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Chapter Ten

The Gambit

Revelry was for other people. Not for Wyld.

Despite being an unregistered passenger she was not restricted in her movements aboard the Gambler’s Den. Franco’s trust in her was uncommonly generous, so when meals were served, an invitation for her to join the others was always extended. This was mostly declined.

Rarely did she make an appearance elsewhere, for venturing to the other carriages encouraged sly glances and speculative whispers about her person. It was not out of malice, for the most part at least. Wyld was simply an aspect separate to what the showgirls were used to and she became the subject of gossip. There was no use in fuelling idle rumour, so should Wyld take up the offer of a meal, she collected it when the others had finished theirs and the dining cart was empty.

In contradiction to her own feelings on the matter, Kitty kept the ovens warm on the off chance of this happening, as per Franco’s demands. She served the food with much less care, never making small talk and certainly not wishing to engage in substantial conversation. Kitty trusted Wyld even less than the others did. Maybe it was the boisterousness of her youth, but she was outspoken in regards to their resident tagalong. Mercifully, this time Kitty simply did her job. She shoved a plate of pungent curry in Wyld’s hands and kept any comments to herself.

Silence accompanied Wyld’s meal from the first bite to the last. She pushed the bloated red larrson beans into a heap, finding their bitterness unpalatable. She had taken to her hammock, positioned in one of the storage cars, hidden among tables and amusements, nestled in a little space she had called home for the last few weeks. It was cramped for sure, dusty, and compared to the residence carriage the showgirls resided in, almost insulting, but Wyld didn’t need luxury. Never had. A poky spot, a place to lay her head was all the comfort she needed, or had ever been used to.

Wyld had been caught as a stowaway by Jacques when she was train hopping. She had mistaken the Gambler’s Den for a simple passenger hauler. Confronted by Jacques, her quick thinking and impressive negotiation resulted in passage in exchange for payment and regional information. She would have her independence, space for her belongings, but she was to remain hidden and, as Franco very strongly stated, any trouble would result in her expulsion.

Just recalling that conversation resulted in her teeth grating back and forth in frustration. How insulting, she grumbled, to infer such a thing. How long did he think she had been doing this? A week? Two? Try a lifetime, she could have retorted with, right into his patronizing face. That would shut him up.

She rocked her hammock side to side, swigging from a bulbous brown bottle in light, careful gulps, smacking her lips each time. Assorted memories rocked with her, a series of nagging visions that Wyld had earlier spent time staring at.

Trouble didn’t usually follow her. Like everything else she encountered – opportunities, men, and wealth – trouble usually neglected to show its face in her presence and for that she had been thankful.

But the incidents in the Vault greatly disturbed her.

Wyld had been caught up in the break-in, a messy, amateur affair with the theft of contraband under the noses of the law and deaths on both sides. Things had never gone so wrong before. Sure, there had been a handful of tight spots she could recall but not like this. Nothing had been like this. It was a harsh lesson to be taught and definitely one that wouldn’t be easily forgotten.

Trembling fingers gripped the bottle neck as, once more, the sullen look of the policeman she had shot lingered, bearing down on her with all his weight. Damn those eyes of his. Drink, she told herself, and chase the spectre away. It didn’t work. Instead she tried to be rational. One of them was to meet their end and it was only due to the good graces of the Holy Sorceress that it wasn’t her.

Grace. A faster finger. An instinct to stay alive. Wyld couldn’t tell which specifically to attribute her survival to.

Another mouthful was taken. A silent curse was made.

She was living as a vagabond, previously just ruining lives but now she had stepped into the world of taking them. She confessed in her thoughts to being a murderer. No matter how justified her act may have been, it was a line she once promised herself she wouldn’t cross. In her youth she had witnessed folks killed for scraps of food, for unpaid debts and, shockingly, simply for the fun of it. This all predictably made an impression and whilst it was sensible to carry iron for self-defence, it had been to threaten only.

Wyld had never been prepared to pull a trigger, let alone do so with lethal intent. One life, twenty, did the actual body count make any difference? She would be branded a killer either way. It was painfully difficult to justify, forcing her to question whether this journey was even worth it.

On her stomach sat the statue, staring back at her with a frozen expression of judgement. The effigy claimed, or more accurately, stolen, sat proud upon its rounded base.

The poky, squatting gold form of an Angel, with brilliant wings outstretched, was embedded into the face, surrounded with symbols from a language best forgotten and a time now ignored. Years had deposited scratches on the once brilliant metal, no doubt helped by the conflicts it had seen and the hands it had passed through. The finely crafted golden features made her curiously anxious the longer she observed them. The ill-gotten items had been treated as stock and their reverence ignored, though this one was the exception. Unlike many of her acquisitions, it was curiously respected.

Wyld’s fingers lifted the piece to what little light the lamp made.

‘Is it worth it?’ Wyld whispered to the figure, searching the Angel’s gold visage with her eyes. Momentarily she wished for an answer to be given, no matter how implausible it seemed. Oh, how she wished it could speak to her. She pressed the cold metal against her forehead, questioning – among other things – if anybody even cared. Then she set it back down.

A slow striking of the car door diverted these thoughts. Katerina lightly slunk inside when invited, very much respectful of the personal space of the car’s inhabitant. She cooed a hello, waving a bottle of red wine and a glass, watching Wyld’s hammock rock to a stop.

‘Good evening, I don’t mean to impose on what you’re up to.’ Katerina scanned her surroundings, trying to work out what that may have been but obviously came up with nothing. ‘I was wondering if you would like to join us. We’re all playing cards and would welcome another hand.’

‘Sorry. I figure I’m just not your sort of company. No offence and all.’

‘None taken I assure you. I just thought it would be nice to invite our resident ghost. I rarely see you and thought that it must get pretty stuffy in here by your lonesome.’

Wyld cracked a smile in approval. ‘It’s appreciated, thanks. It’s nice to know that I’m not invisible to everyone. I get some disapproving looks from time to time so I just try to stay out of sight and all. I stand out too much among the make-up and –’ she gestured to Katerina who probed for a place to sit ‘– all that flair.’

‘You’re telling me. The dresses can be a bit much. Having to keep up the pretence can be draining.’

‘What pretence?’

‘The boss says we have to keep the image of who we are at all times, especially away from the Den itself. I get it. I really do, but it can be such a chore. We’re on display all the time and that’s fine. It can just be tiring.’

‘Enough to leave?’

‘Heavens no.’ Katerina gave a warm chuckle. ‘The girls here, well, we’re family, you know. You don’t walk out on your family. May I?’

Katerina pointed to a pine trunk strapped with rough iron, finding a lack of a proper chair.

‘Be my guest.’ Wyld wearily sighed and took another gulp from her bottle. You’re right, she thought. You don’t abandon your family. So why did he?

Katerina took a meek drink from a glass and gestured. ‘What about yours?’

‘Some white rum from in town. Local stuff. It’s fancy –’

‘No, I mean your family. Where are they?’

‘That’s pretty much non-existent,’ she said. ‘Orphan of the streets like many others out there. I never got to know my family. If I did nowadays, I would sock them on the jaw.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ Wyld snorted. ‘Nobody else is.’

They both drank more, bolder, unsure as to how to continue the conversation.

‘I envy you, you know?’ Katerina eventually stated, refilling her glass, halfway this time.

‘That’s just the drink talking.’

‘No, I’m serious. You live so nomadically. Wind in your hair. You’re free, you know? Nobody to answer to.’ A blaze of red curls hid her features before eventually being moved away with a palm, replaced with an immediate smile that seemed suspiciously one of reflex and illusion.

‘Except Franco,’ Wyld added, swigging once more with a stifled gasp.

‘Except Franco. But you know what I mean.’

‘It’s nothing that couldn’t be fixed. There’s no harm venturing out to find a little purpose.’

‘There are some folks – you are very much included in this – who are well suited to adapting to challenging lifestyles. They thrive in such environments. It’s in their very being I guess one could say. Now, when it comes to me, I’m the opposite. I like my comforts. I am accustomed to them, have been all my days. The Den is my compromise for wanderlust.’

‘What were you before all this? Did you have a job or something?’

Katerina broadly grinned, genuinely excited to discuss such things. Rarely had she had the opportunity to do so. ‘I was a seamstress. I suppose I still am as I make alterations for the others if their garments need adjusting and I fix the clothes too. I even sewed up Franco when he caught a bullet. That was a first. But I didn’t actually need to work before, I did it as a hobby.’

‘Moneyed family?’ Wyld pressed, slightly concerned that this was too personal, though she was answered promptly.

‘Unfortunately so,’ Katerina said. ‘I had a childhood out of a book. Several books actually. Have you seen those family paintings that nobility have, hanging over fireplaces? I was the child with the pout who wanted to be doing anything else other than posing.’

‘Sounds like a fine time to me,’ Wyld countered. ‘I’ve always wanted to be invited to one of those fancy shindigs where there’s food for miles and the conversation is as pleasant as hornet stings.’

‘Not fine enough, I assure you. I heard that the Gambler’s Den was in town from my father. He promised to take me and when I saw Franco perform I was smitten. I knew there and then I wanted that life: the show, the performance, the fireworks, the applause – oh the applause! I approached Misu and she interviewed me that night. I must have done something well because I’ve been here ever since.’

‘If I had a family like yours, I would spend some of that wealth in tracking you down,’ Wyld said cautiously. It was a fair point. If one had money then there was nothing you couldn’t accomplish or obtain.

‘Fortunate for me that my father just doesn’t care then, isn’t it? My mother was more the free-spirited type. He was,’ Katerina corrected herself hurriedly, ‘is a bore. Talking about boring, I’m blabbering on about myself like I’m in fashion. What’s your story?’

Wyld swung her legs over to a more suitable position. Given her standing on the Gambler’s Den, or lack of it, reason dictated she should be wary of what she said. Reason also suggested drinking more and damn the consequences. The second of these took precedence.

‘I’ve been travelling for months from the south. It’s not been easy. Don’t know if you’ve got romantic notions of such travels but when a hot bath is a luxury, you know you’re doing something wrong.’

‘How do you afford the rooms? It must be costly.’

‘Money is no concern. Sold everything I owned before leaving, which got me not too far admittedly, but I sell things to make ends meet.’

‘What kind of things?’ Katerina narrowed her green eyes. ‘Our things?’

Wyld unfurled her still-clasped hands, reached forward, and passed her acquisition over for inspection.

Katerina examined its surface. It was presumably old but still in impeccable condition. Her eyes searched stoic features of the effigy. She handled it gently, careful not to inadvertently damage it. The statue’s blank eyes stared back. Wyld wondered whether it prompted the recollection of stories from youth, dramatic tales of sacrifice and danger, for Katerina as it did for her.

Clearly impressed by both its appearance and unexpected weight, Katerina passed it back. Wyld placed it beside her on the hammock with considerable care.

‘Where did you get it from?’

‘I stole it.’

‘You’re a thief?’

‘No,’ Wyld protested. ‘I’m not that. I acquire things to order for shadier clientele. I don’t know if it has a title.’

‘The title would be a thief.’

‘Only without the –’

‘The fact that you are, by definition of the word, a thief?’

‘Something like that.’ Wyld sighed wearily. Why was she trying to garnish her actions, or even justify them? Who, exactly, did she have to redeem herself to? She was a thief, but one born of necessity. That was the justification and it would have to be good enough for her conscience.

‘Where did it come from?’

‘Some dust-ball museum out west when we passed through. For such a rarity you would have assumed security was paramount, but you would be wrong. Quite the disgrace I assure you.’

‘Shocking. Is it valuable?’ Katerina enquired.

‘It’ll outfit you girls with pretty dresses three times over.’

‘Really? How many would you say you’ve, uh, acquired in your time?’

‘I’m not sure. Over twenty artefacts maybe, if I had to guess.’

Katerina’s mouth moved as she made a conservative estimate of the total. Her eyes widened. ‘Wow. With all that, you could,’ the showgirl barked in excitement, ‘you could buy this train!’

‘Suppose so. It’s all going to be sold off soon. Buyers can be tricky to come across but we’re in luck here. Windberg has a decent market for such things, surprising given how hard the law is coming down. It’s always best to flog the lot as you never know when the next opportunity may arise. Case in point: we have a sheriff sniffing around like a dog in heat.’

‘And the money? That’s a considerable amount.’

‘Goes in the bank where I can’t misplace it.’

‘Any plans with it?’

‘I have debts to pay, especially to your boss,’ Wyld reflected. ‘As for the rest, I’m sure I’ll be able to find a use for it one day.’

‘But why the Holy Sorceress fixation?’

‘Why what?’ Wyld’s brow arched.

Katerina pressed her lips together, concluding a common theme in what had been acquired. ‘All museum pieces from what I heard. Sorry, but the news on the wire gives it away. I read the papers too. Every place we’ve been, you hit the same sort of joint. Everything you go for is religious. Do you only steal those sorts of things? Is that your niche?’

It was a fact. Every single item was an effigy, no matter the medium or size, and they all depicted the same subject. Every trinket, every piece was a relic, something that Wyld knew full well. She had just never expected to be quizzed as to why. It wasn’t coincidence, despite being passed off as one, but to elaborate on the reasoning would be just asking more questions, the likes of which would be nauseating to converse about.

‘They’re just more valuable,’ Wyld dismissed with a half-truth. ‘Age is indicative of worth.’

‘Not if my father is anything to go by.’

They both sniggered in unison.

With her bottle now empty, Katerina coaxed a refill from Wyld’s, sniffing the rum before letting its warmth slide down her throat.

‘You live an uncertain life – not that there’s anything wrong with such a thing. It sounds pretty charmed by all accounts though personally I would struggle with the regular illegality.’

‘A sense of normality wouldn’t go amiss admittedly. A life like this lacks security. I’m living every day back to back without real guidance. The wind blows me in the direction that I guess to be correct. Half the time I just need answers.’

‘What to?’

‘Plenty of things.’ Wyld callously took a mouthful.

‘What if you could get those answers? What then?’

The bottle slowly popped from her lips and she tilted her head in curiosity. ‘I don’t follow.’

Katerina waited on her words for a moment, giving consideration as to how to structure them appropriately. She moved a hand to the lacy folds of her dress, reaching into a pocket and wrapping her fingers around the shape inside.

‘There is a prerequisite to being hired for the Gambler’s Den. We’re required to perform, showcase our talent as it were. We’re not just pretty faces despite what the punters may believe. Everyone has their niche. For example, Misu breathes fire –’

‘In every sense of the word from what I’ve established.’

‘Corinne parades the art of ventriloquism.’

‘What might that be?’

‘Tossing one’s voice in different directions. Yours truly has a couple of talents but one of the more peculiar ones is this.’

Katerina removed a box of cards from her person, playing cards at first glance, until the adorning artwork revealed their true nature. Its simple cardboard sleeve was draped with arcane impressions of the night’s sky, cluttered despite being tasteful. These were for anything but play.

‘Fortune-telling? Where did you learn that?’

The cards were removed from their housing and sliced repeatedly in cuts as she divulged the answer. ‘My dear old mother. Sit down, she would say, and she’d teach me under the oil lamp. To my understanding it was a family tradition, one she was keen to keep alive. All things come and go in a lifetime, but curiosity about one’s future never wanes. That’s what she used to tell me. Money and fame can be found in such a thing, if both were your fancy.’

‘It’s an old practice …’ Wyld drew at her chin in concern.

‘You sound sceptical. Tell me you’re not one of those who calls it blasphemous.’

‘Not at all. I knew a street vendor who did told fortunes on the side to earn bread money. Though I’m unsure as to this format you’re using. They were all chicken bones and crystal balls. I put it down to his settler blood.’

The cards were placed down on the carriage floor and fanned out with a wave of the hand. With another they slinked back together just as quickly. Apt hands worked their magic to create a spectacle of the cards being presented yet this was just for show with the design to easily impress.

‘What you encountered was a charlatan. Those displays are just for roping in passers-by. This, on the other hand, is an art handed down from time immemorial.’

Wyld scoffed and though she meant no offence she had deeply rooted opinions on the matter. ‘Cards?’

‘I could give you their long, proper name but yes, for want of a better term, these are cards.’

Wyld leant over her hammock, ensuring that she didn’t move her weight to send her falling out, a feat easier said than done considering how much she had drunk.

‘What’s this imagery? All I see are stars.’

‘Close,’ came the reply. ‘They’re constellations. See, these cards in this part of the deck contain the constellations we can see in the night sky. It’s a widely held belief that they tell a story as a whole, but separately, the order in which they appear can be indicative of an individual’s life.’

Wyld flexed a finger to a point. ‘Why has this one got the moon in it?’

‘Those with the moon are part of the major set. Those cards are, for want of a better word, a little more noteworthy. By the formation of the cards and what we present, we can build up a picture. Get some of those answers.’

Wyld took a sip of courage. ‘Okay then, you’ve convinced me. I’m game. Even false hope is better than no hope at all.’

‘If you would please cut the deck and hand me three.’

Wyld obliged, passing them over face down. Katerina drew a handful more, placing them in various spaces between them, some overlapping one another, forming a distinctive cross pattern. As the first card revealed its secret design upon flipping, the opening revelation was uncomfortably precise.

‘You’re looking for someone.’

Wyld wrinkled her nose. ‘What if I said I wasn’t?’ she tested. There was still a chance all this was going to be a deception – no matter how pleasant the company.

‘Then I have to say I don’t believe you.’

‘And if I insisted?’

‘I would ask why you were lying to me.’

‘Then you may be correct. Maybe there is someone,’ she finally confessed.

‘Elaborate. Tell me about them.’

‘Isn’t that your job while we do this?’

Katarina chuckled. ‘That’s a common misconception for a reading of this kind. It just helps, is all. I’m not trying to prompt you to give me information if that’s what you are suspicious of. It greases the wheels. Makes it all go smoother. Any qualities that I can envision of this mysterious person?’

‘Opening up isn’t something I do well. I’m not drunk enough for this.’

‘That makes two of us.’ Katerina reached over and filled her glass once more, taking in its scent. ‘So it’s clearly a man. That’s painfully obvious given your reaction.’

Wyld leaned back, taking a bigger mouthful. She nodded. ‘Complicated. Handsome.’ She paused. ‘Lips of an Angel.’

‘Handsome is good enough for me.’ Katerina smiled. ‘Good enough for plenty of women out here.’ She took another swig from her drink, coaxing another refill with a shake of the glass. As Wyld leant forward and poured, Katerina’s face fell somewhat. She analysed the collection of cards in their particular order. On one, a crested moon straddled the sky above five stars – the furthest one to the left much brighter than the others.

‘You’re looking for this man. You’re not searching for him in the conventional sense though; that’s the curiosity. There’s more to it than that. You’re tracking him like one tracks a wild beast. It’s what brought you here, to us.’

Wyld reflected on the accuracy of this accusation. She shadowed his footsteps in whatever hole he passed through; offered bartender and stallholder coin in exchange for insight. Scraps of information were procured from those who claimed sightings – some greatly embellished for personal gain. After all, his presence set many tongues wagging. Someone hauling around a reputation as large as his made it almost impossible to remain incognito.

Maybe she had resorted to tracking him much like a hunter would stalk their quarry. So what? Maybe there was no other way. She began scratching at the bottle label with her fingernails, peeling it from a corner until enticing a rip.

‘You lived together, years back. The bond was close, very close in fact. You trusted him. There was a time when you relied on one another to survive. Together the world wasn’t so harsh. You were a compass to one another, pointing to personal serenity.’

Katerina spread two cards apart, calculating their meaning. Her voice lowered a shade. ‘You loved him.’

Wyld blinked momentarily as the words cut through her.

‘But, I’m sorry to say, he loved you as one would have loved their sibling. That is a shame. But it is still love and that is a blessing in itself. It is still a bond.’

Wyld tried not consider this as an insult. Despite wrestling with her own conscience for months now, she still came to the same conclusion that Katerina had voiced. Was she not attentive enough? Had she not tried to ease his restless mind when he spoke of troubles and burdens of duty?

Had she not provided him with enough reasons to stay?

‘You’re angry at him too.’

‘You need the cards to see that?’ Wyld tossed down a mouthful, hissing through her teeth to relieve the liquor’s sting.

‘Of course not, but what you harbour is not rage. It would be quite easy to confuse it as such given the nature of this situation. It’s the pursuit of answers. A desperation I suppose it could be called.’

‘Is there anything in all this that at least gives me direction?’

The crossed arrangement of cards slowly revealed themselves with every question.

‘You’re on the right track according to this. He was venturing north, far north in fact, very much alone and with regret. Leaving you wasn’t a decision taken lightly.’

Another flick of the wrist. Another three cards turned over to reveal themselves.

‘You’re missed. Very much so. Despite what you may think, your time together was something that fulfilled you both. It’s rare that two people stumble upon one another and find what they need. Compassion. Direction. Things that make us whole.’

‘Will I find him?’ Wyld’s hand trembled around her drink as she tried to steady her voice. ‘Is all this for nothing?’

Cards turned and sighs were offered. Wyld dissected each facet of the cards as she saw them in the hope of gaining hint as to their meaning.

Katerina delivered a slew of disappointment. ‘If I tell you that you will, it’ll incite you not to drive yourself onward as hard as you have done up until now. If I tell you that you won’t, you’ll be inclined to give up. So on that front, I cannot say.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’ Wyld wrinkled her nose, finding her temper to be shortening. It would be cruel to yank away this hope now, even if it was false.

‘Pick one. But know that what I’m saying is for the best and not to be difficult. A line has to be drawn somewhere and I’m afraid it has been decided that this is yours.’

Katerina took the last card between her fingers, spinning it around for Wyld to see. A new moon surrounded by seven stars with three sporting grand depictions in yellow. It meant nothing to the observer though was impressed with its ominousness.

‘What’s that one?’

‘The Mithany, more commonly known as The Flower. This card and ones like it mean the end to what we discuss. Past this point things are unsettled, but it also infers something else. This card right here offers hope. Maybe hope for the future in general. Maybe hope in your endeavours that you will catch this man. Hope, maybe, that you will be at peace with your past.’

It was offered over and claimed by Wyld who examined its face.

‘You can keep that.’

‘Won’t it mess up your deck?’

Scooping the cards back together and sliding the pack into its decorated sleeve, Katarina scoffed. ‘No. I’ve got like a hundred of them. Makes things personal for the reader. People love that little touch of a souvenir.’

Letting the atmosphere defuse, Katerina allowed Wyld to wipe her eyes and process what had been said. The glass was refilled but this time only to its equator. The bottle finally had run dry.

‘How was that? Are you okay?’ Katerina enquired, watching Wyld delicately nurse her spent bottle.

‘Accurate. Scarily so. You’re very good.’ Wyld was rattled.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to … you know. This.’

‘He was a bastard to leave me,’ Wyld confessed, blowing out air. It had been the first time she had spoken with anyone about all of this and frankly it had been a relief to share. ‘But bastard or no, I’ll find him. And I’ll get him to explain why he did so.’

Katerina cheered boisterously and a little too loudly. ‘Now that I will happily drink to. To fleeing men!’ She struck the bottle with her wine glass in a toast. ‘Doesn’t sound like any man I’ve ever known. All mine have been focused on settling down, fathering many babies. Nobody wants an adventure nowadays. The world is too dangerous they say. It’s a trial to keep safe, to keep ends met. Why anyone would want to complicate that by wandering is hard to understand.’ Katerina raised her glass. ‘But I get it. And it’s not beyond you. I hope you find him soon. May your journey reach a fortunate conclusion, Miss Wyld.’

And in thanks, Wyld toasted back with her empty vessel.

* * *

Windberg’s evenings were opposite to its days. Streets remained mostly empty as the effects of toil were sedated with drink and revelry performed behind closed doors. Even the docks that were usually a frantic stream of wholesale traders and cargo pullers were deserted, waiting for the chaos to begin all over again at the dawn of the morning sun.

Of all the districts, it was unsurprising that Redside – with more taverns and inns than people at points – was more active. Situated a good fifteen-minute walk downhill from Windberg Central Station, business was always good from the constant turnover of travellers passing through, so meeting someone here would raise no suspicion.

Or, at least, that’s what Misu hoped.

For the unawares, the hangouts were all the same. The district was dilapidated in parts, well kept and spacious in others, a patchwork of enterprises no less. If you were informed enough on the city’s criminality, those who wished to remain hidden, or protected, could be found.

Misu wasn’t oblivious to her followers during the daylight. A woman in her profession was familiar with some of the more unwanted attention garnered over her service, so when her travel through the markets during her day-to-day routine was observed, Misu always ensured she was never alone. She had company and, at some times, welcome protection in the form of Jacques.

But this time, just for tonight, she lacked any such luxuries. She headed to places she’d sworn never to return to. Ghostly footsteps from long ago caused a shudder to run down her spine.

And there, in the gloom, she found what – or more accurately whom – she was looking for.

* * *

Flenn counted his blessings. For him, it was by pure chance that they saw one another, especially after their blunt conversation during the show. It was their visit that haunted the woman, perfectly, he believed, as per his instructions. Luckily for Flenn, Donovan accompanied him, cold and just as pleased, congregating in the alleyway between The Sand and Track – for reasons known only to themselves. With rapt attention, each watched her approach. She stayed away from the street gaslight and was dulled by the moonlight, bathed in shadows.

‘I’m not a believer in fate and the like,’ Flenn announced with arms outstretched. ‘But I’ll say that our encounter must be one of chance. Would you not agree, Mister Donovan?’

‘That it must,’ Donovan acknowledged, sauntering before Misu and inhaling her scent. ‘Opportune indeed.’

‘I’m not blind. I know you’ve been watching me and I’m telling you to stop,’ she stated, firm in tone, though with a fissure to her voice.

Their response was a chuckle between them, sharing unspoken amusement at such brashness.

‘I’m also here to tell you,’ Misu tried to demand, ‘that I won’t do this any more. Tell Wilheim that the deal is off and he’s never to come near me again. Or you. It’s that simple; we’re done.’

‘Oh, done are we?’ Flenn loudly spat between then. ‘And you can make this decision, can you? This is your final word on the subject? I could tell him, but I know what he would say.’

‘He wouldn’t like it in the slightest,’ Donovan added.

‘Not a bit, I would think,’ he agreed. ‘It wouldn’t be sensible to tell him such a thing.’

‘Do you know what he would want?’

Donovan nodded repeatedly. ‘A change of mind, methinks.’

Misu tried to sprint, but failed in her shoes, designed for fashion and not mobility, especially taking the heels into account. A leg launching away in a slip sent her to the ground most ungraciously, and it took no effort for Flenn and Donovan to catch up with the woman. The pair was used to their quarry fleeing. They were also used to them not making it very far.

‘On your feet, kitten. Let’s be having you.’

Flenn’s fists clenched cotton, hauling Misu to her feet by her attire. Clearly every touch of his fingers disgusted her as he patted her pale cheeks. Every patronizing word cut through with thick, penetrating sarcasm.

Wilheim’s men had not been expecting an opportunity like this. The woman had always kept herself around others in public, cleverly near constabulary when perusing the markets or shops. They had watched keenly, shadowed her movements closely, all while remaining out of sight. Wilheim expected them to deliver his message, though a better word for it would be ultimatum, with the sort of persuasiveness those entrusted to such work were known for.

Toe to toe, Flenn towered over Misu’s frame. Her nostrils flared as his hand ever so gently stifled her breaths.

‘Let’s not be dancing any more, girl. You’ve had your little dandy despite Wilheim being far from patient. You know what he wants and he’s going to take it. You have no alternative and certainly no wiggle room for bargaining.’

‘I said I won’t do this any more for him,’ Misu whimpered, trying hard to retain her composure; however, her bravado had been quickly eroded away. No pithy quips. No snide remarks. Misu was bared to her predators.

‘You don’t get it still. There is no time to give. No extra chances. No more waiting.’

Donovan fidgeted with the leather sheath at his hip, drawing his palm around his knife handle. He was clearly getting bored of talking.

Talking rarely solved anything. Words were only an exchange of threats and force, no matter how well camouflaged. Everything was a foreplay to violence.

‘I don’t think she’s going to cooperate, do you?’

‘I think she’s spinning us a yarn. Don’t like being spun, me. Makes me frustrated. Makes me angry, if you get my meaning.’ Flenn’s thick fingers constricted in turn.

‘There – you’ve gone and done it,’ Donovan teased, seating himself on a crate. The metal was produced from its housing, an event that Misu was acutely aware of. Donovan used the blade tip to pick at debris beneath his fingernails.

‘I don’t care what you think, I won’t –’

Donovan interrupted. ‘I think we need to stop you talking for good. What do you think the boss would say?’

‘He would have your hides if I was harmed,’ Misu said, attempting to negotiate, but again this was unsuccessful.

‘Not what I heard. Maybe he’s getting old. He wants things done and doesn’t care about the methods. Never been much of a method man that one. Likes results.’

Flenn snickered cruelly. ‘It has been a while, hasn’t it? You didn’t even recognize us at the table. I dare say you’ve developed some humility, little one. I recall all your barbs at our persons, unwarranted slander if I recall. Looky here now though. Not as untouchable as you used to taunt.’

Thick, searching fingers groped at Misu’s breast. ‘Very touchable indeed.’ He licked her cheek, in a long, eager draw.

* * *

Slow footsteps echoed in the night, the soles of well-kept leather striking paving stone getting closer and closer as a figure walked up the alleyway. They stopped, yards from Wilheim’s men and their quarry. The scattered gaslights were too far away to cast light on the figure. All turned in unison, trying to make out if it was the law or just a random fellow who found himself witnessing business that he would do better to forget.

Misu attempted to wail for help, but the moment she tried, her restraint was pulled firmer, curbing the outburst.

‘Step away from the lady,’ the voice demanded, male and clearly in no mood to discuss it further. The demand was ignored, so it was repeated once more, sterner.

‘I paid my money,’ Flenn called. ‘I take what’s owed.’

Donovan rebuked any claim to the contrary, placing the cold steel on a thigh in warning. ‘We have a business transaction, don’t we, dear?’

Misu failed to object, or speak in general. Her eyes welled with tears.

‘She’s no streetwalker and you didn’t give her a coin. It’s painfully clear that she has no interest in what you’re offering, so I’ll repeat myself. Step away.’

Donovan narrowed his eyes, hopping from the crate with the weapon in hand. He slowly sauntered up the alley towards the intruder, waving the blade in gesture and threat. ‘None of this concerns you, slack jaw,’ Donovan claimed. ‘Turn around and forget what you saw. You’ll live longer for it.’

‘You know …’ the shadow paused, as if wrestling with the decision ‘… I just can’t bring myself to do so. Wouldn’t be proper, you know?’

* * *

Misu searched her memory, a burst of familiarity registering at the words.

That voice. She knew that voice!

She attempted to croak his name – a warning, anything, but it failed and came out as a grunt.

Donovan lunged forward, thrusting the knife into the alleyway’s darkness, following each jab with a lunge, a swipe, and then repeating the sequence. The stranger jumped aside each time, weaving away in the blackness. When Donovan paused, his opponent kicked the weapon away to the gutter and delivered a pair of punches across the cheek.

‘Nice knife.’ The shadow offered his compliment with a grin, now in close proximity to his prey. His hand slipped to his back and in a flash unsheathed his own weapon from oiled leather. It drove deep into Donovan’s thigh, parting flesh and striking bone.

Donovan screamed, but only just before a forearm sent him onto his back, steel now protruding from the limb coupled with a trickle of blood.

‘Mine’s bigger,’ Jacques quipped.

Foolishly Donovan wrenched the weapon away with a shriek, a spurt of blood hurriedly contained by fumbling hands.

Jacques shook the sting from his knuckles, gesturing to the heap before him.

‘Now you be keeping pressure on that there wound, you hear? You haven’t got time to go another round otherwise you’ll be losing too much blood to keep your heart beating. And we wouldn’t want that now, would we? This girl here would be a silly thing to perish for.’

He turned to Misu with a look of thunder. Disappointment was interlaced with disdain.

‘A very silly thing.’

Flenn reached for his revolver only for it to be knocked free. Blows rained left and right, violent waves on rocks of forearms. When an opening emerged he jabbed in time, following with left and right hooks. A few matches of bar boxing gave Flenn some talent, giving his strikes weight, but he was slow and sloppy. Jacques weaved and kept his arms up, slipping under each fist that stopped just out of reach. When secure enough with his delivery, Jacques punished Flenn with a bevy of punches, breaking his nose with a burst of crimson. Enough time was given, seconds in reality, for Flenn to comprehend his beating before Jacques pulled a forearm to his throat and kicked his legs away. Flenn squatted, face flushed red, gasping.

‘Now, the right thing would be to apologize to the nice lady,’ Jacques demanded, pushing him forward in the restraint. Before he gave his response, each gurgle of defiance was choked away but when he spoke it wasn’t to give the smartest of answers.

‘N … n … never!’

Jacques breathed deeply through his nose, keeping his quarry steady.

‘You’ll think better of it when you wake up.’

After driving his elbow into the base of Flenn’s skull, Jacques stepped over the limp body between him and the woman who had caused so much trouble.

Misu trembled but not from the night air. She withheld thanks, knowing full well that things were about to get much, much worse.

Escorted to the station, every street felt like a walk of shame, where prying eyes judged her for every misdeed. This was, of course, false. Nobody paid notice as she ventured back, cheeks reddened with tearstains. Their business was their own. Naturally busy with wherever the day took them, figures brushed past in a daze. Every so often Misu peered past her shock of raven hair to ensure that Jacques was accompanying her. Of course he was. Despite his silent footsteps, he remained in her shadow, ensuring she would return home with no detours.

Every step up the station was a mountain, at its summit: scorn.

When finally reaching Platform 4 she silently stopped, as if weighted. Looking at the once-inviting doors of what she called home, she felt she could vomit. Indeed, she covered her mouth as if she were about to succumb to such a thing. Her nerves had bested her and for good reason. She turned to her sentry and pleaded for him to reconsider.

‘Please,’ Misu whimpered. ‘Don’t, just don’t make me do this. Please.’

Jacques took a moment to grunt a response. He wasn’t heartless, but this situation was terribly complex and needed someone else’s illumination to resolve.

‘Sorry, lass. It’s not my call to make. You have some explaining to do to people and if you don’t – I will fill in the blanks with everything that I heard. Come, they’re waiting for you.’

When he had decided that she had readied herself appropriately, Jacques shuffled his feet behind her and inside she went, her bodyguard following and locking the door to the showgirls’ residence carriage behind him.

As she brushed aside a beaded curtain, its clattering informed the occupants of a visitor. The showgirls – all ten of them – immediately rose to their feet, if they were not standing already. Kitty pushed herself through the collecting bodies, a struggle as she was shorter than the rest. She left her hand of cards upon the table, a collection of tips from the previous night’s takings being played off against whoever was brave enough.

Her intention was to wrap her arms around that slender body, link them together and embrace Misu in relief. She had been worried. They all had been of course since Jacques announced he was leaving to find Misu. It was all people could think about and when potential worries were brought up, they were dismissed, stating that such things were nonsense, that everything was just fine.

But it only took one second to notice that things were clearly not that simple and certainly not fine. Jacques moved past, watching keenly without so much as an utterance, and seating himself at Kitty’s space. He glanced firstly to the terrible hand she had been lumbered with and then back to Misu. He clearly expected a verbose explanation.

‘Misu, what is it?’ Kitty asked. She examined the soulless face of the other woman, shocked and devoid of its usual lustre. Her stature was hunched and her demeanour – no matter how authoritative it had always seemed – was cracked.

‘It’s nothing. Nothing at all. Please, can you … Can you not ask me?’

‘But we were worried about you,’ Kitty objected, curious about Misu’s standoffishness. She tried to explain their concerns. ‘You’re sneaking out on your lonesome. Jacques brings you back and … Why are you so upset? Did something happen?’

Misu’s charade broke, causing a trail of fresh tears to trace down her cheeks. ‘It’s nothing – not a concern for any of you,’ Misu lied, trying to firmly denounce any speculation. This, expectedly, failed. Coos of concern emanated from the girls, doing no favours for her poise.

Corinne crossed her arms, stepping between the pair in a subconscious gesture of protection. She was utterly, utterly unconvinced.

‘Rubbish.’

‘Please don’t do this. Don’t shut us out,’ Kitty called from behind Corinne, interlinking her fingers in desperation. Everyone congregated around Misu, wrapping around one another in a loving embrace to the point where Misu was unable to move. All of the showgirls had noticed her odd behaviour and wanted her to understand that she was loved, no matter the cause of this peculiarity. For most, she was the closest thing they had to family.

‘No. No!’ Misu fought for some space, forcing them to ebb back like a waning tide. ‘What I do is my own business. I don’t invite you into my affairs because they are mine. Thank you for your concerns but I do not need all of your meddling. I am quite capable of looking after myself.’

Corinne scowled, a thunderous grimace that one would expect to be directed at a liar.

Or, possibly, a traitor.

She reached out and took Misu’s wrists, holding them forward. Red lines crisscrossed up to each elbow, where nails had been dragged down flesh. Corinne’s grasp was powerful enough to make Misu’s first attempt at withdrawing them fruitless, forcing the second to snap them back with force. All of the girls allowed their eyes to linger on the welts, moving as one.

‘That doesn’t seem to be the case.’ Corinne withdrew, having proved her point though gaining no advantage from it.

Katerina struggled to make sense of what was unfurling and found herself, much like Kitty, pleading for sense.

‘We love you, Misu. Please, listen to us.’

This was met with the same rejection. Misu snarled her response, letting her voice rise with her anger. ‘All I hear is prattle,’ she burst out. ‘Needless prattle and I will not tolerate it. This is the end of the subject. Am I clear?’

Katerina refused to be ordered in such a way and certainly not in these circumstances.

‘Just answer us one thing. Where were you just now?’

‘I went for a walk. I couldn’t sleep and I figured the night air would help. Why is that so unusual? Why is any of this so unusual?’ Her shallow, nervous laughter filled the void as she focused on Jacques who sat quite still. He gave no response to this attention, not that Misu wanted any, but what if he was to speak about what happened tonight?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Katerina’s face sharply fell.

‘That’s a lie,’ she mumbled.

‘What?’

‘That’s a lie.’ She spoke louder this time, more confidently, her lips flushed red. ‘And you know it.’

‘It looks like they can see right through you. I think it best if you confess what you were up to, before I begin to get impatient,’ someone called in male, rough tones – exactly what Misu was afraid of hearing, and with good cause. The line of women broke and parted slightly to make room for the owner of the voice.

But it wasn’t Jacques who spoke. He had remained, as silent as he had been upon entering. Hidden out of sight, Franco had been present the entire time. He poured himself another single malt and waited for his answer. He looked different while reassessing many things about her character, and how much of a danger she now presented. After all, he had to take stock of the business, based on her explanation.

Franco didn’t need to repeat himself, but did so, slower, firmer.

Misu’s face fell tremendously. The jig was up. ‘This is unbelievable,’ she stammered uncontrollably.

‘It is,’ Jacques interjected, finally telling his part in all this. ‘Franco asked me to keep tabs on everyone. He told me something didn’t smell right about this here city. A good thing too. I’ve shadowed you for the last couple of nights. Your toing and froing was a worry. The safety of everyone here is paramount and no matter how quick you thought you were, I followed you, down every street, down every alleyway. I saw the people you conversed with. You’re lucky I did so tonight, else I expect you’d have been sliced to ribbons.’

Now there was nothing left to hide behind. Misu’s secrets were truly bared and she was frightened about what may become of her.

‘Tell me …’ Jacques lit himself a smoke to take the edge off the situation, if only for his benefit. ‘Those gentlemen from the night before. The same well-dressed ones, who had you by the wrists tonight against a wall. Who are they?’

‘Associates.’

‘Of whom?’

Misu hesitated, looking to Franco who remained utterly silent.

‘I won’t repeat myself, Misu.’

* * *

It was Franco’s turn to speak and as he did so, the river of women parted further for him, letting him walk unhindered through the carriage, where the walls had become too tight and the air thick with deception.

‘She doesn’t need to. It’s pretty clear, of course. Something had been bothering me, something the sheriff mentioned when he gave us the business. He said something about the company that we kept, which is a feat considering we’ve never put a show on here before. See, it wasn’t Wyld who got us impounded; she’s too thorough to get caught. Ever since you found out we were coming to Windberg, Misu, you’ve been unhappy. Gave me the cold shoulder for no other discernible reason. Since we rolled in, you’ve been skittish and distracted. Somebody here has a history with you and given their brazen attitude with sending thugs, they must be pretty high up the food chain.’

Misu nodded. ‘I’m so sorry … he …’

‘He who?’ Franco now stood toe to toe with her, a woman who he’d thought above all people he could trust. What a foolish notion, he concluded. It seemed like everyone was corruptible. Sentimentality was thrown aside.

‘Wilheim.’

That name. Of course it was Wilheim. Since arriving they had heard of no other party. Clearly whatever Wilheim was doing, it was enough to ensure that he was immovable in the eyes of the law. Either that, or he kept himself so far from the dirty work it was impossible to trace his association.

‘I knew it. Don’t even know the man and he’s all over my business.’

‘I didn’t have a choice!’ Misu pleaded, arms outstretched. ‘He blackmailed me. Before you and I even met I was at his beck and call. I was at his mercy and he’s an animal, simply an animal. You don’t just walk away from a man like him. You just … you don’t. You have no idea what he said he would do to me. I wasn’t going to let myself be his slave any more. Do you get that? I wasn’t going to tolerate it so I escaped and fled, fled as far as I could. And then, his men found me. And it just got worse.’

There it was, the ugly truth of it all. It all made a terrible sense, one that Franco punctuated with his tone. ‘And Juniper knows this criminal. All the history that comes with him. The sheriff has been keeping eyes on you, and by extension, us. Because of your involvement with that man, we’re stuck here. Because of you, everything we have done is at risk.’

‘You just don’t understand.’ Misu sighed tearfully.

‘Try me,’ Franco demanded, his voice rising in anger. ‘In fact, Misu, why don’t you finally come clean? I never took you to be one who turned to deception, but seeing as there’s a great deal of people here who you decided to screw over, I think you need to spill as to what it actually took.’

If that’s what it would take, Misu decided to talk.

* * *

She gripped on to the filthy sink as if it were her only anchor to a sensible world, a place where decisions weren’t steeped in regret and where her conscience didn’t berate her for being disgusting. It continued to jabber away, unloading all manner of insults regarding her behaviour. They were right of course but this made them no less stinging.

Misu hung herself over the sink – a filthy sink in a filthy backstage cubicle barely bigger than herself. It was one of an identical strip that ran the length of the wall, illuminated sparely with gas lamps, which shadows wrestled against. Before her lay the usual tools of the trade, some hers, some the property of others: make-up, cigarettes, a half-empty tumbler of water, a completely empty glass of vodka with a lipstick-painted rim, nail file, perfumes, and a heaving tip jar.

She dully spied the jar and attempted the mental arithmetic to deduce how much it contained. It wouldn’t be enough to go on the run with, not by a long shot, though it was not an untidy sum. It was dirty money sure, but no matter the conditions under which it was earned, she would spend it like it was made decently.

Again she stared back at the mirror. A falseness gazed back with dead eyes and sullen lips, moving this way and that thanks to the bevy of drinks needed to be at peace with her work.

And her employer.

Misu carefully applied mascara to her lashes, willing her hand steady for just a moment to get the job done.

The reflection mocked her with a sly giggle.

‘Silly, stupid girl,’ it whispered, ‘you’re a rabbit in a foxes’ den.’

Ignoring it, she traced a rose shade of lipstick over her lips, pressing them together to ensure coverage before it slipped from her fingers and skimmed around the dry sink. She glanced up to her accuser.

‘Do tell me what concord you have made to ensure you are free of their jaws? For foxes are the hungriest of creatures and rabbits are the tastiest of things. How did you manage to outrun the fox? Tell me.’

Misu knew it was the drink talking – that much was for certain. Or was she? Maybe she was going mad with this preposterous juggling act. Next she grasped the ornate perfume bottle and squeezed a couple of puffs on her skin. It was considerably pungent, not her choice of course.

‘Tell me,’ the reflection demanded more sternly as it banged against its prison. Misu jumped in alarm. She hesitated for a moment before reaching for the powder, dabbing it onto her cheeks. The reflection turned from snarl to smile.

‘Oh I forgot. You didn’t need to outrun the fox, did you? You just had to outrun everyone else.’

Misu clenched her free fist into a ball, the nails biting into her skin. Simply ignoring her conscience wasn’t working. Not this time.

‘How easy it was to trade their lives for yours?’

With a clatter, the powder brush was slammed down, wood striking wood – enough to draw the attention of anybody present. But there was nobody. Her anger was enough to warrant throwing a punch at the mirror, enough for her to scream and shriek and spit her justifications but there was nobody to justify them to.

‘Misu!’ someone called aloud, searching for the woman in urgency. ‘Misu, where in tarnation are you hiding this time? Get out here now!’

She said nothing and checked her appearance for any faults. It was as flawless as ever, from the outset at least, dare anyone brush aside the reams of make-up that she used as a cover.

The reflection watched silently as from behind the trolleys of costumes and props, a flush-faced man searched the dressing room. Eventually he noticed the woman who made no effort to make herself apparent. He paced the floor in his impeccable grey shoes, which matched the ashen lounge suit and the tie that was pinned to his stocky frame.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Putting up my hair,’ Misu replied, slowly easing a pair of lacquered sticks into the inky curl-dripping bun. Her lack of urgency was downright frustrating, she knew. It was only now that she noticed the music playing from outside, the slow drone of a lone trumpet that was soon accompanied with others in its family.

‘I’m getting plenty tired of having to chase you around this joint,’ he grumbled. ‘Now get the hell out there before I drag you out myself.’

Misu sighed and waved a hand in dismissal.

The mirror copied this perfectly.

‘You wouldn’t dare touch me, you stupid little cretin.’

He puffed his cheeks out in annoyance, much like a fish would. ‘Give me one good reason –’ he began but was immediately interrupted.

‘Because you and I both know that Wilheim would break your fingers.’ Misu examined her eyes, batting her lashes over and over. ‘Then your hands. Then your arms. Then your legs. And every other little piece of you that wasn’t busted, he would set upon, simply to ensure that you understood that I am not like any of the women beneath him. Now get away because you bore me.’

With another beat of the lashes, Misu adorned herself with a fake smile. It had been worn for as long as she could remember, a staple of her trade and her most treasured gimmick. The illusion was now complete. Skin resembled porcelain, her eyes subdued like steady rivers.

He folded his arms, meeting her forked tongue with his own. ‘Then you can answer to Mister Fort himself. He’s been asking for you personally. Don’t think that these little attention-seeking displays haven’t gone unnoticed. Some day he will tire of your silly ways and get rid of you. You’re not special. You’re not unique. You’re just another under his employ who he will brush aside when he finds you of no use.’

Misu rose from her stool and checked her dress for any marks or imperfections. There were none. There never were. She took to the floor in her heels and made her way out.

‘Best you accompany me then, little man.’ Her heels clicked across the floorboards though she checked the mirror one last time on her exit.

The visage had moved for a better view of her other, decorated with an oh-so-amused smile.

‘Run along now little rabbit,’ the reflection mocked with a parting wave, ‘the foxes need to feed.’

* * *

The Lavender Club was an exotic establishment where people of all backgrounds could congregate and let their hair down after a hard day’s toil. From the outside the club resembled a place of revelry no different to any other in the city. Through its doors, though, it was quite a different tale. Close to its entrance the bar was regularly heaving – seeing that the drink was cheap, the crowd was mostly made up of labourers who craved more booze for their buck. They formed a rowdy throng running from the entrance, past the public bar, all the way to the steps down into the first tier – but then no further.

The first tier had a number of long and round tables, favourites of those who frequented the club and performed their dealings audaciously out in the open. Wilheim’s club accommodated those of a criminal nature as long as they had sworn loyalty and paid tribute. These were the moneymen, the ringleaders, the gang runners of Windberg, who underpinned Wilheim’s shady dealings. They enforced his power. They were the fingers of his reach. As drinks were poured, deals were made, and dangerous strategies were discussed. It was a hive of the dangerous. It was, for Wilheim, perfect.

The second tier led down to the open floor space before the stage. Star-covered black curtains flanked the stage itself, illuminated by a bevy of lights at its lip. Normally this would be accessible to the thugs and the terrible, but not tonight. Tonight was the weekly performance that was enforced with strict rules and even stricter muscle. Nobody would dare misbehave, nor speak about what they had seen. Everybody was familiar with the routine. Everyone was acquainted with the threats. One could venture past the burly men who flanked the stairways to the second tier only if you were part of Wilheim’s special clientele.

These mighty individuals were welcomed personally upon their arrival, with a shake of the hand and hearty conversation as only Wilheim could offer. They consisted of men and occasionally women across the entirety of Windberg’s elite spectrum. Politicians, businessmen, and titans of new industries were in their midst: the wielders of power and substantial monies. The assembly settled in large, leather-backed seats, accompanied by a table, paperwork, and anything else they so desired. The finest smokeables were on hand and indulged in – as was the private bar, which was always liberally used. Each of the men was adorned with a woman who spoke with wisdom, laughed at his humour, and advised on dark matters that none should be advised on at all. These clients watched the stage intently with their collaborators, with the exception of one who was devoid of such company.

Misu strolled from a side entrance out into the smoky haze. She walked with swagger and confidence, relieving a passing serving girl of two filled tumblers without a break in pace. The house band had begun their set, with brass and string melded in energetic harmonies. Though late, a lonesome man acknowledged her entrance. He watched her approach, fold her bare legs across the side of his seat, and plant her behind on the leather.

‘Drink?’ she offered, beckoning with one of the glasses.

‘I am quite comfortable, thank you,’ came the reply as he turned back to the stage and its matters.

‘Suit yourself. More for me,’ Misu exclaimed. She drained the first of the drinks with one almighty mouthful, drawing the glassware only when she saw her eyes at its base. The other was held on to, the brown sour mash stirred daintily with a fingertip.

The man, heavily built and imposing, was by no means blessed with handsomeness but was still agreeable to look upon. His thick black hair, roughly swept back, would have matched Misu’s own if it wasn’t littered with small blazes of white at the temples. His jowls were just large enough to be pronounced, giving the impression that a frown was worn much more often than anything else. Judging from his hands, hefty and showing the scars of labour, Misu assumed that this was an individual quite at ease about getting his hands dirty. She licked her finger to cleanse it of drink.

‘Quite the display tonight, wouldn’t you agree? Mister Fort has truly outdone himself,’ she said, taking in the stage performance. Misu was right. It was.

But for all the wrong reasons.

A buck of the hips. A stamp of a heel. A toss of the head. The pout of lips. Serving alongside the music pranced a cacophony of women, impeccably dressed in their own unique style. Tassels hung down bare thighs, shaken suggestively as each woman rocked with her arms held high, like candle smoke dancing in the ghost of a breeze. Sequins and silks clung to skin, some more revealing than others, parading their femininity like cattle at market. Blonde curls were tossed side to side. Sweat wetted brows. Cleavage was pressed. Buttocks presented. Bodies pushed against one another, lingering at times, detaching immediately at others. It was a cauldron of burlesque, with twisting bodies contorting in performance, moving to the music the way they had practised time and time again.

Those of importance took in this recital with silent depravity.

Each participant on the boards was cold-eyed, gazing past every feasting patron as if they simply didn’t exist while they danced.

To them, they may as well not.

For everyone on stage, eyes were set upon the only individual whose opinion mattered, past the guests and into the private booth that housed the club’s owner.

A unison of gasps from frozen poses signified the end of this particular performance, a respite for these first players before a second batch took over.

Wilheim Fort slammed his hands together in applause, showing what most would take to be considerable pride in those who worked so hard under his roof. It wasn’t pride of course. It was nothing resembling that feeling, but as long as the pretence was there, everyone else fell into line. Others joined in with clapping, quite appreciative as to what they had the pleasure of witnessing.

Fort unbuttoned his rust suit jacket, revealing a pale white shirt barely restraining the folds of his neck and the bulge of his gut, which shook with every strike. The first of the night’s purchases was made by a bespectacled gentleman who approached him, quite keen to rush a transaction. Money was paid. Contracts signed. Promises made. Property exchanged.

Misu watched patiently for her time to speak, observing the man next to her taking in everything before him, entranced. It was a feast for the eyes and when he had digested the new bodies on display, she engaged with him once again.

‘Marvellous are they not? Every one a peach. Mister Fort is quite the collector. Only the best come through his doors, even some fair-haired beauties from the grasslands up north.’ Misu sipped at her drink. ‘My yes, quite a breathtaking assortment, though he is willing to let these particular ones go, at a price of course.’

‘Have they outdone their usefulness? Whatever would I need with tarnished goods?’ He gave a snort.

‘Not in the slightest. Mister Fort has plenty of those willing to perform entertainment in every capacity. Immense talents as you can see – nothing but supreme quality. He doesn’t offer them dismissively. He’s giving you a chance to take home finery, to have them perform in your own establishments, knowing full well that they are the best.’ Misu purred, ‘I assure you, dear. They are the best.’

‘You’re not like the others here, are you?’ he deduced. ‘You’ve not even told me your name.’ He assessed the body language of the other benefactors sitting nearby. The women were half draped, some with hands roving to coax sales by dubious means. By comparison Misu seemed less enthused, which provoked some curiosity.

Misu’s lips parted in a smile and she ran her tongue over perfect teeth.

‘Do you want me to lie to you about what we do here? Maybe roll in your lap like some obedient pet? Could I secure your business with hot kisses, appeal to those baser instincts all men succumb to? The answer is, of course, no. That is not how the deal is to be done. You’re a man of good stature, meaning that you have experience of the transparency of others. To give you falsehoods would be a waste of my time and yours. All this you see here, I have no stake in. I take no money when it’s exchanged. I’m just here to broker any sales. Would my name even matter?’

Misu drank again, slower this time, while he watched silently. ‘And that way you know that I have no interest in deception and all decisions will be your own. I can fetch you one of these silly girls who cavort for attention if that is your preference?’

He reached for a cigar on the table before him and cracked a flame from a match. After a series of testing puffs, he rasped, ‘I think you could stay.’

‘Good decision.’

The bodies vied for attention before them.

‘Let’s say I’m interested. Elaborate on that one there.’ He pointed to a girl with baby-doll features and long legs, whose flurries of kicks sent her gold sequined dress to shimmer this way and that. Misu curled her mouth in agreement.

‘Ooh, Quinn. Decent eye you have. As you can see, she dances like a bird in the rain. She’s feisty, though like all wild things, she is made to be tamed. Sure one could be content with a horse that obeys your command but where’s the fun in that? Life is about challenge. It took a while for her to fall into the way of things, a significant amount of convincing. Now she’s aflame with spirit, agreeable, but might be prone to more emotional displays. Put that one in front of punters and I assure you, wallets will be opened as much as mouths.’

Misu’s companion tossed his head back in delight and erupted with a deep belly laugh. He clearly found Misu’s candour refreshing.

‘And that one?’

‘Gypsy Dame.’ Misu tipped her glass to the performer. ‘She’s half settler as you can see from the skin. Now if you’re one of those types who has plenty of mill folk she would be an ideal take. I don’t know how she does it, but the way she sings is delightful, really. Seems to placate any of the more troublesome people though riling the blood in the romantics if you get my meaning. Why, just last week she had no less than three propositions of marriage. Not that these were seriously considered, mind. The poor thing is wed to her work.’

‘Such a shame.’

‘Agreed. What she needs is a nice place to call home. The Lavender Club really isn’t the place for her gifts. If you can provide that, then she’s a fine addition.’

‘Who is that one?’ he continued, gesturing one last time.

Misu’s eyes flickered, watching the sauntering figure clad in black lace and long tassels. The woman rolled her body before hanging her head back in profile. Unlike the others, this one caused a momentary hesitation. Misu knew full well who this was and every facet about her.

‘That is Corinne. She’s what we call a desert flower. A rarity. One of a kind. Corinne joined us hearing that she could make her fortune in Windberg with dance. Now, looking closely, you can see here that all these frisky movements are quick. There’s no thinking there. That’s ’cause it’s in her blood. That’s not learned; all you’re seeing is one hundred per cent natural talent. If you’ve got room for someone who can do that, she’ll bring in coin faster than she can drum the boards.’

Corinne suddenly locked eyes with Misu, causing the pair to exchange the briefest of smiles. More than that, she was the only damn one Misu could call a friend in this entire joint. Drinks were shared between, frank and honest conversation about dreams or the lack thereof. Wilheim claimed all things of a person and their fancies were no different. Corinne had a very peculiar skill, having learnt to throw her voice from a young age, useless on all accounts but still considerably charming. Surrounded by persistent malice as they were at Wilheim’s, good company was a scarcity. If it wasn’t for Corinne’s, there was no telling what desperate acts Misu might have resorted to.

‘You have my personal assurance that Corinne will make you your money back five fold. If I’m discovered to be a liar, well, may I fall down one day and break my neck.’

‘Exquisite.’ He grunted, adjusting his trouser belt.

‘Ain’t she just?’

Without warning, the individual turned in his seat and diverted all of his attention to the woman beside him. His mind had obviously roved elsewhere, to places that made her uncomfortable.

‘And you? How much are you?’

‘That’s a silly thing to ask,’ she scoffed, amused.

‘Why?’

Misu shuffled herself on the seat, quite averse to this question. It only came up a handful of times but it still charmed a disturbing chill down the back. The answer was always delivered to prevent misinterpretation. There was no playing hard to get. There was simply the truth.

‘Because I cannot be brought.’ Misu spoke flatly, watching Corinne deeply bow and make her way behind the curtain. ‘Us here, this side of the stage, we’re Wilheim’s own. We are not to be handled or bartered. That is not our task. Our designs are grander. It’s best that notion be forgotten, sir. For the best. We are his workers, his busy bees who buzz around and bring the honey to the hungry.’

‘And if someone breaks that rule?’ he asked, placing an unwelcome hand on her thigh. It was removed, by the wrist, and dropped back into the man’s lap. She glanced behind to see if Wilheim had taken notice of this development.

Wilheim sat contentedly on his throne, puffing away quite happily on a stogie. Those at his side waited for his commands, showing no emotion in response to the torrid display on stage, desensitized to flesh and fancy. Upon noticing Misu’s turn of the head, Wilheim paid the slightest of nods in acknowledgement, assuring her of the fact that he was always watching. Even if he wasn’t, there were plenty who would talk to gain scraps of favour. The club was a cage. Only the lucky ones left and the conditions under which they did so were far from dignified.

‘Then Mister Fort ensures you will be stung. And you do not wish to be stung sir; I promise you that.’

Before the last of her drink found its way to the rest, Misu examined its glass, delicately held in view by thumb and fingers. In its visage her face turned and warped with the contours, dipping down every recess and rising back to the surface when the angle and light saw fit.

The likeness laughed.

‘Not on your life,’ she added.

* * *

A chorus of sobs rattled out from around her, though Franco remained expressionless. It was quite the story, but it excused nothing.

‘See?’ Misu whined. ‘I told you that you wouldn’t understand.’

‘I don’t,’ Franco growled. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you could endanger everyone here on the Den because of your history.’

‘If I told you that very day when you took me on, that I had the spectre of this man hanging over me, can you truly say that you would have been so eager to usher me on board? You were practically salivating over my shoes!’

Franco went to speak, but instead Misu raised her hand.

‘Let me finish that for you; don’t bother wriggling your way out of it. No, you wouldn’t. You would have brushed me aside for a prettier face, one lacking such traumatic baggage and complications. It would have spared you all this, right? Lucky, lucky you.’

Franco had given her much of the floor to explain herself but heard nothing of the sort – just a tale of bad dealings and horrid individuals. There were no excuses for this, though a part of him wished that one could be tendered, making this affair entirely justifiable. What hurt the most was her attitude regarding his reaction.

‘You could have explained the situation to us, to me.’ Thunder rolled off his tongue before calming. ‘I have to put up with you acting aloof for days, sneaking off to congregate with cronies, all under my nose! I was right to have Jacques shadow you. You didn’t come to me when you needed help. Me. Of all the people out there. I dare say we could have worked something out.’

‘Because you’re such a damn beacon of charity to those who wrong you,’ came the defiant roar.

‘I trusted you dammit!’ Franco retaliated, just as sharp, causing the others to step back.

‘Oh and who could have ever trusted me but a fool?!’

* * *

Misu stared him down, noticing the shock that decorated the faces of the others. Jacques was fluent in bad moves but even he had to turn away from this one. Her tone retreated to something more manageable but the damage was already done. Some semblance of guilt pierced her chest, but sheer stubbornness refused to reveal as much. Misu’s eyes finally flickered.

‘I … look, besides …’ she fidgeted ‘… it wouldn’t have been possible to bargain.’

‘You’re right. Not anymore it isn’t.’

Alarming everybody, Franco took Misu by the arm and hurried her, forcefully, back to the carriage door. There were weak protests from the showgirls but none were heeded. They hurriedly followed their pair, almost stumbling over trails of silks and lace. The protests quickly became louder.

‘If you cannot respect the simplest of rules, then you’re gone. As is the case here.’

‘Wait! Please, I’m begging you, please don’t!’

Misu sobbed, clambering at Franco’s vest collar in desperation at the carriage doors. She scanned the faces until reaching Corinne, who stood quite dismayed at what had just transpired. Yearning eyes pleaded for an intervention but the weight of the treachery left her powerless. Multiple apologies were ignored, and for her penance Misu was pushed backward, banished from her home and exiled by her friends. All because of bad judgement.

Misu sat in a heap on Platform 4, holding herself in an embrace, sobbing violently. The gulps became so thick that words failed to emanate. The others would have, even despite this, rushed to her side, tended to her, for that was their way, but Franco barred the doorway with his presence. There was nothing else to be said.

‘We had an agreement, and that goes for each and every one of you on this train as I’ve told you: everyone is the same. You put the Den in danger and you’re out the door. No second chances. No pardons.’ Franco turned to address Misu who still remained in a crumpled heap. ‘Now go! This ain’t your home any more. Katerina, go into her room and pack up her things. Quickly with you.’

Katerina protested weakly, succumbing to tears.

‘I said do it! Get the whole lot, her clothes and all and toss them in the street! She’ll need them where she’s going.’

‘And where would that be?’ Misu wailed aloud – a last, desperate attempt to change already set minds.

‘Anywhere but here.’

Franco had done all he needed to do and punctuated this fact by slamming the carriage door behind him.

True to his request, Katerina had packed as much as she could into a pair of tan leather suitcases and stepped onto the platform with the others to console their manager. The girls embraced another, forming a cocoon of affection and arms. Sure, they remained angry with Misu but this wasn’t the answer, not at all. This was far too excessive and they said as much through choked words.

They picked her up, as she had done for each of them many a time. They dusted her dress and rearranged her hair to make it presentable. Trails of mascara were wiped away, lingering hugs given, and kisses on cheeks administered. Goodbyes were spoken, emotionally, until the showgirls retreated, all watching from their carriage windows.

When her sobs were stifled enough, Misu found strength in her feet once more. She left the station and stepped out into the night’s chilled embrace.

* * *

Back on the Den, however, the showgirls finally found their voices. Whatever the cause of this deception, Misu didn’t deserve such treatment. Nobody did. As Franco stormed back through the carriage, after bolting the doors from top to bottom, it was Katerina who challenged him first. The others followed in pursuit.

‘You can’t do this to her!’ Katerina objected.

‘It’s unfair!’ Kitty chimed in.

Franco spun in a roar. ‘Did you just tell me what I can do on my train?’ he questioned, ferociously.

‘Franco, please! See sense. She’s scared. Are you are just to throw her out with nothing?’

‘She didn’t have nothing. She has things.’ He was referring to the graciously given suitcase and packed clothing. He didn’t have to do that – something that was clearly being forgotten in their overfamiliar tone.

‘You don’t know what he was doing to her!’

‘And you do?’

‘Well no, not exactly.’ Katerina pleaded for him to see sense, or logic, anything. ‘This is absurd, Wyld’s stashing stolen goods in the cars and you’re kicking Misu out for some old guy who wants her as a pet? Why isn’t the desert rat getting the boot?’

‘Wyld knows the risks. It’s why she’s not seen in public with us. It’s why she operates with discretion and she knows better than anyone: one slip-up and she’s out of here. Tell me, what if Misu brought a gunfight to us on account of all this, and half of you were shot dead?’

Corinne felt a bout of frustration rise in her throat. More than the others was she familiar with Wilheim’s cruelty, but this wasn’t the solution to someone driven to such desperation. Not by a long shot.

‘Then you would be out of pocket.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Franco called.

‘Isn’t it? Isn’t it always what it comes down to? Money rules your head, Franco. I’m sure if it came to that grim circumstance you would find faces just as pretty to replace us.’

‘You’re out of line.’

‘No. You are,’ Corinne coldly delivered. ‘She’s family.’

‘When have I ever said that we were that?’

‘It didn’t need to be said. And you’ve clearly forgotten what that means.’ She gave a turn and ventured back down the carriage, shunting between seats with the clicks of her heels ebbing to nothing.

* * *

Not long after, the women performed an exodus en masse, finding somewhere, anywhere, to be than on than the Den. They desired far less stifling company and when they had taken their leave, all that was left was Franco and Jacques on a very empty train.

Without noise, without heaving company, the Den was a shell of its intentions, the silence hugely foreboding. Franco looked around the carriage, the rows of empty seats, half-drunk drinks waiting for their owners to return. Despite the clutter, it felt sparse and soulless.

Franco sighed wearily, sliding deeper into his leather seat, hoping it would swallow him whole. The two double bourbons inside him gave empty comfort.

‘And what about you? Was I too harsh?’

Jacques examined the hands of cards on the table before taking a sip from one of the tumblers, finding the contents far too sweet.

‘Not my place to say, boss.’

‘Drop the formalities.’

‘I understand why you did it, for sure.’

‘Keep going.’

‘I don’t quite understand your logic though.’

‘You think keeping everyone safe is some sort of blight?’

‘No,’ Jacques exclaimed. ‘I thought we were all family, and you toss her out. Goes against the whole family thing doesn’t it? I thought your Pappy said those he rode with was family. Considered it at least.’

‘This small detail may have escaped you but I’m not him.’

‘That you’re not,’ Jacques agreed. ‘You’re your own man with your own notions on the subject. But you have to admit, he had some bright ideas for what passed for camaraderie.’

Franco sat on these words and nodded slowly to himself in agreement. ‘You think I was too harsh.’

‘Making orphans of our own isn’t family-like to me.’

‘Have you forgotten the part where she’s thrown us to this individual to cover her own ass?’

‘Who are you trying to convince with that?’ Jacques queried. ‘You heard her talk. On all accounts this Wilheim character is nasty to the boots and you’re dead set on punishing her. I think you’re under the assumption that she had something resembling a choice.’

‘She did! Don’t use the excuse that fear prevented her from making any sort of better outcome. Misu is the furthest thing from weak. There is nothing that woman can’t do. I know her.’ The glass landed heavily on the veneer as he trailed off. ‘Or at least I assumed I did.’

‘I don’t know, Franco.’ Jacques stretched himself to take his leave. ‘Fear does something to a person; I’ve seen it with my two own. Makes them not see quite right. Can’t blame a person for acting rash. With no way out, who knows what any of us would do?’

* * *

Franco slept stretched across a seat one would assume only a cat would find comfortable. His rasping snore became a monotonous routine, one that would have woken Jacques, if it he wasn’t already fully awake, eyes staring into darkness as he lay with his hands behind his head for a pillow. He turned, murmuring in irritation, verbalizing every thought in a monotone grunts.

He rose, in the darkness, to a bang and a thump. It was not in the lounge car where they were situated. It was the sound of a trapdoor banging from the next carriage down, a noise that echoed through one of the cluttered storage cars.

Half-dressed and bleary-eyed, he moved to the door, silently stepped out into the night, and then eased open the handle to the next car along. He moved inside, to enquire after the owner.

Wyld was not around when Misu had been expelled from the train. In fact, she had been missing for a good few hours beforehand, gallivanting with whatever criminality she needed to. Now, she had slipped in the under trapdoor, beneath the car, securing its bolt with a slap. Her eyes snapped to Jacques, assessing his entrance. The man stepped further in.

‘Most people knock you know.’ Wyld narrowed her eyes. ‘I may be unaccounted for, but that doesn’t mean I don’t exist. A little consideration if you please.’

‘And for that, I apologize. This is important.’

‘What’s the matter?’

Jacques cleared his throat behind a fist. ‘Misu is gone.’

* * *

‘Gone, gone?’

‘Franco kicked her off. She’s been seeing some men without our knowledge, sneaking out at night, things like that.’

‘Men.’ Wyld pouted, silently alarmed at this news. ‘I didn’t think Franco was the jealous type. He doesn’t own her. I didn’t even think they were a thing.’

‘They’re not. You misunderstand,’ Jacques corrected flatly. ‘Not men like that. Wilheim Fort’s men.’

Wyld’s face fell in shock. Instantly Jacques was upon her. The reaction had given him all he needed to challenge her. ‘I knew it. You know something about this.’

‘I don’t, I swear!’

‘Don’t lie to me!’ Jacques stormed across the floor, every hollow thud of his boots a death knell.

‘I’m not! I know nothing about that woman Misu, nothing at all! I tried to speak to her a couple of times, but it was if she looked right through me. I accept those notions from you people. I know I’m not exactly the wanted type here. I know I’m expendable and the moment trouble breaks you’ll hand me over in a second to save your own behinds!’ She snapped her fingers in anger, surprising even herself at the venom.

‘You really think that?’

‘I’m disposable, right? We all are. Franco just proved it. If you think I somehow know whatever game Misu is playing, because of the company I have to keep, you can think again.’ Wyld’s voice broke as she trailed off. Her blazing eyes momentarily softened.

‘But?’ Jacques probed.

‘But …’ Wyld turned and strode towards him. ‘I can tell you what I do know, and you only had to ask. When I sold something off, I had a long conversation with a buyer who told me everything. I know all about this Wilheim Fort character. You don’t do what I do without finding out the lay the land. I know plenty about who he is, his dealings – and I’m telling you, from what I’ve been told, you do not want to get tangled up in that mess. Wilheim is more shades of wrong than you could ever know.’

Jacques, now deflated of his anger, wearily sat himself on a crate of supplies where she quietly joined him. They both sighed, silently, before Jacques nodded in agreement to himself.

‘Then tell me everything,’ he said.

Wyld did so, elaborating on every piece of fact and hearsay that she had acquired. Muddick, shuffling stolen goods through his premises, was the first to warn her of Wilheim’s presence when she arrived, cautioning her that the city was not to be trusted. Eyes were everywhere, as were knives, and encroaching on his operations ensured your disappearance. Businesses, hangouts, even individuals who were being bribed to ignore such things, Wyld had a treasure trove of information to divulge and did so, at length, until dawn cracked the sky to a pale glow.