Underneath the broke-down wagon was a good hidey-hole. Plenty of room for Pretty to stretch out on her tummy and watch the market through the cracked boards. She could see in every direction except to the left where the wagon seat blocked her view, and she was hidden from all the folks out there. She’d been absent a few days, holed up and sick, but nobody had taken her spot.

The fine lady showed up about midnight, while the market crowd was in full swing. Shimmering like a pigeon in a stormy gray dress trimmed with purple and green, she bought a small wedge of cheese and another apple. She strolled through the carts and stalls with her purchases, inspecting this and that, but nothing held her attention for long.

Imagine having a different dress for every day like that—and being daft enough to wear them in the muck that blanketed Market Street.

The lady’s eyes flicked toward the alley then away, so fast that Pretty almost missed it.

Her heart jumped up to her throat before Pretty remembered she was safe under the wagon. Nobody could see her there.

The fine lady turned away and headed uphill. She disappeared around the corner toward the promenades.

Pretty breathed a sigh of relief and settled in to watch for food opportunities.

Folks came and went, the savvy kind, who knew the low streets and never dropped anything or left it unattended long enough for quick hands to grab it. Pretty didn’t mind watching folks when they couldn’t see her. It tickled her, seeing the way some got all ruffled up with each other or how others touched and talked and admired but never could settle on buying a solitary thing.

Then something covered the gap she’d been looking through. The wagon wood creaked and groaned.

Pretty tensed, the air trapped in her lungs.

But nobody ripped the pieces of the wagon away to find her hiding beneath.

Someone heaved a weary sigh.

Pretty almost giggled out loud when she realized what had happened. Somebody had sat down on the overturned wagon.

She rolled onto her back to look up at the flatbottom. The gaps there were hair thin, the boards well fitted, probably to keep goods like grain from spilling out, but narrow strands of ghostlight filtered through in places. Everywhere but right over where Pretty lay.

“It’s going to be beautiful for the Carnival of the Dead, the weather,” a woman drawled. “Think you’ll go?”

Were two people sitting up there? Pretty couldn’t tell for sure. Maybe the speaker was standing there in skirts, blocking her view into the market while the one being spoken to was sitting on top. The sweet scent of flowers and spices drifted into the wagon.

A rhythmic scraping sound came from above. Didn’t put Pretty in the mind of scraped wood, though.

“I thought sure you wouldn’t come back, me. I never meant to scare you.” The woman had a refined way of talking, almost like a rich uphill lady, but there was a hint of low street cadence in there. “Hard to remember how frightening it can be down here once you get away.”

Something dropped into the dirt by the skirts.

Pretty craned her neck to see it: a red, red apple peel cut loose like a snakeskin. She swallowed hard, her pulse picking up speed.

“You’re a very beautiful child under that dirt,” the woman said. “It’s a miracle you’re still alive down here by the riverfront. You must know, sooner or later, you’re going to get caught.”

Pretty flipped back onto her stomach and scrabbled around until she could see the exit out the back of the wagon pile. Was the woman watching it? Was somebody waiting back there to snatch Pretty if she tried to run?

But if she didn’t try, wouldn’t she get caught anyway?

“Might be you already been caught.” Another snakeskin of peel dropped. The sound made Pretty flinch. “Might be that’s why you had the sense to be scared of a stranger offering you something.”

Pretty felt like she was going to drop her stomach and wet her dress all at the same time. She was trapped.

“It’s hard, looking into the future, especially when you can’t see far enough to find the next meal, but you surely noticed there aren’t no women down in the Closes.” The crisp crunch of a bitten apple. “You need to get out before the little boys you run with down there turn into men and you can’t fit into them hiding spots you used to escape to.”

Pretty was shaking, the quakes coming from deep in her belly and rattling her nerves all the way to her fingertips and toes.

“Might be you live the first time or three you get caught. Might be you don’t.” Another crunchy bite and a sigh. “Then you figure if you’re gonna get hurt anyway, you may as well get paid for it. But you’re like to be mangled up enough by then that only the nastiest whoring houses on the riverfront want you. A couple years filling beds down on the dockside and, if you aren’t mangled when you went in, you will be when they throw you out.”

The woman wasn’t saying anything anybody in the Closes didn’t already know. But Brat had promised that they wouldn’t have to go through that.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“We ain’t never gonna have no bad stuff again, us.” That was exactly what Brat had said. “I swear it on my everlastin’ soul, may the Cormorant strike me dead in the street.”

Pretty scrubbed her eyes. She shoulda knowed. Nothing Brat said ever came true. Her chest bucked with silent, painful sobs.

“I don’t want that to happen to you, child.” On top of the wagon, the woman’s voice was soft, with a sad note bleeding through it. “There’s another way out, but you got to be smarter and you got to be harder. A girl who won’t take a free meal just might be able to make it. I got out, me. Maybe you can too.”

It was a long time before Pretty scooted out from under the wagon and into the alley.

The fine lady sat there in her pigeon gray dress, slender, straight back toward Pretty, face looking out over the market. The lady’s head cocked, the ostrich feather in her hair bobbing gently, but she didn’t turn around when Pretty stood up. If she had, Pretty would’ve darted into the Closes.

“I live uphill, me,” the lady said. “Finest townhouse on the street. I’ve dined with lords and ladies, thrown masques the snoots all tripped over each other to get an invitation to. I’ve sat on the High Stand during the Carnival of the Dead—oh, must be near onto ten years now. Men have fought duels over me. Real, courtly duels with swords, not fistfights. Two died. From close-rat to the most coveted hand in Siu Carinal, I done it.”

“Your dress.” Pretty swallowed. “It’s really something.”

The lady laughed, a sound like a song. “You ought to see my court gowns.”

She did turn, then, slow and graceful like a willow waving in the breeze. Her face was fine boned and flawless, with the barest hint of wrinkles around her eyes when she smiled.

“What’s your name, child?”

“Pretty.”

The lady rose to her feet and swept a deep, effortless curtsey. “Pretty, I’m Athalia, the Daylily of Siu Carinal.”

***

The Daylily of Siu Carinal was the most famous courtesan on the delta. Of the two men who had died fighting duels for her, one was a married lord, the other the heir to the wealthiest bloodslave sacramental in the southern holdings.

Gossip had it that the mortally wounded sacramental son had clawed his way to kiss her feet one last time before finally giving up the ghost.

It wasn’t true, but Athalia knew better than to tell anybody so. Mystique made a plain woman beautiful and a beautiful woman divine.

She held Pretty’s grubby little hand as she led the girl uphill. The girl’s suspicious eyes immediately picked out the pair of bruisers with swords who shadowed Athalia from a distance.

“Don’t be afraid, they’re mine,” Athalia said. “They won’t touch you, and they’ll make certain no one else does, neither.”

Most often, the visible threat afforded by the silent, hulking eunuchs was enough to turn away trouble before it started, in the low streets or uphill.

“I’ve got eight of them, me.” She caught Pretty peering around, trying to find the rest, and laughed. “Not with me, child. They work in shifts. When we get back to my townhouse, I’ll introduce you to the rest.”

There were a lot of things she would have to introduce Pretty to before they were done. There was a lot more than street between the Closes and an uphill placement.

***

A townhouse, it turned out, was a palace of brilliant colors and soft cushions. Everywhere Pretty looked were good-smelling bundles of cut flowers and dried herbs.

“Ring up a bath to the blue room, Orika,” Athalia ordered the woman who met them at the door, “and send a platter as well. Nothing too rich for now, I think.”

The introductions to the sword-wielding monsters went quickly. They didn’t speak, just bowed in turn when Athalia said their names. Pretty was too overwhelmed to retain much information; their names slipped past her.

“Not conversationalists, them,” Athalia said, leading Pretty away from the huge warriors and up a flight of stairs to a room decorated all in blue. “They haven’t got no tongues, nor man-parts anymore. But for protection or retribution, a courtesan can’t hire no better than the Silent Sisterhood. Ah, looks like your bath’s near ready!”

Pretty had never heard of a bath. She panicked when Athalia told her she had to take her clothes off, thinking she’d fallen for the exact trap she’d been trying to avoid.

In response to Pretty’s blind terror, the Daylily calmly backed away until she pressed against the door, motioning her servants to do the same.

“I won’t make you do nothing, me,” Athalia offered soothingly. “If you want, we’ll leave the room while you wash. Usually, I have one servant comb oils into my hair and another to add hot water when the bath begins to chill. You can have all of that or none of it, as you like. Those rags you’re wearing will have to be burned, though. They reek, and they’re too small besides. Orika’s bringing you something clean and closer to your size.”

Athalia held mostly to her word, having her servants bring out a tall screen and waiting behind it while Pretty disrobed. But the little close-rat was happy they were still there when she tried climbing into the bath and burnt herself. She’d never felt water hotter than a summer puddle before. Athalia had a servant add cold water until Pretty could stand it.

Baths weren’t so bad after all. Pretty nearly fell asleep in it, but woke up when her hostess asked whether she’d finished washing yet. That required definition and a quick demonstration.

Much later, when she was finished, there were warm linens to dry herself on and a long soft sleeping gown to put on and a platter of cold ham and pickled vegetables to eat.

Pretty wasn’t too sure she hadn’t died of fright under the overturned wagon; maybe the Cormorant had taken her to paradise.

She didn’t have the courage to ask Athalia why she was doing all this.

So instead she asked, “What do I gotta do?”

“To get all this for yourself?” the courtesan asked, combing sweet-smelling attar into the girl’s wet, snarled hair.

That was close enough to what Pretty had meant. She winced as the comb caught in a tangle, then nodded.

Athalia’s eyes looked far away, down a street the girl couldn’t see.

“Pretty’s a nice name, better than most close-rats get. Me, I think it’s a sign of how much better everybody already knew you were than them. But to get the kind of security, the kind of luxury you see here, Pretty isn’t enough. Beautiful isn’t either. You’ve got to be something more. Exotic, mysterious, otherworldly… Those’re getting closer.”

Pretty looked into the mirror at the woman’s graceful curves and flawless face. She wondered what Athalia’s name had been when she lived in the Closes.

“We’re going to make you something higher than any of that, us,” Athalia said. She gestured to Orika, who took over pinning up Pretty’s wet hair for the night. “Something these river boys and lordlings—nobody in the Kingdom of Night—never seen. That’s going to take time and work. You may hate me by the time it’s done, but when you’re lounging in your own townhouse with a half a hundred admirers and food on the table every night and more gifts and gold than you can spend, you’ll thank me.”

She stepped back and appraised Pretty, now free of dirt and rags and the smell of the street.

“Flowers and jewels are all fine and good, but when we’re done, you’re going to be something beyond that. A beauty from another world.”

Athalia shifted the mirror so Pretty could see herself better. The light reflected off her pale skin and seemed to disappear into her big, dark eyes.

“Seleketra,” Athalia said, “demon daughter of the strong goddess, the face that felled a thousand kingdoms.”