Club Storyville (33 page)
Authors: Riley Lashea
Tags: #Genre Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Lesbian Romance, #Lesbian, #Gay & Lesbian, #Fiction, #Literature & Fiction, #Historical Romance, #New Adult & College
Turning to pour the contents of the bucket into the waiting bath, Akasha screamed as a face appeared beneath the water. Bucket slipping from her hand, she stumbled backward, water splashing across the stone floor, as the face emerged, gasping for air. Behind Akasha, girls gathered, anxious for the chance to see something interesting for the first time in days.
At the sound of the sentry, most rushed away again, settling back into lethargy, trying to look as if they hadn’t seen a thing. Those who understood the danger, whom Akasha could call friends, remained with her, providing cover by pretending to discuss the finer points of bathing.
Putting a hand to the emerging girl’s hair, presently a ratty mop atop her head, Akasha pushed her down. “Shhh,” she said when the girl would like to have struggled, succeeding in settling her to just above the level of the water and turning to feign innocence as her friends parted before her.
“What happened here?” the sentry asked.
“I am sorry,” Akasha replied, stepping forward. “The bucket, it slipped from my hands.”
“All right, let us see then,” the sentry said, taking a step forward.
Around the room, Akasha knew, there were girls a breath away from telling the sentry what they had seen. There was always a rush to tattle within the harem, to stem any punishment that might land upon observers for the crime of silence.
Coming only as far as the bucket, the sentry grabbed it from the floor. “Hm,” he said, examining its edge. “Splintered.”
The word, so simple, seized Akasha’s breath. Her own eyes had seen nothing, but arguing the fact was not merely pointless. To argue it to a member of the king’s guard was mutinous, and mutiny was punishable by death.
Or worse.
From the side of her eye, Akasha saw the eunuch stand, carefully watching, and willed him to sit, as with a nod to the matron the sentry stepped aside and the matron took his place, gaze sympathetic as it captured Akasha’s own. “Hold out your hand.” The matron’s compassion was kept purposely from her voice.
Doing as she was ordered, producing the hand palm-up, Akasha stared at the matron’s shoulder, refusing to flinch at the sound of the whip pulling free of her belt.
Leather cracking, the matron delivered one lash against Akasha’s palm, painful, but only just.
“Harder,” the sentry commanded, and the second lash opened skin, forcing a pained breath over Akasha’s lips.
“Harder,” the sentry said again, and with the third lash, Akasha cried out, eyes falling shut at the burn of her flesh splitting fully.
Whether it was the sight or sound that appeased him, the sentry was clearly satisfied as he shoved the matron aside and towered over Akasha once more. “This does not belong to you.” He brandished the bucket as if it was gold. “It belongs to your Royal Highnesses. Next time, you will be more careful, yes?”
“Yes,” Akasha responded, teeth clenched in pain.
“And if you do have an accident,” he continued, “you will hold your tongue, or I will give you good reason to scream.” Turning, he thrust the bucket at the matron, causing her to expel a rush of air as it hit her protruding stomach with more force than necessary. “Keep them more in line, or there will be no use for you here.”
Assured steps carrying him back to the door, the sentry passed the eunuch, whose eyes turned to Akasha, awash with too much concern. With a small shake of her head, she warned him away, and the eunuch sat back down in his corner, gaze returning to the air before him, where he stared, as was his way, at nothingness.
Glancing past Akasha to the bath, and the girl within it, the matron was curious, but not curious enough to involve herself in anything else that might bring punishment upon her. As the wise woman walked away, a swarm of younger, less pragmatic girls, more interested in entertainment than security, gathered back around as Akasha turned to the bathtub, tucking her uninjured hand beneath the newcomer’s back to help her sit.
“Who are you?” she asked, but, looking about in confusion, the girl did not seem to possess the answer.
Eyes finally finding focus on Akasha’s hand, her face fell in sympathy. “Look at what he did to you,” she said, her voice somewhat unusual, a lilt to her speech Akasha had never heard.
“It is nothing,” Akasha replied, dipping her hand into the water, biting back the cry that tried to escape as pink swirled into it. “Come now. Come out of there.”
Responding at once to the order, the girl rose to her knees and stepped over the side. Once out, she just kept coming, the dress she wore so wide and ornate, it was a wonder it fit into the tub at all. A gown, indigo her mother would have called it, as fancy as any Akasha had ever seen. The girl looked much like a drowned royal, but no royal Akasha had ever laid eyes upon.
“Where am I?” the girl asked.
“You are in the palace,” Akasha returned gently, watching emerald eyes go wide in panic.
“The prince?” the girl breathed. “He is here?”
Gasps loud at her back, Akasha felt the ears of the palace close in upon them as she stepped closer to the girl, looking for signs of fever, though it was hard to see anything beneath the sopping dress and flop of hair, which the girl finally, thankfully, pushed back, revealing a lightly tinted face and streaks of pale color mixed amongst her red tresses, as if she had been born into one color and worked into another with many hours in the sun.
As a child, Akasha had similar streaks through her dark hair, and, for an instant, she envied the girl.
“The prince is dead,” Akasha scarcely whispered, afraid just saying the words. The king did not like reminders of his son, it had been told to them several times, and he would take any tongue that dared utter them.
“Dead?” the girl returned far too loudly, and Akasha glanced toward the door, expecting the sentry to rush back in at any moment. “Prince Friedrich is dead?”
Head spinning back toward the girl, Akasha squinted. “Who is Friedrich?” she asked.
“The prince,” the girl countered quietly, catching on to the need for secrecy.
Moving closer to the newcomer, mouth inches from her ear, Akasha dropped her voice to a breath. “It is Prince Salimen who is dead.”
“Who?” the girl returned instantly, and Akasha watched confusion come over her face, heartbreaking in its sincerity.
“She is mad,” a woman on the verge of making the transition from life in the harem to a life of palace servitude spoke up from the gathering around them.
“No, I am not,” the girl said at once, standing taller against the accusation. “I am not mad.”
“Confused then,” the older woman argued. “She needs out of those wet clothes.”
Not sure if the woman was right in regard to the girl’s mental state, Akasha knew she was right, at least, in regards to the gown. Reaching out, Akasha’s hands came to an abrupt stop when, with a well-trained flinch, the girl pulled away from her touch.
“Let us help you,” Akasha said carefully, reaching more slowly for the girl, and the stranger let her help with trepidation. Akasha could see it unguarded in the girl’s eyes, hear it in her anxious breaths, as the other girls moved to help when the removal of the dress proved too difficult for her alone with so much water weighing its many skirts down.
Layer upon layer removed, the girl was left in nothing but a thin slip that clung sheer against her skin, exposing a body that could be beautiful but for protruding bones that made it look as if she had never eaten a proper meal. An unexpected find beneath such luxurious fabrics, it was a reminder of what might have been Akasha’s fate had she survived the great flood, and she shivered at the sight.
“Make sure they are hidden,” she heard the older woman instruct the younger girls, and the stranger anxiously watched her fine clothes disappear.
One of her friends stepping forward with a blanket, Akasha watched the girl carefully accept it, as if she expected a trick to the offering. “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling the blanket around her, her eyes taking in the room, from its arched, painted ceiling to the berths in which they slept to the girls themselves, who awaited the fall of night when they were dedicated to serve the kingdom.
Finally returning to Akasha, the girl’s eyes turned sharp. “Your hand,” she stated, and Akasha glanced to the fresh blood on her palm, moving to the bathtub to wash it away again, withholding her gasp at the pain, before wrapping it in a drying cloth.
“All is well,” she said, turning to meet the girl’s gaze, which looked so lost, Akasha lost her breath.
Hand reaching out gingerly to the stranger, Akasha was surprised when the girl let it land without recoil. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Cinderella,” the girl replied.
“Cinderella,” Akasha repeated, and the name sounded as foreign as the girl’s voice. “I am Akasha. Come sit with me.”
“Wait,” Cinderella shook her head, breaking from Akasha’s hold and wandering off.
Trailing her across the room, Akasha could feel the nervous eyes of the girls still waiting to turn on them at a moment’s notice.
At the only low window, Cinderella came to a stop, looking out past the bars, meant more to keep people in than out, and gave such a violent shudder at what she saw, Akasha took a step back, fearing she truly was mad.
“Are you unwell?” she asked when the stranger continued to stare, her eyes unblinking, as if they could not accept what they saw.
When she turned to Akasha, Cinderella’s face was in flux, fear and wonder, each as real as the other, flashing in rapid succession.
“This is not my kingdom,” she replied at last.
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