Lessons of Lisette: Chapter One

There’s been a mistake. You should not be here.

Lisette stood before the towering oak door. A fierce, golden lion's head, holding a heavy golden ring in its maw, gaped at her. She looked down at her torn, ragged dress. It had once been new; fitting and flattering her form so well. Back when she had enough customers to own several dresses. Now, she had to force her growing curves into the same stretched and stained fabric night after night. It was the only one of her dresses left. The only one she hadn’t worn to shreds or sold for gin. Soft piano music drifted from above. She turned her face upwards to see a light glowing in the darkness.

There must have been a mistake. She turned back, peering into the dark night behind her to where the carriage had been a minute before. The steady lanterns to either side of the door behind her were the only thing holding back the night.

“How do you know m’ name?” she asked the driver after he beckoned her from the dark alleyway where she’d been waiting for a lonely man to leave the pub to come stumbling by.

“What does that matter when I have 10 shillings to offer for an hour of your time?”

Ten shillings? It had been years since she’d earned that much. And even then, it had been a fluke. She eyed the man suspiciously, but not for long. As every woman walking the streets at this time of night, she needed the money. She climbed in.

Now, the man and the carriage were gone, having left her there. She hadn’t even heard them.

If it isn’t a mistake she thought, then you really shouldn’t be here.

"Hello?" she called, weakly into the night. No answer came. Not even the sound of crickets or wind could be heard. Her own breath, heavy after those stairs, was the only noise that broke the silence.

The carriage had taken her out of London. She didn’t know where she was, but she knew a woman like her, old and drunk and fallen, did not belong.

Bending over, she reached up her skirts and pulled out a flask. She snuck a drink whenever she could, as often as she could afford. The flask had been getting lighter and lighter throughout the night and she had a feeling it would be empty by the time she left this house. It was the cheap stuff, the only thing she could afford these days. The stuff that would take her eyesight and life eventually, but she didn't care. She was only five and forty years but she had died long ago. Her body just had yet to realize it. The liquor burned her throat in that delicious way that scorched out any thought or feelings, at least momentarily. She wiped the side of her mouth and replaced the flask on her thigh.

Feeling braver and settled, she took a tentative hold of the heavy gold ring and knocked. Her nerve dissolved with the clang that rang out. The sound was too harsh, too loud in the dead of night. The one solitary knock hung in the air like some unanswered question.

With a long, mournful groan the door swung open and a man stepped in front of the door. He was tall and thin like a spindly tree with thin lips and sallow skin. He was not exactly old looking, but there was an aged exhaustion that seemed to plague him. He beckoned her in, stepping aside. There was precious little light shining out from the foyer before her, but it was still more than what lay behind her in the night. She stepped into the house.

"You're late," the man croaked. The door shut with a hollow clang.

She opened her mouth, ready with a cheap and clever response—an instinct which had both served and cost her throughout her life—but the words died in her throat. Late? How could she be late when they’d brought her here?

The inside of the manor was as grand as the exterior. The foyer was round with impossibly an high ceiling and beautiful white marble floor. The walls seemed to glow with the flickering candle light. A broad, dark staircase stood at the other side of the foyer, a dark red carpet flowing down the center. The manor even smelled of wealth and respect. She remembered that scent.

Lisette looked down at herself again. She attempted, uselessly to smooth out the wrinkles of her skirt and fixed a few folds in the skirt to hide the larger stains. She cast a short, round shadow on the floor, with curls of hair darting in all directions. She gave her ever greying, frizzed hair a pat, trying to tame the wildest parts but made as little of an impact as with her dress.

It was no use. She didn't belong here. Not a woman like her, not a place like this. Nothing good ever came out of her kind stepping into their world. Any one of the girls of the streets would say the same. They'd all heard stories about girls disappearing, or girls who never should have been found, whose remains should have stayed buried and hidden forever. But Lisette had still come, accepting an offer that was far too good to be true.

“I-I shouldn ‘ave come,” she mumbled, backing away. Fear gripped her, suddenly as the door closed with a clang behind her. “I want to go.”

“That’s unwise,” the butler said. “He’s been expecting you.”

"Who's it—" she started, turning back towards the man, but found herself alone in the foyer. She covered her mouth, forcing the rest of the sentence down.

"I asked you here," a deep, rich voice rang out.

She turned to the stairwell. The top of the stairs was bathed in darkness. She couldn't see anyone, but she felt him. His presence was undeniable. "Who are you?" she asked, trying to sound unshaken.

"I've been waiting for you," he said, his voice ringing down from the darkness at the top of the stairs. There was a sensual, liquid quality to his voice which seemed to surround her, even though it came down from a distance. "So long."

"Me? But I'm not no one."

He sniffed, as though he found her amusing without being particularly funny. "Truer words have never been spoken, my dear."

"What do you want me for?"

"Why does anyone want anyone else?"

"You're good at not givin' me no answers."

There was that light, sniffing laugh again. "I've had practice. And you'll get your answers. When I'm ready to give them. But you must come to me first."

She squinted, peering into the darkness. She could almost feel like she saw some movement. It could be her eyes playing tricks on her, though. They were starting to do that more and more. Lifting the tattered hem of her skirts, she conquered the first step. The plush red carpet moulded to the thin soles of her shoes. The stairs tapered as she ascended, as though they were closing in on her, drawing her forwards.

Climbing the stairs was not an easy feat. Not at her age, not at her size. Her breathing was laboured, and her generous thighs burned with the strain. It had been years since she'd gotten so much exercise. Selling her body to half-drunk sailors and fishermen wasn't nearly as strenuous as people seemed to believe. Not the way she did it at least.

She took the last step triumphantly, crossing into the darkness of the landing. If she'd been hoping for a little more illumination once she reached the top, she would have been disappointed. But she'd learned long ago that hopes were futile, the worst was always coming whether you hoped for it or not.

Stepping into it, she let herself sink into the darkness, the unseen. "Well," she said. "Where are you?"

"Come to me and see."

His voice felt so close, but still far away somehow. It had a sweet, velvety quality that brought her back to her youth, the days when a man's touch was light and bashful, warm and welcoming, still something to crave. She felt her cheeks flush in a way that they hadn't in years. She turned to the left, facing the black nothingness. Hands outstretched, she crept forwards.

"That's right," he whispered.

His voice was like a chain around her wrists, pulling her closer to him. She couldn't resist. There was a marked change in the air, in the sound, that told her she'd probably wandered into a hallway. In the distance, a bright yellow light glowed underneath a door. She knew, in her gut, that she'd find him there. Her stomach fluttered. There was no reason for her certainty. He had been at the top of the stairs moments before and she hadn’t heard a single footstep or the door open or close. But she knew it, all the same.

She crept down the hallway, the floorboards creaking underfoot. She was almost there.

"Yes," the voice said, surrounding her. "Come to me. Follow my voice."

She came to the door and placed her hand on the brass knob. It slipped and fell open, washing her with warm, yellow light. The room was immense and filled with fine furniture and draping cloth. A red room. Red wallpaper, dark red curtains draped over the windows. Candelabras and dishes of fruit and almonds decorated the surface of a table. A grand piano stood to the side, beautiful, but incapable of dominating the impressive room like it normally would.

Her eye landed on him, and she took a sudden breath. He sat next to the fireplace, in one of the smaller chairs, his legs crossed. And he was, by far, the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen. His hair was thick and dark, reaching just below his strong, square jaw-line. His lips were plump, with a natural, slight upturn. But his looks were not an attribute to the sum of his features. It was true that he had the natural, classic look of a handsome man, but no one could dare to call the man something so puny as handsome. Together, his face had a soft, yet strong, somewhat feminine quality. He was nothing short of beautiful. Majestic.

And he was young; far too young to have such a commanding presence, to have such confidence to look at her as he did now. He was eight and twenty years old, at the most. Young enough to be her son, this man that had summoned her. This truly was too good to be true, but she found that it no longer mattered. She knew that she was meant to come here. Her entire life had been leading up to her arrival in this room.

He observed her as though she was some fascinating creature. He pressed his fingers together as she stepped into the room.

She opened her mouth to speak but simply couldn't, suddenly terribly self-conscious of everything about herself, from her now more-than-plump figure, to her frizzy, greying hair, and even her smoke and booze damaged crone's voice.

Thankfully, he stood, saying, "Come," as he gestured for her to approach.

She did.

"Do you know why I asked you here?" A glimmer shone in his eyes.

She stopped before the fireplace, two paces from him and shook her head.

"Would you like to?"

She nodded.

The corner of his lip turned up in a half smirk. "Very well," he said, grasping his hands behind his back. He turned on his heel, striding towards the liquor cabinet on the far wall. "Would you like a drink?"

She cleared her throat. "Yes, please."

He brought her back a glass of dark red wine. As she took the glass from his hand, her fingers brushed his. She flinched, her instinct was to pull away, but she didn't. He rewarded her with another half grin. His hands were so cold. She took a drink, trying not to think about it. Compared to the swill at her thigh, the wine was exquisite.

"Now, I believe you asked me who I was."

"Aye."

"That's of little consequence, but I will answer it nonetheless. My name is Sebastian."

"Sebastian." The word fell from her lips in a whisper before she could stop herself. She blushed again and looked away, wanting to slap herself. Her blushing days should be long gone, and this man was young enough to be her son. But he didn't make her feel like that.

"And also why I'd asked you here, no?"

"Yes," she said, still looking at her feet.

He brought his index finger just under her chin and tilted it up so that she met his gaze. "There. That's better, no?"

Another nod.

"I brought you here for the same reason any man requires a prostitute."

Her stomach flipped. For the first time in years, the thought of a man touching her sent chills through her skin. Yes, he seemed like a man who knew how to touch a woman.

He walked back to his seat and sat down, resting his elbow on the armrest, holding up his glass of wine."I need something from you, something that I cannot get through more traditional methods."

"And what is this thing you want?"

"Your body, to be sure." He grinned, taking a drink of his wine. "Does that frighten you?"

"No. It's my trade. As old and used as it is."

"And well used it is."

She bristled.

"You've been selling your wares for how many years now? Twenty-five? Thirty?"

She pressed her lips together. "More or less."

"A long time to be in such a profession. You're just about used up."

A different warmth took hold of her, clutching at her breast. Pain, disgust. It crept up her throat and burned behind her eyes. But she held it back. "Yes."

"So many years," he said, tilting his head to the side. "And now you're left with this," he said, gesturing from her feet to her head. "Old, rotund, and withering away until you're finally dead and you won't have to earn another dollar. How much do you look forward to that day?"

"I don't think about it," she lied, her hands shaking.

He stood and walked towards her. "Every day, don't you?"

She looked away, her jaw clenched. Her hands shook, tightening around the wine glass.

"Is this what you thought life would be?" He walked around her. "Drifting from drink to drink and praying for death? No company except for the precious few patrons you still receive and your hate. What a bitter friend she makes.” He leaned in close to her ear, lowering his voice to a whisper. “But a powerful ally."

No, she didn’t want to think about it. Not now, not anymore. She made to lift her glass and swallow the rest of the wine at once and drown the thought out, like usual. In a second he was before her again and he caught the glass from her hand just as it was about to touch her lips. He flung it away, the glass shattering. She gasped as the red liquid spread across the floor.

"Don't hide from it," he said, moving behind her, his voice a caress. "Embrace it. Find your hate and let it take hold instead of drunken emptiness."

"Why?" she whispered. "What difference does it make?"

"How often do you think of them?"

"Who?"

"Liar." He stood behind her, his breath like smoke, clinging to the back of her neck. "How often do you whisper the name Richard in the dead of night?"

She gasped, and spun around. "What do you know about Richard?"

"I know he found a wife-a sweet little woman who never speaks out of turn and is the picture of propriety."

A lump rose in the back of her throat.

"They have four children and live in a small but comfortable house. They are very happy."

A choked sob broke loose, and she almost crumpled to the floor, but he grabbed her, holding her up. Her body shook with the weight of so many years of wondering.

"And what of your father?"

She stopped crying.

"You don't hate him just as much? The man that forced your child from your arms, the man that was so disgusted with you that he sent you away, telling you to never return."

The memory of that room crept into her mind. She could still remember the smell, the feel of the peeling yellow wallpaper that she had to stare at day in and day out for all those long months. The determined, spiteful look on his face as he beat her into submission, the sound of her newborn daughter's wails. The feel of the last bit of her blanket slipping through her fingers as he took her away.

Her face hardened. "Yes."

He grasped her by the arms, pressing himself against her back. "Say it."

"I hate him."

"And who else?"

"Ms. Marsh," she said, weakly. So much time had passed since she'd uttered that name, it was almost a ghost on her lips. "Ms. Marsh."

"Ah, the headmistress. It was her calling to help you find your way again, wasn't it? That was the promise she made when you were sent there, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"But you were a ruined woman and she saw a more economical use for you, didn't she?"

"She did find my way for me, in a sense," she admitted, coldly.

"That she did. But she wasn't the last, was she?"

Her eyes were open, here face hard as stone. "No."

"Do you hate them?"

"Yes."

"What if I could promise vengeance?" His grip on her arms tightened. "What if I could give you justice?" His hand slipped over her shoulder and across her chest. He covered her soft, fleshy neck with his hand. "What would you give me?"

She closed her eyes, leaning into him. "Anything."

"Your life?"

It was as though the air had been sucked out of her. She blinked as her certainty crept over her. Hadn't she known it would end like this? One way or another. At least he was offering her something, the one thing she never thought she could have in a million years.

"Yes."

Edit: Since writing this post, this story has been published as "Oaths in Blood"