood; these were hallmarks of the parlor.

“I have to read this before lecture,” she replied. She gave him a wicked smile. “I was going to read it last night, but you distracted me!” An innocent lie: though she’d finished her class reading, it had taken her several months to track this literature review down. She could hardly wait the night to read it.

Nathaniel did not enjoy the jest. “You owe me,” he said, reaching over her to look behind the couch.

Charlotte set down her periodical. “For what?”

“Just the other week! You were awfully rude at the Premiere and I just let it go.” He rolled his eyes, a gesture meant to be hidden, but Charlotte could plainly see his face as he checked beneath the table.

In the midst of their discussion, there was a knock at the door.

“It’s hardly a favor if you’re still bringing it up,” Charlotte told him. She scowled. Her coffee was getting cold and the carriage would be ready for her in just a few minutes.

Nathaniel stood up and sighed. “I am trying to make a good impression, in court and in my profession. The least you can do is support me.”

Another, more forceful knock interrupted them. 

Charlotte stood, speaking as she walked. “The least you can do is keep track of your own damn briefcase!” She quickly brushed the crumbs from a scone she’d eaten earlier from her lavender pantsuit. She swung open the door, more quickly than she meant. In front of her was a messenger with his bicycle leaned against his waist. 

He began, “Are you Lady – “

“Not a lady yet, call me Charlotte,” she said.

“Of course, Mde Charlotte. Salutations and good morning.” The messenger bowed at the waist. When she straightened, he handed her an envelope. “Lord Carmine invites you and your husband to sup at his house tonight, seven o’clock.”

Charlotte plucked the letter from his hands. Externally, it had no identifying marks, just a dab of crimson wax to seal it shut. “Who else will be in attendance?” she asked.

“His Worship,” said the messenger. Charlotte tried to hide a frown. The head of the church? They had hardly spoken, and Charlotte wanted to keep it that way. However, she had much ground to cover in the court before she’d be formally welcomed back.

“Let Lord Carmine know we graciously accept. And, please ask if I may bring General d’Atlas. He is a good friend to me and His Worship.” She could at least have an ally in what could otherwise be an antagonistic dinner.

“Of course, madam.” The messenger bowed. “I’ll let Lord Carmine know.”

“Wait one moment.” Charlotte hurried to the parlor and snatched a stray page. On it, she wrote a short note.

Charlotte folded the page and handed it to the messenger, along with a few coins. “Have this sent to General d’Atlas upon Lord Carmine’s approval.”

“Yes, of course, ma’am.” The messenger bowed once more before he clumsily climbed onto his bicycle and rode away. Charlotte shut the door behind him.

“Clearly,” she said as she returned to the parlor, “I was so rude that the late Emperor’s advisor wants to chastise me over soup.” She smiled slyly and waved the letter like a silk fan in her husband’s face.

Nathaniel grasped her offending wrist. Though she initially rebelled against his grasp, he pulled her closer. Impatiently, he kissed her. She exhaled a nervous breath and breathed in his scent. As she relaxed against him, the letter fell from her hand. 

“I take it all back,” he whispered. He kissed her once more, deeper and with her wrist still firmly in his grasp. “You beguile me.”

Charlotte smiled, giggled, and pushed him away.

“I don’t have time for round two,” she told him, but they kissed once more. She detangled herself from him and hurried to grab her papers. 

He hoisted the strap of his briefcase over his shoulder. “Seven?”

“Seven – don’t be late!”

*** Read the rest of the chapter here!

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Charlotte's Present ***

Five families, five names, five crests ruled the Empire. Deep in the Cathedral d’Leone was a hallway which housed each crest. Charlotte leaned on the opposite wall, hands buried in the folds of her skirt. The wall held each crest in an arched alcove taller than most generals and nearly as wide as her arms outstretched.

In the first was a white albatross with its wings outstretched and emerging from cerulean water, and next a scarlet, reptilian monster with four necks and four heads. In the center was a black lion, standing on its back feet, with a roaring mouth and claws extending. Beside the lion was a green serpent which curled around a gleaming stave. The final alcove was empty; the white brick wall, stained from years of oil fueled sconces left a pale, diamond-shaped shadow where a family crest once sat. 

Charlotte frowned. This was the oldest wing of the cathedral and thus lacked gas-powered lighting. The shadows lengthened here, making the dark lion appear as though he was lying in wait of something – of what?

“The dance floor misses you,” a voice called down the hallway. Charlotte looked to her left to see Marc walking toward her. He was in his ornamental uniform, pleated black slacks, silk gloves, and a vest and forest green jacket over a white shirt. The left breast of his suit jacket was complete with numerous, gold and mother-of-pearl pins, indicating his war-time recognitions. At his side hung a dulled sword in a black, leather hilt. Four stripes on his lapel indicated he was a general. A single pin stood out, a silver one in the shape of the Albatross crest.

“It’s unrequited,” Charlotte replied. She crossed her arms. Though it was spring, her dress was sleeveless, held tightly against her sternum with whalebone and steel. Gloves maintained her modesty, chartreuse to match her dress and long enough to cover her elbow. Thankfully, her husband had an eye for fashion. He’d been the one to suggest matching gloves rather than white, silver jewelry rather than gold, and the black star stamped at the top of Charlotte’s cheekbone, rather than the heart she’d selected herself. Even if she felt out of place, she certainly didn’t look it.

Marc leaned on the wall beside her. Above them were buttressed, arched windows. One was cracked open and allowed the cool, springtime breeze into the hall.

“How are my favorite newlyweds?” he asked. He shot a smile her way. His navy suit complemented his golden hair and bright complexion. He held a flute of pink wine in one hand and sipped it sparingly.

The social season had begun on the Summer Solstice, and the newlyweds had only just returned to the Empire’s capital city, Lorenzia, just a month and a half prior. A short honeymoon and reprieve at the family estate while their city house was being renovated – still they’d returned early. Who could not miss the Premiere? The third largest event of the season – behind the Débutante and the Finale Ball – was held at the Emperor’s cathedral, on the highest point of the city.

Despite years of etiquette training, Charlotte had never been to a ball as formal as this – and this was one of the more laid back events of the season. Her mind fluttered back to afternoons spent at a weathered, yet elaborately decorated table, where her aunt would slap the back of her hand with a switch she’d collected from a willow everytime her posture shirked.

“We are simply… loving married life,” Charlotte breathed. She was lost in her thoughts. Her fingers toyed absent-mindedly with her engagement ring, silver with two yellow diamonds stacked one above the other. The ring always felt loose when she wore gloves, and it would rotate about her finger and clumsily hit her wedding band.

On the carriage ride over, Nathaniel had tried to calm her nerves. He’d smiled at her, and by God he had an easy smile, the kind that melted worries away. It rested beneath his calm, blue eyes and stylishly curled, black hair. He had this way of communicating wordlessly to her which she found comforting, whether squeezing her hand or placing his on the small of her back. Yet, tonight, Charlotte found that comfort uneasy; it sat heavy at the bottom of her stomach. 

He’d told her: “I’ve been to dozens of these. It’s all pomp. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

Despite his optimism, Charlotte knew this party would be different from the others. Nathaniel’s family belonged to one of the lower houses, newer money but money nonetheless. The Wrights had been allied with Marc’s family for decades now, but Nathaniel’s marriage to Charlotte brought new prestige to his name. As for Charlotte, her marriage paid off her family’s debts. The last heir to her family name, empty coffers, and virtually no grace with the Empress, she had not been welcome to court in years. Things had changed for the both of them – Charlotte and her husband – so she entered this party without any comforting expectations.

At the end of it all, Charlotte was just happy to be back in Lorenzia, married or not.

“I think the true sign of a happy marriage is how often you hide from one another,” Marc replied.

Eager to change the subject, Charlotte asked, “How’s Edith?”

Marc has arrived at the party alone. After creating quite the controversy bringing not one but two consorts to Charlotte’s wedding, he played it safe tonight. The unmarried and pious general who certainly followed his vow of celibacy – with a smile like his? Few would believe it.

“She’s quite excited to see you.” Marc sighed. His eyes drifted toward the crests. After a moment, he said, “They took your crest down two years ago. The same night as the Debutante Ball. I thought it was petty, but her majesty is mercurial.”

“I’m sure I’ll meet her soon,” said she.

“Thankfully, she is indisposed tonight,” Marc replied. 

Charlotte frowned. If anything, her most important task this evening was to make even the smallest good impression upon the Empress Mother, Beauvoir Eatön-d’Leone. Based on the imposing presence of magistrates and private guards, she assumed the Empress would at least make an appearance at her own party.

Marc interrupted her thoughts. “Do you see the crests below?” he asked. Below the five alcoves were several wooden dowels from which hung the crests of the lower houses.

“It’s meant to correspond with each of the house alliances,” he explained. “But most people pay it no mind these days. Back in the day, these could draw quite the stir. Wives would sneak away at their husbands bidding and move their crest to insult former allies. Even better, sometimes you’d move someone else’s and see what chaos ensued.” Marc chuckled. “I used to sneak around the hallways as a child and rearrange all of them.”

“Ever start any wars?” she asked. Ill-fitting jewelry was her calling card that night. A brass and onyx bracelet hung from her wrist; even affixed to its tightest setting, the bracelet fell toward her elbow when she took Marc’s wine. 

“No, well, not like that.” Marc looked down toward her with a raised eyebrow.“I can bring you a drink, if you’d prefer.”

“In a minute,” Charlotte replied. “How’s the conflict … in the Southeast Kingdoms?”

Marc’s eyes softened. “You can just ask how he is.”

Charlotte opened her mouth, almost replied, and shut her mouth once more. She forced her lips into a tight smile before saying, “Nevermind. It was a silly question anyway. I’d love to get a drink.”

Charlotte’s Past – June 7th, the 201st Year of the Dove

With her weekdays packed with lectures and her nights alternating between the morgue and the brothel, Charlotte would set aside precious time with Edith at the bathhouse in center city.

Sundays were slow days, since many of their clients would stop by after work. While maintaining hygiene was essential to their upper-class clientele, the bathhouse acted more as a refuge where they could discuss science, politics, or gossip without listening ears. At the center was a fountain that spouted water up and over the bathers while filling the calf-length pool. On this particular Sunday afternoon, the sun reflected against the marble interior of the bathhouse and cast a golden glow across the gentle water. Most importantly, the open-air bathhouse provided an excellent view of the city. Today, Charlotte sat on the edge of the pool and looked out into the city. Center city Lorenzia was a mix of centuries-old marble and contemporary brick. The cobblestone road was worn by frequent carriages, which brought businessmen in each morning and away each evening. The bathhouse had been constructed more than one hundred years ago into the side of a rocky hill. Though outside of Center City, the height of the bathhouse provided a spectacular view. The west-facing vantage gave bathers a view of roads, banks, and temples with moderate privacy from passersby. Charlotte stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes in the water. The hot summer air bothered some, but she didn’t mind the warmth that radiated from the marbled floor. Nearby, Edith leaned over to fill a carafe with water, ready to rinse the soap from her shoulder blades. Sinking into the water, Charlotte crossed her arms on the ledge and rested her chin atop them.

“I hear they’re ordering another battalion out today,” Charlotte remarked. Below the bathhouse, she could just see the temple. As the clocks struck 2 o’clock, a squadron of the holy soldiers exited the marble temple and began to run drills in a straw colored yard just outside of center city. Beyond the yard was a grand stadium of golden veined marble. Some days, she enjoyed watching the patterns the young men formed; from this distance, they could just be toys arranged by a curious child. Today, the synchronicity of the soldiers formed a stone at the pit of her stomach. She did not rush to examine the feeling. “I didn’t know foreign policy was an interest of yours.” Edith raised the carafe above her head so the water could run through her flaxen hair. When wet, Edith’s hair held just a slight wave that disappeared quickly when dry. While she spent hours trying to form ringlets before each social event, Charlotte had the opposite problem. Her hair formed tight, ruby coils when wet. Each night, she’d painstakingly braid her hair so it’d be presentable the following day. Charlotte ignored the jab. “How many do you suppose pledge their lives out of piety rather than desperation?” A lifetime in the church seemed a large promise for a bed and full belly each night.

Edith shrugged. “Seems like a better trade than marriage. My life and womb, for what? Financial and sexual mediocrity.” She laughed as she sat beside Charlotte. “Death by musket does seem like a better way to go than death by childbirth,” Charlotte conceded. “How is your commander?” Edith teased. Charlotte scowled. The stranger she’d met just weeks ago had become her best client. Still, he perplexed her. Their relationship had reached this strange middle ground: no longer strangers, but still strange to one another. She’d seen him three nights this week — three nights of firsts. On Monday, he called her to his apartment and warned her that he’d be away, rather than disappearing without a word. On Wednesday, he asked Charlotte to stay a moment, after he’d sent the other woman away, and offered her a drink. And on Thursday, he shared his cigar with her. She didn’t leave the bed when he handed the cigar to her. She’d decided to be boorish and risk the ash on his bed. His bed had morphed to something distressingly familiar; she longed to mar it. The stranger had sat in his armchair, like he had each time. When he watched her, he would lounge, his shoulder slouched and his arms on either armrest. Sometimes, he would lean forward, and the candlelight made his angular face harsh. Her mind’s eye traced his square jaw. Her internal gaze caught on a scar above his right cheek before returning to reality.

“We don’t talk,” Charlotte replied. “Maybe he’s leading that battalion. Or maybe he’s on the moon.” Edith splashed Charlotte. “What’s the point of keeping political clients if you don’t have gossip?” she asked. “Not all of us have ulterior motives,” Charlotte replied. “Besides, he’s only gone a few days — he’s asked for me in five days’ time. Not long enough to wage a war.” “Or go to the cosmos.” Edith’s eyes lit up. “You must know something saucy.” Charlotte rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t even touch me, never mind tell me church gossip,” she said. An easy lie to convince herself, though he’d asked her to stay longer than the other hired woman; they barely spoke. They’d spent an hour in each other’s company after the session, enjoying the taste of smoke and liquor. She thought him terribly lonely. Occasionally, he’d punctuate the silence with a strange question or two. He’d asked that night: “Do you enjoy your work?”

Worse yet, she still didn’t know his name, just his title. He was a commander, one level below general. He vowed not to reveal his name until she hers – and had only revealed his title by mistake, carelessly leaving his military regalia folded by the bed. She recalled how he’d balanced a cigar on his lips while removing his jacket. The way he’d fumbled with his jacket and his cigar felt pedestrian, even intimate. That was the most she’d seen him undress. She’d felt as though she ought to have looked away, even insisted that he return his jacket to his shoulders, lest the top button of his shirt fall loose next. “That’s good,” Edith said. “Can’t fall for a man you don’t talk to. You have to be careful with handsome men: they think they’re charming.” She laughed. “Maybe it’s time you gagged Marc,” Charlotte replied. “I’m already a lost cause.” Edith sat beside Charlotte. “Be careful before this commander ruins your prospects for marriage.” Her pale skin blended in with the marble stairs. She rested the back of her hand against her forehead, as though she’d fainted. However, marriage was further from Charlotte’s mind than it should have been. Most prostitutes would marry a nice working man after a few years. If not, a few would go on to manage the brothels. But no one would marry a former – even suspected – consort.

“You know all too well being a consort has never been an option. Either way, didn’t you just tell me not to wed?” “Only if the sex is mediocre.” Edith winked, and they laughed. Charlotte splashed her, kicking her feet in the water. Edith shrieked, raising her hands defensively. After they’d finished throwing soapy water at each other, Edith clung to Charlotte’s wrist. “Please tell me you’re coming to the festival!” she said. She’d already asked Charlotte a dozen times before. Charlotte groaned. “It’s going to be ungodly hot. I don’t even like Marc.” “You don’t know him. I’ve never spent this long with Rose.” Then, sheepishly, Edith admitted. “She intimidates me. She’s just … too pretty, you know?” Charlotte rolled her eyes. “The most intimidating thing she does is sneeze loudly.” But Edith did not relent. She looked up at her with large eyes, whispering, “Please,” until Charlotte finally accepted – if only to stop the groveling.