Chapter 9: What She Was Meant For

Nico

The limestone stairs of the upper town palazzo smell of lavender and cold masonry. Kahina walks two steps ahead of me, her spine straight under the light wool of her traveling cloak. She keeps her hands at her sides, away from the carved walnut balustrade. Pierre opens the double doors before I can reach the brass handle, bowing in a silent welcome. Two maids stand in the foyer, their hands folded over clean white aprons.

"Monsieur Ferrara," Pierre says. "We prepared the salon. The wine is open."

"Thank you, Pierre," I say. "Leave us. I will ring when we require the carriage for Le Sanctuaire."

He bows again, signaling the maids with a sharp nod. The three of them slip through the service door, leaving the apartment empty.

We cross the threshold into the salon. The room smells of beeswax and fresh lilies, cut and placed in silver urns this morning for a master who rarely sleeps in these rooms. A fire burns low in the hearth, throwing orange light across the green damask on the walls. Jars of cinnamon and cloves stand on the walnut shelves, their lids sealed, keeping the spices for show beside my humidor. In the corner, the amber and coral bases of the lamps catch the firelight. An ivory writing table stands under the tall window, its surface polished and clear of paper.

Kahina stops in the center of the room, her eyes tracing the clean borders of the Persian rug. "You pay these people to sweep for ghosts," she says.

"They like the exercise," I say, tossing my hat onto the leather chair by the hearth. "And the Duke prefers his son with an address anchored to dry land."

She removes her cloak and lets it fall over the back of the settee. Underneath, she wears a day dress of dark violet taffeta, the bodice laced tight, its long skirt dusting the parquet. She looks at the ivory table, then back to me.

"It has no ink on it," she says. "No letters. You do not write here."

"I sail," I say. "Writing is for men who have to explain where they are."

I walk to the dressing table in the adjoining room. A velvet tray rests on the marble surface, holding my mother's jewels: a heavy collar of gold links and a teardrop emerald. Kahina follows me into the dressing room, her reflection appearing in the gilt-framed mirror before us. She stands in front of the glass, her dark hair pinned up in a loose coil exposing the nape of her neck. Her shoulders are warm and brown in the afternoon light.

I step behind her, holding the heavy gold links near her collarbone. The metal rests against her skin. I lay the gold links back on the velvet tray. My fingers brush the soft hair at the base of her neck, then slide down to the row of small brass loops lining her spine.

I work the top one free. The violet fabric parts, revealing the warm slope of her back. The second yields, then the third. She stands unmoving, steady in the silvered glass, her dark eyes fixed on my hands, her breathing shallow enough to tilt her chin. With each fastening I loosen, the fabric gives way, widening the strip of bare skin until the dress slides off her shoulders. The dress falls in a heavy circle around her feet, pooling on the polished parquet.

She steps out of the pooled fabric. Under the light from the tall window, her thin muslin shift is semi-translucent against her hips. She turns to face me. Her hands reach for the buttons of my waistcoat, working them free with quick tugs, tossing the velvet aside. Next come the ties of my shirt. She pulls the fabric open, her palms flat against my chest, her skin hot and dry against mine.

She pushes me back. My thighs hit the edge of the morocco-leather chair, and I sink into the deep seat. Kahina drops to her knees between my legs. Her fingers work the buttons of my trousers, knuckles grazing the skin of my lower belly, and pull the fabric down, exposing me to the cool air of the room. Her grip is firm as she slides her hand along the shaft. I grip the leather arms of the chair, my knuckles turning white. She strokes me with a slow, deliberate pace, her eyes on mine as I tense.

She stands, pulling the hem of her muslin shift up to her waist. The pale fabric bunches in her hands. She climbs onto the edge of the writing table, her thighs parting as she sits on the polished wood. Her heels rest against the table legs. She reaches down, locks her fingers into my hair, and draws me off the leather seat. I follow the pull, my knees hitting the edge of the table, because I have never in my life argued with a woman who knows exactly what she wants. My mouth is between her thighs. Her scent is sharp and sweet, musk and salt. I press my face into the soft skin of her inner thigh.

I part the folds of her shift, my tongue finding the wetness of her cleft. She grips my hair tighter, her fingers digging against my scalp, and I decide there are worse ways to lose a fistful of it. I slide two fingers inside her, the passage tight and slick around my knuckles. She arches her back, the inside of her thighs pressing hot against my jaw as she rides my mouth. I work my tongue against her clitoris, matching the heavy thrust of her hips.

Her body shakes. She comes hard against the table, her thighs locking around my ears. A sharp, muffled cry escapes her lips, her chest rising. She holds me there for three long breaths, her core pulsing around my fingers. As the shaking stops, she remains close. She remains wet and open, her skin flushed under the shift. Her fingers reach down, wrapping around my shaft again to guide the wet head of my cock to her opening. I am one inch from sliding inside her, my hips tense, waiting for the thrust, and the only coherent thought I have is yes, that, now.

She stops.

Her grip on my hair loosens. She slides off the edge of the table, her bare feet landing flat on the parquet. She pushes my hands away, pulling the muslin shift down to cover her thighs. I sit back in the leather chair, my chest heaving, my cock fully hard and wet with her moisture. The ache is a dull throb in my pelvis.

She looks down at me, her breath still ragged, her expression shifting back to the polished mask from the casino.

"A gentleman does not enter Le Sanctuaire with his clothes in disarray," she says, her voice dry. "We have an appointment to keep."

She reaches down and lifts the violet dress from the floor, shaking the dust from the hem. She turns her back to me.

"Fasten the loops, Nico," she says.

I stand up, my trousers still open, my skin cold from the loss of her thighs. My fingers tremble as I work. I work the brass loops back into their fittings, starting from her waist and moving up to her neck. When the last one is shut, I reach for the gold collar on the velvet tray. I settle the links around her neck and secure the clasp. The teardrop emerald rests at the hollow of her throat, bright against her brown skin.

I tuck my linen shirt back into my trousers, fastening the buttons with slow movements. My coat goes on last, the dark velvet hiding the dampness where her skin presses against me. We dress in silence. Kahina checks herself in the gilt-framed glass, smoothing the violet skirt over her hips. Her cheeks are flushed, a dark rose color beneath her brown skin. We walk out of the quiet apartment, the scent of beeswax and lilies behind us. The carriage waits in the limestone courtyard, the horses stamping their hooves on the paving stones as we descend.

Kahina

The unmarked mahogany door swings open, letting out a thick cloud of Turkish tobacco and spiced brandy. Nico’s hand rests against the small of my back, a deliberate weight guiding me past the velvet curtains. Below us, the bright laughter of Le Cercle’s casino floor thins to nothing against the thick carpets of Le Sanctuaire. The air is warm and smells of damp skin. A low hum of voices fills the room, the quiet speech of merchants and nobles debating prices and routes.

I step into the room and take its measure. The ceiling sits low, crossed by thick beams of dark walnut. Two main exits offer a way out. To my left, a carved oak screen hides the passage back to the public terrace. Across the room, a narrow door leads to the service stairs. Three arched windows look down onto the limestone cliffs, their sills rising to the height of my ribs. The tables are solid oak, too heavy to lift and sturdy enough to provide cover. Under my feet, the parquet is polished to a high sheen. My silk slippers have thin leather soles; if I must run, I will leave them behind and run barefoot. The scent of smoldering ambergris rises from silver bowls placed on the sideboards, mingling with the grease of the candles.

The women in the salon belong to a strict hierarchy of exposure. Near the card tables, girls in sheer silk chemises lean over the shoulders of the players, their bare shoulders gleaming under the chandeliers. By the velvet couches, others wear thin linen shifts that leave their legs bare to the thigh. The less fabric they wear, the less they are expected to speak. Beside a mahogany sideboard, a girl no older than my sister would be now rests her forehead against the wood, her face blank and pale. She wears only a lace corset and a short underskirt. I stand apart from them, the only fully clothed body in the room. My violet taffeta dress covers me from my throat to the floor, its stiff fabric rustling against the parquet. The heavy gold links of Nico's mother's collar lie against my collarbone, and the teardrop emerald hangs cold in the hollow of my throat. The contrast is a warning. I walk through the room as a curiosity, a stone the men weigh with their eyes as we pass.

Nico leads me toward a corner table where Sandro and Theo sit, their waistcoats unbuttoned, glasses of dark liquor in their hands. As Nico greets them, I take half a step backward, letting the crowd close the gap between us. The heat of the room sits close against my face, thick with the grease of tallow candles and the musk of expensive perfume. The woman in the silver fish-scale silk stands near the service stairs, her face thick with white powder, her eyes dark with exhaustion. She is the ally who slipped me the name of Le Sanctuaire at Madame Eclaire's. We move toward the same small space near the screen. Our shoulders brush in the crush of bodies, and her fingers curl against my palm. She leaves a tiny, tight square of folded paper in my hand. I slide it into the deep fold of my violet skirt, where my knuckles find the cold steel of the small galley knife sewn into the seam. The exchange takes only a second, and then she is gone, disappearing behind a group of wealthy merchants.

I turn back toward the table. A shadow cuts off the path. Armand Vellier stands before me. His silver hair is brushed back and immaculate. The gold cufflinks on his sleeves catch the candlelight. A small anchor is stamped into each one, clear in the light. He holds a glass of dark plum brandy toward me.

"Mademoiselle," Armand says, his voice low and smooth. "You grace this room. Nico has dressed you in his mother's jewels."

"Monsieur Vellier," I say, keeping my voice cool and even. I accept the glass and keep it still in my hand. "The gold is heavy. It serves its purpose."

He smiles, the skin around his eyes wrinkling. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the gold links at my neck, then resting on my bare collarbone. His touch is warm and dry, settling its full weight against my skin.

"You are an investment, Mademoiselle," Armand says. "Investments require stability, and Nico is a boy playing at trade. His week ends on Sunday."

I keep my face still, meeting his gaze without speaking. Armand speaks with the confidence of a landlord whose tenant’s lease is about to expire. He believes Nico rented me for a week, that Sunday will return me to Madame Eclaire’s and to his own hand on the latch. I let the belief sit between us, undisturbed, and answer it with nothing. Only Nico and Madame Eclaire know the truth. The bill of sale is already signed, and my contract lies locked in the teak box on the Sans Souci.

"Sunday is only two days away," Armand continues, his hand sliding down to my shoulder. "I expect you here then. Without Nico. You will find I am a much more reliable keeper."

I turn my shoulder, breaking his touch with a slow, deliberate movement. My shoulders remain level, burying the rage I have carried in my chest for three years. His corsairs took my family's land. Black anchor marks cover the hulls of the ships that carried my sisters away. I need the name of the captain who sailed them.

"The port has been busy," I say, keeping my tone as neutral as weather. "A ship arrived the same day I did, with its mainmast broken. The crew moved with haste."

Armand laughs, a soft, dry sound. He takes a sip of his brandy, confident the cage door is already shut.

"That would be Captain Moret," he says. "He is a stubborn man who brings good cargo. He is at the docks now, repairing the rigging. He sails west at dawn."

"A short stay," I say.

"He avoids lingering in Seravalle," Armand says. "He departs before the sun clears the cliffs."

I give him a shallow nod. "Thank you for the brandy, Monsieur."

I walk away from him, my spine straight, the name and the deadline fixed in my mind. Captain Moret is at the quay, and he will sail at dawn.

I return to Nico's table. Sandro is laughing at a joke, and Nico looks up as I approach, his dark eyes tracking my movements. I sit in the empty chair beside him. Under the silk of my dress, the folded paper presses against my thigh, unread and waiting. Moret's name and his harbor slip are mine now. The deadline expires when the sun rises. My fingers slide down to my skirt, touching the hard shape of the galley knife hidden in the seam.

Nico

Gold solari pile high in the center of the green baize. Beside them, Sandro’s cigar drops ash onto the polished wood, its gray flakes mixing with the rings of spilled Valensole. The air in Le Sanctuaire is warm, thick with the scent of burning ambergris. Heavy grease from tallow candles drips onto the brass sconces. We have been here for two hours, playing for stakes that could buy a merchantman’s cargo, and my pile of chips remains the tallest.

Théo Beaumont tosses his cards onto the cloth with a loud groan, his unbuttoned waistcoat revealing a damp shirt. He leans back, his hand reaching for his glass. “Signor Ferrara, you must tell the Duke’s son that his luck is offensive. I am losing my summer before the midsummer sails are even rigged. If he wins another hand, I shall be forced to sell my horse.”

Sandro Ferrara laughs, his dark head leaning back against the leather of the bench. He blows a thin ring of cedar smoke toward the chandelier. “The Duke’s son never loses at cards, Théo. My losses are simply the price of his audience. If you want to keep your coins, you should bet on the wind. Or perhaps you should bet on the girls.”

Beside me, a girl in unlaced green silk leans over my shoulder to pour a stream of Valensole into my glass. Her chest presses against my shoulder, warm and soft through the thin fabric. The scent of jasmine rises from her skin, thick and sweet. For six years, my hand would have found her hip. It would have slid down the green silk to trace the curve of her thigh. Tonight, my fingers remain flat on the table, still and heavy against the wood. The hospitality of Le Sanctuaire has stopped fitting. I leave her untouched. She pulls back with a small, puzzled tilt of her head before moving toward Sandro.

The old life is a coat that has shrunk. It binds my shoulders when I try to move. I have spent my years in Seravalle being young and unaccountable. I sail the Sans Souci and drink Armand's wine, letting the days slide past. The unopened letter summoning me to my betrothed sits in my cabin, moving from the chart table to the shelf, its seal still whole. I have postponed the future because the present was comfortable. Now, the comfort is curdling.

The mahogany door at the top of the stone stairs swings open. The heavy velvet curtains part, and Kahina steps into the salon. Something pulls tight under my ribs. She wears the violet taffeta dress Eclaire sold with her. The stiff fabric covers her from throat to ankle, rustling against the parquet as she walks. The heavy gold links of my mother’s collar encircle her neck, and the teardrop emerald rests in the hollow of her throat. In this room of exposed skin, she is a queen walking through a junk shop of half-dressed women. She ignores the men who turn their heads as she passes. Her head stays high, her back straight, her hands still at her sides.

Her chin tilts toward the carved oak screen on the left. She looks at the narrow door near the service stairs, then down at the thin leather soles of her slippers. She is counting the exits, marking each one before the doors lock.

She slips into the crowded gap near the service stairs, where the woman in the silver fish-scale silk stands. White powder covers the woman's cheeks, and her eyes are dark with exhaustion. As Kahina passes, their shoulders brush. A tight square of folded paper passes between their hands, disappearing into the folds of the violet taffeta. I have spent a lifetime around men who trade in folded paper, and I know the look of a closed deal. That was a transaction. Whatever changed hands remains hidden, but the space between them closes and opens in a single breath.

Kahina keeps her eyes forward. She walks toward our table.

Sandro Ferrara shifts on the leather bench, his eyes tracking my gaze. “You are staring, Nico. It is rude to stare at the merchandise when the game is still active.”

“Monsieur Beaumont,” I say, keeping my voice light as I slide a gold solari across the table, “tell Signor Ferrara that curiosity is a Duke's privilege. Besides, I am only appreciating the quality of the tailoring.”

Théo laughs, tossing his cards onto the pile. “He has the right to stare, Sandro. He paid for the week, after all. Eclaire refuses refunds, but she delivers quality. I would stare too if I had that kind of gold to throw at a pretty face.”

The word paid sours in my mouth. It tastes of cold copper and old grease. Every man in this room treats her as a crate of saffron, a value to be measured and moved. I look down at my cards, but the numbers on the paper have lost their shape.

I bought her freedom on Thursday. The contract lies locked in the teak box on the Sans Souci, and the key is in my pocket. Freedom belongs to her, but the knowledge remains mine alone. She thinks she has only two days before the iron collar returns to her ankle. I have kept the contract sealed because telling her ends it. If she knows she is free, she will walk off the deck and disappear into the harbor. I am holding her with a lie, and it sits in me like swallowed lead.

Armand Vellier steps out from the shadow of the back stairs. His silver hair is brushed back, immaculate under the chandeliers. The gold anchor cufflinks on his sleeves catch the yellow candlelight as he moves toward her. He is my uncle by choice, the man who bought my first horse when I was ten and taught me to trim a mainsail when my father was too busy in Valderre. For years, he stood as the only honest merchant in Seravalle.

Now, he stands too close to Kahina. He steps into her space, his chest almost brushing her sleeve. His hand rises, and his dry palm settles on her shoulder, his thumb pressing against the gold collar. From thirty feet away, their words are lost in the hum of the salon, but his posture over her is clear. He stands like a merchant labeling cargo in a warehouse.

Rage climbs my throat, hot and greasy. The manifests Felix showed me on the yacht rise in my mind. I see the columns of numbers. The ghost-weights on the southern route match the ships that carry cargo too light for spice. What else does Armand traffic in? How many women in Le Sanctuaire arrived on his vessels? The anchor mark on his cuffs is the same brand marked on the crates in my hold and the ship that carried her to Seravalle.

My knees tense to rise. Muscles tighten in my thighs. I want to cross the carpet and slide between them with an easy joke. Yanking his hand from her shoulder and throwing my gold in his face would be easy.

I remain still on the soft leather bench. Crossing the floor means asking what else Armand’s ships carry besides wool and wine. It means ending the comfortable blindness I have lived in. I am still the Duke's useless son who looks away because looking away is easy.

I stay on the bench and look across the room. Kahina stands firm. With a slow, deliberate movement she turns her shoulder and breaks Armand’s touch. Her face is a mask of cool courtesy. Whatever she says is lost to the hum of the room, but the gesture is sharp. She turns her back on him and walks toward the bookcase. Armand stays where he is, a small, dry smile playing on his lips.

The violet dress rustles against the parquet as she walks back to my table, her back held straight. She stands beside my chair, her fingers resting lightly on the leather. Her eyes look past the room, fixed on something none of us can see.

I hold a winning full house, three kings and two queens, but the solari on the table have lost their shine. The gold is only metal. I slide my remaining chips into the pile. My eyes stay on her face as I wait to see what she will do next.