Post by Géraldine Grangier on Jun 12, 2011 16:14:01 GMT -5
I had been ill, I had recovered, and in the aftermath of my illness, my body had changed, finer, not quite as round as it used to be, though I had nothing of a stick figure of yet. The year had passed faster than I expected, despite sadnesses that grew on me when I thought of all those who had departed, all those who had died, or left.
All those, too, who had never returned to Heliotrope after their assignation with me. But instead of making me love them less, it made me love my clients more fiercely, with the strength of despair. I loved as if it were, every time, the first and last time.
It made some come back, more often than not, and surprised as I was, my marque was made faster than I expected, and I found myself a free adept, unwed but unfettered. The marquing sessions had been painful but I'd accepted every touch of the needle with grace and submission, knowing that this would come to pass, as other things had before.
I entertained the desire to go to Camellia – I'd not seen Edwyn in too long, I worried about him, and more so with the illness that had plagued the city – and yet I did not dare, nor did I dare knock on Darien Kachine's door when the time had come for more exquisite work on my skin. It was silly, mayhap. It was also perhaps for the best, who knew?
I had little money, but enough to rent a space on Night's Doorstep, and the message was left at Heliotrope for those who would seek me out. I worked alone, stitching curtains and a bedspread, cleaning a space in what was only a labor of love, and nothing more.
Affairs were decent, I reckoned, and though the news of war saddened my heart more than I could say, I was ready to offer myself to those who were leaving to defend the Honor of the country, and my extension, my own. I would make them feel unique, loved, wanted. I would give them what strength I had, and more.
It was a small arrangement. A room in which we could talk, with plush armchairs, a table, and the necessities of an adequate reception. A door preserved the privacy of a bedchamber arranged for love, in soft colors and plush fabrics, and a tub, for those who enjoyed that sort of thing. Yet farther back, I had a room to call my own, a space where patrons were not allowed. There, I kept a few treasures, and a bed in which to sleep alone, and my books.
I still visited Heliotrope regularly – the children were growing, Madeline was to be dedicated this coming summer, and she'd not shied from it as I feared. She'd grown, too, and I missed her as I missed all of those I'd seen grow up.
But I was free – and while I'd never found myself fettered before my marque was done, in retrospect, I could not help but feel it had been so, for I was now mistress of my nights and my days, and free to contract as I willed.
Deep in my heart, though, I kept a wish for love, to be loved for myself and nothing else, and to love in return, but time wore on and I grew weary of waiting, of hoping. Slowly, I was accepting my fate, and it seemed more palatable every day.
All those, too, who had never returned to Heliotrope after their assignation with me. But instead of making me love them less, it made me love my clients more fiercely, with the strength of despair. I loved as if it were, every time, the first and last time.
It made some come back, more often than not, and surprised as I was, my marque was made faster than I expected, and I found myself a free adept, unwed but unfettered. The marquing sessions had been painful but I'd accepted every touch of the needle with grace and submission, knowing that this would come to pass, as other things had before.
I entertained the desire to go to Camellia – I'd not seen Edwyn in too long, I worried about him, and more so with the illness that had plagued the city – and yet I did not dare, nor did I dare knock on Darien Kachine's door when the time had come for more exquisite work on my skin. It was silly, mayhap. It was also perhaps for the best, who knew?
I had little money, but enough to rent a space on Night's Doorstep, and the message was left at Heliotrope for those who would seek me out. I worked alone, stitching curtains and a bedspread, cleaning a space in what was only a labor of love, and nothing more.
Affairs were decent, I reckoned, and though the news of war saddened my heart more than I could say, I was ready to offer myself to those who were leaving to defend the Honor of the country, and my extension, my own. I would make them feel unique, loved, wanted. I would give them what strength I had, and more.
It was a small arrangement. A room in which we could talk, with plush armchairs, a table, and the necessities of an adequate reception. A door preserved the privacy of a bedchamber arranged for love, in soft colors and plush fabrics, and a tub, for those who enjoyed that sort of thing. Yet farther back, I had a room to call my own, a space where patrons were not allowed. There, I kept a few treasures, and a bed in which to sleep alone, and my books.
I still visited Heliotrope regularly – the children were growing, Madeline was to be dedicated this coming summer, and she'd not shied from it as I feared. She'd grown, too, and I missed her as I missed all of those I'd seen grow up.
But I was free – and while I'd never found myself fettered before my marque was done, in retrospect, I could not help but feel it had been so, for I was now mistress of my nights and my days, and free to contract as I willed.
Deep in my heart, though, I kept a wish for love, to be loved for myself and nothing else, and to love in return, but time wore on and I grew weary of waiting, of hoping. Slowly, I was accepting my fate, and it seemed more palatable every day.