X

2259 Words
*Henrietta* "Dimos Softpaw paid me a visit last night," I say. "Why?" The disembodied voice emerges from the deepest shadows in the farthest corner of the dimly lit area. It's a game he plays, as though not being seen makes him more formidable or menacing. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that the top of his head barely reaches my shoulder, or perhaps it's the hunch of his back. Men can be such sensitive creatures, especially this one. He goes by many names, but I refer to him as X. "He wanted to know if his father had ever confided in me regarding the planned assassination, if I might know some information that could help him track down those involved in the plot," I explain. "What did you tell him?" He asks. I shake my head. "That I knew nothing." "Good. We don't need him mucking up our plans." X says. "It may be a bit late for that. He asked if I was familiar with Lucifer." I admit. "Devil take him." In his agitation, he comes partially into the wavering light provided by a half-dozen torches nestled in iron sconces on the stone walls. The alcove, one of many in a network of tunnels beneath the city, has few amenities but hidden away as it is, it lends itself well to clandestine endeavors, especially those that involve nefarious plots to end the reign of a queen. "What did you tell him?" I sigh with impatience at his constant questioning that to which he should already know the answer. We have worked together for almost two years now; he should fully comprehend that I have the wherewithal to know what I'm doing. "What do you think I told him? Nothing." "And he believed you?" She asks. "Why would he not?" I says with a sweet smile. His smile is the sort that might make a more delicate flower's skin crawl. But I am immune to that sort of thing. I have no feelings whatsoever. They call me a heartless harlot, if they bother to call me anything at all, those who think themselves above me in station. Although I have certainly felt something troubling, a reawakening of aspects within me that I thought long dead, as I sat across from Dimos Softpaw. "I wonder if it might be to our advantage for me to get a little closer to him," I say as flatly as possible, even though the mere thought of seeing Softpaw again causes my heart to beat a little harder and my stomach to quiver as though it is suddenly home to an assembly of acrobats, tumbling and jumping and messing about. "To determine all that he does know or suspect." "He is unimportant, and we are closer than ever to accomplishing our goal." He walks to a table that has probably seen two hundred years, and it wobbles as he lifts something off it. "There is to be an affair at Alpha Padfoot’s on Wednesday next. I have secured you an invitation. No names will be asked. Everyone will be wearing a mask. It is our hope that you will find the opportunity to search his study for what we seek." "If it is there, I will find it." I should leave matters as they are, leave him where he stands, but I can't shake off the sense that Dimos Softpaw might prove to be a danger by interfering with our plans. "Softpaw believes the plot to assassinate the queen is still afoot." That sly grin again. "We shall soon prove him correct," X says. ***** It's not often that I disobey orders, but in the two nights that have passed since Softpaw invaded my home, my peace, I have been unable to rid myself of thoughts of him. He possesses a hunger, a way of prowling about like a caged animal waiting for the moment when it can break free of its constraints… and the Goddess help anyone in his path once he gains his freedom. My gut tells me that X has it wrong. Softpaw might provide some answers. I allowed him to interrogate me, while I questioned him very little. Truth be told, I'm now standing across the street from the Fair and Spare because I have come to realize that the man has somehow managed to steal my wits not two minutes after I greeted him in my parlor. It could be his commanding presence, his devilishly handsome features, or the depth of his loneliness, one that I recognized only because it mirrored my own. I can't afford to become close to anyone, to let even a solitary person mean anything at all to me. Danger is my stock-in-trade. However, that danger wouldn't limit itself to me; it would reach out with deadly tentacles to destroy anyone for whom I care. Therefore, it has been years since I have known the warmth of a gentle touch, since I enclosed my heart in ice and my soul evolved into little more than a shell that allows me to do what is demanded of me without remorse or regret. I'm like a cog in a machine at a factory… I have a single purpose and see to it with intense focus until nothing else matters. Dimos Softpaw, however, is a distraction. I need to know the reason, I need to understand what my survival instincts are striving to tell me. After crossing the street, I march up the steps to the broad, towering man who bars entrance. I imagine him hefting a broadsword while dressed in the pelts of animals he has slain. Habit has me calculating how I would take him down if need be. "Let me pass." "Ye gotta show me yer membership card." He says. "I don't have one." I admit. His eyes narrows. "Ye wants to be a member then." "No." I have no use for a place where people gather to enjoy each other's company. I arch a brow. "I want in." He furrows his brow. "I can only let in members and them who want to be." "I need to have a word with Mr. Softpaw." I tell him. "'Bout membership?" He asks. I give him a hard glare that promises retribution. Finally, he gives a curt nod. "Righto. Follow me." Opening the door, he leads me inside, and I'm immediately struck by the gaiety echoing from rooms along the hallway and up the stairs. The people I can see are smiling and laughing, having a jolly good time. I can't recall the last occasion when I smiled or laughed. The man who probably seems like a giant to most but simply large to me escorts me to the right and into a grand chamber with an enormous crystal chandelier and a woman sitting at a large desk. Near the window, a man occupies a smaller desk. I immediately take a liking to Castor Softpaw for ensuring that this room is dominated by a female. "Gertie, she wants a word with Mr. Softpaw," the bruiser said. Standing, Gertie gives me a thorough examination. "Right then. Wait here." While she walks out, the guardian of this establishment braces his feet apart and crosses his arms over his massive chest. I wonder if he is open to being hired by someone else? Myself, for instance? I rather doubt it. The gentleman by the window has taken a pencil in hand and, based upon his movements, is busily sketching. I glance around. Although austere, the room has an elegance to it. I had expected a place where people came to fornicate to appear tawdry, but Softpaw has taken measures to ensure that people can walk out of here without their faces turning red in shame. I know a great deal about what it is to walk in shame, mortification thrust upon me by those who had judged me a sinner before I was one, judged me when, until those long-ago horrendous few weeks of my youth, my worst offense had been snitching a biscuit from the tin when the cook wasn't looking. After circling the room, my gaze return to where it had begun: the man at the small desk. He smiles tenderly, almost gently, and extend a card toward me. "Here you are." Ensuring my shoulders are pulled back, my posture intimidating, I approach and take his offering. It isn’t a sketch of my face... and yet it is. My features are all sharp angles, brittle… not by nature's hand but by my own unwillingness to reveal a modicum of softness. He has drawn the facade but has somehow managed to capture what lies beneath it. I nearly weep because there is only the barest hint of the trusting girl I had once been, the one who had longed for love and acceptance. "What am I to do with this?" "Keep it." He picks up another piece of parchment. "I draw the likeness of the members on their membership card so they are able to enter more quickly and can't loan it to someone who doesn't have a membership." Turning over the card, I see that the other side had lines for inputting pertinent information such as name, age, and dues expiration. Clever. "Your talents are wasted here." "I will take that as a compliment." He says with a warm smile. "I do not compliment. I speak only the truth." I tell him. He lets out a small sigh. "Few would pay me as well as Mr. Softpaw does for such a simple talent." "It's not a simple talent. You see what escapes the notice of most." I point out. He gives me a small glance. "But not yours." "No, not mine." Lives are put at risk if I do not notice everything. "You wished to have a word, Miss?" Castor Softpaw asks behind me. I quickly spin around to face him. He is a brunette, a bit fairer than his brother, but he possesses the same shade of eyes. "My father's strumpet." He huffs. The disgust woven through the last word is no doubt shared by Dimos Softpaw as well, and accounts for him not coming to me sooner. Opening my handbag, I place the card the artist has given me inside, and remove a small envelope, sealed with purple wax. "I need you to see this delivered to your brother." He drops his gaze to the thick vellum before lifting it to mine. "For what purpose?" "If I wished you to know that information, I wouldn't have gone to the bother of writing it out and sealing it." I point out. "You don't think I have the means to open the letter?" He says, raising a brow. I take a step closer, out breaths colliding. "I don't think Dimos would want you to know and would be most disappointed in you for making his private business your own." "How private?" He asks. "That is between him and me, but he offered assurance you could be trusted with my message should I have a need. I do hope you won't make a liar out of him." I say. He narrow his eyes. "You have spoken with him?" I arch a brow in response. "When?" He asks. "Two nights ago." I tell him. With a hardened glare, he snatches the correspondence from me. "I will see he gets it. Unopened." I give him a half nod. "Good evening then, Mr. Softpaw." I edge past him. "You made a fool of my mother." He says, pain in his voice. His harsh words cause me to stop in my tracks and glance over my shoulder. "On the contrary. I believe that honor goes to your father. He was the one to brag about his conquest of me. I prefer discretion when it comes to such affairs." I should leave it at that but can’t quite bring myself to do so. "For what it is worth, however, which I suspect is very little, it was not my intention to bring any hurt to your family. I believed my relationship with your father would remain a secret, known only to us." His jaw tightens. "That doesn't excuse what you did." "No, I suppose it doesn't." I shake my head. "I will not see you ruin my brother." He huffs. Such conviction, such devotion, such... love. For a few brief seconds, I envy Dimos Softpaw. "He had already lost everything, Mr. Softpaw. What worse harm exists for me to inflict upon him?" I know what it's like to lose everything. Later, when lying on my bed, with one hand buried in Snoopy's fur and the other holding the drawing of my face, I wonder if Dimos Softpaw saw me as clearly as the artist did. The hope within me grows, wishing that he might have. He seems intuitive. I'm counting on that intuition for the message I delivered to him. The thought of him reading and deciphering it sends a thrill through me. The possibility of seeing him again, matching wits, fills me with excitement. It feels like I had only been existing until I walked into my parlor and saw him standing there. He made me feel as though I had been struck by lightning and reanimated, just like Frankenstein's creation. I wonder how the artist would have drawn my face at that moment when our gazes first met. Perhaps I'm being foolish to initiate contact, but I welcome the chance to outsmart him and obtain what I need.
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