If you enjoy reading Victorian romance and fantasy, you will probably enjoy this mash-up. It takes place in a made-up kingdom mirroring 1850 Victorian England fashions and customs, but that's where the similarities end. There are some steampunk/fantasy elements to liven things up, and a plucky, virginal heroine to boot!
The Rosey Bush
. The name sounded innocuous enough, even if the sounds wafting from the highest windows revealed otherwise. But Thara was past caring. She had traveled for quite some time now, and her stomach was eating a hole through her bellybutton. If she didn't stop for the night, she would pass out, or worse.
The man and his cart horse had dropped her off a few minutes ago after being assured she had money for a room at the inn down the way—it was a lie, naturally. She did not have any money. The horrid chandler's wife had yet to give her what she was owed. But she'd had enough of working for the woman. After being hit repeatedly with a broom handle for not scouring the cooking pots to appropriate cleanliness, and for allowing the youngest child to nap in the middle of reading verses, Thara had decided no amount of abuse was worth a paycheck. Of all the odd jobs she'd taken on within the past two years, that was by far the worst of the lot.
She cast another unsure glance up at the merry red sign. It was nearly midnight, and the edge town of Grogom was sleeping. This was the one establishment whose lights still spilled out onto the cobbled streets. She didn't have to think twice about approaching. Chances were there were kitchens in the back, and a pail of scraps outside the rear door for her to poke through.
Treading cautiously, Thara rounded the side of the building, her eyes occasionally stealing up to look again at the beautiful red wooden rectangle hanging from the wide front stoop. She'd never seen anything so beautiful. The name of the establishment was written in shining gold paint, the letters curling like lovers around each other. Soft feminine laughter issued from an open window on the second floor, commingling with a man's pleasurable groans, further confirming to Thara that she was standing in front of a brothel. But of course, it made perfect sense. What place would be open at this hour of the night?
Curiosity got the better of her and she paused for a moment to see if she could hear anything more, becoming disappointed when nothing was forthcoming. Her rumbling stomach forced her to move, and soon she was rounding the back of the building and pushing open the overgrown fence in the small alley to enter the rear yard. The back door was wide open, bright light streaming out into the dirt space directly in front of her. There was an overgrown and half-dead garden on either side of the weedy path leading to the house. From her position in the back yard she could see into the kitchen. It was empty. Her eyes searched for the scraps pail and found it.
Thara approached cautiously. She bent to grab the pail but froze. Just inside the doorway, sitting on the kitchen table, was a platter of chicken. A mound of white rice and pickled olives sat next to it. And beside
that
was a dish of sugared apples in red jelly. She could smell the food from where she stood in the doorway. The hunger was making her feel sick. Putting a hand over her belly, she stared at the feast. Maybe...maybe she could sneak in—just for a second—and take some.
Before she could think properly, her foot was across the threshold. It was a few short steps to the table. She took the carving knife lying next to the chicken and cut off a large chunk of meat. Juice oozed down her hand, making her dizzy with disbelief. The first bite was so heavenly she groaned. When she was done she dared not cut another piece, instead helping herself to the rice and olives.
As she crammed the food into her mouth, warmth blossomed from her belly and spread to her clammy limbs, the last three days of hard travel nearly forgotten.
"What do we have here?" The deep voice broke through her reverie at the same time a large hand came to rest on the back of her neck.
Frightened, Thara tried to twist away but failed. The man attached to that hand brought her around to look at him. She struggled against his grip, wild and panicked, trying unsuccessfully to kick at his shins. When she realized he was too strong, she tried a different tactic, barreling forwards and into him. It was a move that had never failed to startle her brothers, Hugo and Edwin, back when they used to wrestle. Thara never won a bout with that move, of course, but it at least allowed her to regain her footing. This man, however, was neither Hugo nor Edwin, and Thara found, to her consternation, his arms encircling her. They went crashing down to the floor together.
"Ooomph!" the man took the brunt of the impact and Thara thudded heavily against him, her head knocking into his massive chest. His linen shirt was unbuttoned around the collar, exposing a generous swath of tanned skin. It was against this that she found her face most indecently squashed.
Letting out an indignant squawk, she somehow got her hands under her, shoving against the stranger in an attempt to get off him. However, because his hands were still clamped tightly about her waist, her struggles only served to thrust her hips deeper into his. He brought a hard thigh up between her legs and she gasped. Flushing, Thara scrambled off of the stranger and got to her feet, swaying unsteadily, her half-full stomach forgotten.
The man sat up just as a door opened off to the side. A second man entered, tall and spindly. He wore a spattered apron over a sturdy cambric shirt with the sleeves rolled up. "What is going on in here?" the cook demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Ardon, why are you on the floor?"
The stranger who had grabbed her got to his feet, his eyes never leaving Thara's. "I caught a thief," he said, though he did not seem very concerned by this, if the way he was looking at her was any indication. Thara realized she would much rather he looked at her as though she
were
a thief, because the expression in his eyes was making her cheeks glow pink.
"I'm not a thief!" Thara exclaimed desperately. "That is...I never meant to steal without paying. I was hungry, I couldn't help myself."
The cook grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her forward, having glanced at the spread and seen the evidence of her appetite. He was a thin man, but he had a strong grip, and Thara yelped, stumbling toward him, stubbing her toes on the uneven floors. "You're coming with me."
"Come now, Jonan," Ardon spoke up, "Surely she spoke the truth. Look at her, she's barely clothed for the elements as it is."
"Be that as it may," Jonan the cook said through tight lips, "Hermu runs this house, and he will need to handle this chit. Apologies for interrupting." Before Ardon could say another word, Jonan turned into the darkened hallway, dragging Thara along with him. "Let's see what the master wishes to do with you," he snarled into her ear as they walked, she protesting all the way.
***
Two weeks later.
It was night, and the season was ripe for moon beetles. They hung in the heavy air, dotting the blackened gardens with merry pinpricks of light. Business had been underway at
The Rosey Bush
for the last few hours and the brothel had a steady employ of courtesans to occupy its dozen rooms. Located at the edge of town, it was far enough away that the windows could afford to be left unshuttered, to both let in the occasional cool breeze and set free the chorus of lusty noises from its pleasure rooms. One room in particular could be heard to the far end of the gardens. Thara knew this because she was currently sitting on a low bench at the very edge of said gardens, swinging her feet back and forth beneath her and contemplating the thorny fence.
There was a new lock on the door, Thara noticed. Hermu must have had it put on after she snuck into the yard that night. Her heart felt heavy at seeing it, and she eyed the brambles growing along the fence top, wondering if the thorns would hurt very much.
She was out here almost every night. As the brothel's unofficial errand girl, she worked by day and stayed out of sight by night, per Hermu's orders. She was indentured for an unspecified amount of time, a fact she resented bitterly. But to try and escape was nigh impossible, as she was not allowed outside the establishment without either Hermu or Jonan with her.
She wondered if the chandler's wife missed her. It had been almost a month since she ran away. The woman had been an abusive terror to work for, and Thara did not regret her departure, but she did miss the little babes she had been tasked to look after, and she hoped they were all right without her. Thara herself had no family to speak of. They had all died from a fever that swept through the eastern kingdom years ago. Well, her mama and brothers had, anyway. Her father had passed away the year before. He had always been sickly. Thara had been on her own for nearly two years now, flitting from one job to another. She had been a cook, barmaid, nanny, laundress and flower girl, to name a few. She never dreamed she'd end up in a whorehouse.
From the loud window there came a throaty moan that seemed to go on forever, punctuated by the sound of slapping flesh. Thara's thighs quivered and she felt a knot of heat unfurl deep in her belly. She wondered what they were doing in that room. She had seen glimpses of the animals back home mating in the spring, and once, when she was twelve, she followed the butcher's son into the woods and spied him meeting her older cousin for a kiss and a quick rutting. The foliage had been thick, so she had not witnessed much. But what she
had
seen—the boy's backside, his buttocks round and white, moving in quick, jerky movements-had shamed her enough to run back home. At the time she couldn't explain her embarrassment, only that she felt she had no right to intrude on an act meant for two. Now, however, she wished she had stayed and continued watching.
Thara knew she ought not to listen, but sometimes she couldn't help it, she was curious. Perhaps she shouldn't be, though. Plenty of girls her age back home knew about these things. She was the odd one, to be sure. Unmarried and untouched.
A fat rain drop plopped onto her nose. From nearby, thunder shook the sky. Thara glanced back at the yellow light spilling from the kitchen windows and slowly stood to make her way back in. She crossed the threshold just as the downpour began.
Stomping the water from her boots, she didn't notice there was someone at the table at first. She strode through the kitchen, past the table half-hidden in its nook, heading straight for the larder where she knew there would be an opened can of olives and a pitcher of sweetened lemonade cooling on the ice block. The man cleared his throat and she jumped, her stomach dropping when she saw who it was.
He was eating a cut of seasoned meat with bread, his large frame stretched out comfortably across two chairs, the table before him holding a pitcher of ale and a full glass. It had been two weeks, but she would have recognized him anywhere.
The man watched her with interested eyes, the bread forgotten in his hands. "I didn't think I'd see you again," he commented.
Thara gulped, her cheeks warming, remembering the feel of his firm body beneath her hands. Hermu would have her ears when he found out about this. She set the pitcher on the counter and filled a glass with the yellow drink. Jonan was noticeably absent—it was just the two of them, and the silence was maddening. The sound of lemonade splashing against glazed clay did nothing to alleviate the heavy expectation that hung between them.
"I work here now," Thara said finally. Why did her voice sound funny? And why was it so hot in here?
"Do you?" he asked with unmistakable interest.
He was just as irritatingly attractive as she remembered, reminding her of the festival rider that had come to her village to announce the annual harvest games one year—a dark mountain of a man, with a steed between his thighs that would make the Devil himself envious. Like the rider, Ardon was also a veritable mountain, with hair as black as sin and a small scar on the left side of his jaw, almost hidden by his beard.
She could feel herself growing damp
