[Alayne and Felicien] Settling scores

[Alayne Lombard]

Oh, this was rich. I couldn't help but laugh, leaning against the bedpost as I let (almost hysterical, but not quite) laughter poor out of me – I was both amused and thrown for a loop, in all earnest.

He must have been mad, somehow.

“So, let me recapitulate,” I said, when I could breath again.

“In response to my offer for help, you offer me a not exactly paying gig, in your own words. And now you tell me that really, if I want shinies and tinklies to trickle into my purse, I'll have to write up what the johns are all about. Well, I'd love to see what the Madame would think of that.”

Get me straight kicked out of the bathhouse, that scheme might, hmmm?

Well, that was an almost enticing thought. And if it worked... A pause, though.

“Well, I can read and write, but I can't, you know, write. Not like you. I can't do prissy fuckery. Well, guess that's the thing. You do prissy fuckery like no-one else.”

That made me grin, and I only realized after the fact that I'd just paid him a compliment. I had no clue why, but I didn't mind.

[Felicien Clermont-Montmorency]

I think I lost my sense of humour along with everything else over the years but this ... this ... was suddenly hilarious. I don’t know what it was, or if it was her own laughter that triggered it, but I found that I was laughing too. Was that the second time this afternoon? Some kind of record, surely. I had to sit back down on the edge of the bed while I fought for breath. Maybe I'm just not accustomed to it but laughter can be exhausting

“Well,” I gasped, “not exactly a paying gig is prissy fuck talk for not at all a paying gig, a gig that does not pay, a payless gig, a gig devoid of pay, gig sans pay.” Another whoop of laughter escaped, but I managed to control myself. “We all do this because we believe in it,” I went on seriously, recalled to my purpose. “I mean,” I clarified, “the politics, not the erotica.”

And there it was being hilarious again. I put my head in my hands, feeling a few clumps of hair, shaken loose of my braid, falling down about my face.

“Anyway," I said, rather muffled, "you don’t have to put your name on it. The city is – with all due respect – full of whores. If you’re careful, nobody would think to associate it with you. And I don’t quite think, err, prissy fuckery is what’s needed here. It should sound like you, so it feels real.” I dredged up what little experience I had of this market, which was even less than my experience of the foundations of it. “Also you should use the word tumescence. I believe people enjoy that.”

[Alayne Lombard]

I had to admit – when Florian smiled, he was another person, it would probably surprise me every bloody time it happened. I was smiling too, though – probably because he was smiling, and that the smiling Florian was infinitely more attractive than the moody man who stole his body most of the time.

I was going to quip something about erotica (I supposed he meant fucking) being also a matter of conviction, particularly in our country since essentially sex was our religion, and that it wasn't because he was a non-Cassiline heretic that everyone was, but he went on about my presupposed writing and what he thought it should look like.

I reflected on it.

“So you think I should say things like cunt, and arse, and fuck, and write those down. Along with tumescence. What the fuck is a tumescence, Mr. Prissy Fuck? I didn't get no fancy shmancy tutors or education or what like you, in case you forgot.”

Pause. And then I couldn't resist.

“Is it some kinda cheese that I should enjoy?”

Part of me wanted to reach and undo his braid, and run my fingers through his hair. I didn't so much as bat a pinky, though.

[Felicien Clermont-Montmorency]

Some of kind of cheese? I gave another amused splutter.

“You most assuredly shouldn’t try to order it the next time you visit The Traveler’s inn,” I answered, “or you’ll get more than you’d bargained for, although that’s not to say you might not enjoy it.”

I eyed her, trying to work out whether she was sincere, or teasing me, and whether it made a difference. After all, education is a moral responsibility. I suspected the latter, but that just made me inclined to call her bluff. “For your information,” I said, as prissily-fuckily as I could manage, “it’s a way of describing the phallus in a state of priapism. Arousal.”

I folded my arms, smirking, having momentarily forgotten everything that mattered in this absurd game. Alayne had probably been expecting me to faint at the mere mention of a hypothetical literary cock.

I was waiting for her to respond – and possibly faint her self – when I noticed with a sudden start that the shadows had grown long in the corners of the room. “It’s late,” I said, awkwardly. “I’ve probably outstayed my, err, finances.”

[Alayne Lombard]

I would have to admit – to myself, not to Florian – that I was impressed by his stout response and the ease with which he seemed to be bantering with me. Was he getting comfortable? I was surprised to note that the notion pleased me.

And here I was thinking like a prissy fuck, or trying to. Huh. Alayne, girl, you gotta not let them aristos infect you, I told myself.

Well. If he was one. Could he be an educated mick? Maybe. Either way, I was clearly enjoying his presence, now that he wasn't being all high and mighty.

And so I grinned and opened my mouth to say something about being perfectly at ease with tumescence and wasn't it interesting that he was thinking of my enjoying it, but then it was as if a bell had rung saying, TIME'S UP CHAPPIES and apparently he had to leave.

“Well,” I said, “if that's all the service you'll be requiring,” I said impishly, “you might as well get me mead at the Cockeral, next time. You'll be paying my time's worth then.”

I winked at him, and said, “Besides, we got a business deal to wrap up, don't we?”

Why yes, I'd just openly invited him for a drink – that wasn't at all how I would have expected this to go, when he'd first entered the alcove.

Then again, where did all the normal johns go?

[Felicien Clermont-Montmorency]

I blinked at her … well … it wasn't really an invitation was it? More of an order. But I still felt strangely light after the absurdity of the previous conversation, and there was something in her smile that tugged an answering one from me.

“For a so-called business proposition,” I said, smoothing some of the stray hairs back into my braid, “you require substantial up-front investment. But very well, mead at The Cockerel as you wish.”

With that, I bade her farewell and left. I don't know quite what it was, but perhaps I looked different when I left to when I arrived, for the bathhouse whores, including the one who had greeted me initially, nudged each other and giggled as I passed.

And then I recalled Alayne's “performance piece.” Ah.

It took at least an hour or more for the guilt to set in. Then I realised quite how much time I'd wasted in what was essentially little more than irrelevant banter. And although I hadn't slept with Alayne, I'd still allowed her to distract me, to make me laugh, to make me think of things that weren't important and, worst of all, I'd allowed her to make me forget.

Had I any strength of will, I would have proven my devotion to my cause, and to Ann's memory, by resolving not to meet Alayne at The Cockerel. I may be a coward, but I'm no hypocrite. I knew I would break such a resolution, so I did not even pretend to make it. Though I wished dearly that I could.