Crunchtober 2012 Day 7

Write about a river

Yvette stood on the Pont Neuf Bridge starring glumly down into the churning waters of the muddy Seine. Her sturdy shoulders squared under her serge coat, her long feet cased in simple leather boots, and her thick nut-brown hair tied back in a severe knot of braids and twists, all gave the impression of a woman of great practical sense and little taste for frivolity.

Appearances can be deceiving however, because under her plain exterior lay the heart of a romantic. A girl who read Shelly and Byron, who dreamed of grand romance and adventure. Adventure that seemed to finally be hers when a fiery young southerner named Jacques had appeared, sweeping her off her feet and out of her virginity in one passionate week. Certain that her grand adventure was at last beginning, she quit her job as a chambermaid without references and moved her meager possessions into a Pied a terre with Jacques.

It had all been a bitter cosmic joke. Now here she stood, deflowered, robbed of her savings, and bereft of opportunity. Her life effectively was over, so why couldn’t she bring herself to jump? As she stood and debated, the wind sang debris-filled arias along the boulevard ensuring that all Parisians of good sense remained safely tucked away in fire and brandy warmed salons.

Connor Graves, was not Parisian, and, being a Scot, was not daunted by a minor slurry of wind and rain. His mood, in direct contrast to the miserable girl on the bridge was positively buoyant. A telegram had arrived from Just. The Palace would dock in Calais within the fortnight. Connor had secured the services of a ethereal blonde girl and a strikingly pale and handsome young boy, now all he had to do was find one additional girl, of a more robust nature, and he could rejoin the ship with pride at a job well done.

He didn’t like recruiting from other houses, there were too many bad habits that came from working in traditional bordellos. It was difficult, as well, to know if a worker was clean once they entered the trade. Connor had better luck with the unknowns, the untried, and the inexperienced. It was easier to teach good habits than it was to break bad ones. Today would be his last chance for that type of recruiting though. If he did not find a girl today, he would be forced to visit Madame Blatsky in her fashionable house on the Ile St. Louis.

As he approached the Pont Neuf, Connor caught sight of a woman starring into the depths of the Seine, and something in her posture arrested his progress. “Are you all right, Mademoiselle?”

His voice startled her and Yvette leapt back from the railing as if she’d been stung. She reflexively clutched her coat closed at the neck, her eyes huge and rounded by the scare. She bit her lip and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart.

Connor held out a steadying hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You just looked so sad, I thought for a moment…”

The girl stood before him, homely and plain except for her eyes, which were as cerulean and clear as the painting on delft-ware. She looked him over, taking his measure and suddenly broke into a wide smile transforming herself from dowd to Goddess with the simple twitch of facial muscles. It was a strange brand of alchemy, as if she were an ancient Grecian deity disguised to walk among humans.

As quickly as the smile had arrived, it departed and her features resumed their plain and unassuming guise. Connor knew he had found his last girl. It would be a joy to watch her work this magic on the crowned heads of Europe, so used to dismissing those that fell short of the mark of perfection.

“My name,” he said, holding forth his calling card, “is Connor Graves and I should very much like to employ you.”

Crunchtober 2012 Day 6

Another chance to explore my beloved Edinburgh?!?!? GIFT!

Find your way in a city

Closes are the bloody tool of the Devil! thought Just as he ran up yet another flight of narrow har-slicked stone steps. Edinburgh clings to ancient volcanic rock, appearing always just one tremble away from losing purchase and sliding down to the waiting gardens lounging in an ancient lake-bed.

“You’ll never get lost in Edinburgh,” Connor had bragged. “Just think of the auld girl as a fish.”

“A fish?” Just had cocked an eyebrow at this. “Is that anyway to describe a lady?”

Connor’s mouth quirked as he fought to keep control of the conversation. “Not the city herself, mind, but the shape of her. The castle is her head, the palace is her tail and the Royal Mile with her closes and wynds form the spine and ribs. If you always know which way to her head, it is impossible to get lost in Edinburgh.”

Just remembered this conversation bitterly as he turned out of yet another fog-cloaked entrance onto a Royal Mile denuded of Lukenbooths. During the day, when the portable vendors plied their wares it was possible to gain some idea of direction based on the types of goods on offer. Carving knives were sold close to the Fleshmarket for example, flour and spices between the Sugarhouse and Bakehouse Closes. Now, as dense pockets of mist rolled through the tightly packed stone buildings it was impossible to recognize landmarks.

Just figured it was his own damn fault. In his amazement at the bustle and activity of the Royal Mile, he had forgotten the name of the Close which contained the oyster cellar where he was to meet Connor. Since he could not read the painted brass signs that named each alley, he had noted the Lukenbooths that set at the entrance for landmarks. Unfortunately, those temporary structures disappeared at dark-fall as if they had never been there. The somber stone faces of the buildings contained few identifying marks, and what signs there were, seemed to loom out of the fog suddenly, as incomprehensible and unreliable as ghosts.

The Close he wanted would be on the North side of the Mile he knew, so there was nothing for it. Since he could not ask for directions to a place he did not know the name of, he would have to brave the cut-purses and shades that haunted the cobbled street, climb the half-mile or so to the castle, and begin to methodically check each and every Close until he came upon the right one.

As Just trudged up the steadily rising street leading to the great castle on the crag that dominated Edinburgh, he ruefully recalled the trip across the ocean from the United States of New Scotland. On the ship, he proudly refused to learn to read. “There will be time for all the book-learnin’ I need once we are in Edinburgh. For now, I want to enjoy breathing as a free man.”

As he walked, the city revealed facets of herself to him: a corbie–staired gable here, a painted glass window there. It was as if there were great riches just below the surface, covered by cosmetics of granite and smoke. Just vowed that he would come to know this city as fully as his benefactor did, even if that meant learning to read and climbing innumerable steps through hundreds of Closes to do it.

Crunchtober 2012 Day 5

These two characters are both employees of the Palace and are under strict ‘no fraternization’ rules. ADVANCE WARNING this is NSFW - but I am determined that you cannot write a novel about a brothel without including sex and I will need to practice that. Consider yourselves guinea pigs.

Write about a forbidden activity

He came upon her in an aft corner of the promenade deck. She was using the railing of the canopy support as a stretching device, one arm twined overhead, her back bowed, and her left-leg lifted high behind her as she pulled upon the ankle.

“You are Athena to me,” Javier said as he encircled her waist and breathed against the alabaster curve of her upraised arm.

Meg giggled nervously. “Jave, you mustn’t, someone could come along, and we would both be put out of our positions.” Her body betrayed her words as she leaned into him, allowing her leg to drop and curl around his thighs.

He shifted to press his rock-hard erection against the toned flesh of her backside. “Then we will find a place to be alone because I really must! I must kiss you. I must hold you. I must tease you to heaven with my tongue.” Javier punctuated each of these declarations with a physical demonstration of his intentions.

Meg flushed, as her heart raced ahead of her mind and her womb blossomed with heat. She was vaguely disturbed that the Spaniard could evoke such reactions, but lately she had taken to fantasizing about him when she took clients to her bed. Instead of Prince Georg’s fumbling and apologizing, she would imagine Javier’s determined tongue blazing a trail from her navel to her clit. Instead of Count Svengny’s careful and delicate entries she yearned for Javier’s impatience, his explosive need that was sure to match her own.

Conscious of the precariousness of her position, Meg’s better nature tried once again to exert some form of mastery over the situation. She stood, pulling slightly away from him. The cool air against her backside was shocking after his heat.

“Javier, please. We must respect our positions. The ship is Edinburgh bound, and you know that if we are found breaking the rules Master Graves would not hesitate to put us off as soon as we make the docks at Leith. We must resist the temptation.”

She took another step back, adjusting her shift, which his dexterous brown fingers had managed to slip open over her breasts. As the silken fabric moved across her painfully erect nipples they responded with a twinge that echoed deep in her belly. The Spaniard was trouble, no doubt about it.

“But my Goddess,” the ridiculously handsome porter said. “I shall die of lance poisoning. You cannot leave me in such a state.”

“Do not call me that. Off-duty I am just Meg.” In spite of her best intentions, Meg’s eyes were drawn to the front of his skin-tight breeches where the proof of his arousal stood beckoning. She forced her eyes to rise to his. “You know the Goddess name is just my working name.”

“I do not call you Athena because of your work,” he said stepping closer once again. “I name you so because you have hunted my heart and I am helpless against your charms. For those other men, you play the Goddess – for me you embody her.”

This last said in a low growl against her neck that effectively destroyed Meg’s feeble defenses. God help her, but she wanted this man! “All right!” she whispered fiercely, “We can meet, but not here, not in the open. We must find a place that no one knows about.”

Javier’s smile could have blinded the sun. “Leave it to me, my love. I will prepare a place where we can quench our thirst for each other at last!” He turned with military precision and strode down the promenade, a man with a mission.

Crunchtober 2012 Day 4

I obviously don't know Rita or ANY of my courtesans well - I will need to remedy that. The ship, on the other hand is forming itself nicely in my imagination!

The end of the day...

The hum of the coal burning engines was a muted accompaniment to the susurrus of the oars swishing steadily through the waves. Porters walked quietly in the dawn light along the promenade, dousing gas-lamps grown nearly molten from a long night of lighting the revels.

Rita moved gracefully through the salons, picking up discarded cigarette holders, spectacles. and watches: the debris of gentlemen moved by passion to disregard of personal property. One of the elements of customer service that burnished the reputation of the Palace was the fact that no personal item, no matter how small or inconsequential was lost upon her decks. Guests of the Palace were assured that they would leave the gangway with every item they had upon embarkation.

Guests also prized the fact that they would leave the ship with no foreign complaints. The courtesans – both the female and male varieties - were perfect specimens of youthful beauty and Rita’s strict policies on cleanliness kept them that way. Groups of scantily clad employees were already making their way to the steam baths for the daily ritual.

The baths ranged along the center beam of the ship below decks in a railroad format that made the daily ritual of cleanliness a journey where tired workers could release the stresses of the night. Although guests were welcome to use the baths during the day, evening and through the night, between 4:00 and 7:00 am the fragrant refuge was reserved for employee use only.

Connor Graves was not a man who believed in false modesty, so (at least among his employees) men and women disrobed together and entered tepid baths filled with charcoal filtered water and a 10% solution of hydrogen peroxide. Sloughing off the night’s activities in a stinging bath was not particularly pleasant, but the lack of infection on the ship spoke to the effectiveness of the routine. Following the bite of the peroxide bath, the men adjourned to a steam room while the women employed vinegar douches followed by chamomile oil to soothe stressed tissues before joining their fellows in the heated mist.

When their skin glowed under a coating of finely wrought sweat, the torpid employees rose and dove through a series of pools alternately cool and hot until they emerged at the far end of the gallery where porters stood by with enveloping robes of Turkish cotton.

As the sun broke over the horizon of the crystal sea, gilding the decks rose-gold, toweling clad paramours made their way to private quarters and well earned rest.

Certain that all personal items had been collected and routed via porter to the correct guests, Rita made her way to her office in order to tally the night’s income. Unlike surface bound houses of pleasure, the Palace did not deal in cash. Each guest held a unique key that was inserted into specially designed boxes mounted beside the entrances to each of the pleasure suites. Before entering, the guest simply presented the key, and then did so again upon exiting. An ingenious system of clockwork tallied the keyed time and credited the guest’s account appropriately. All Rita needed to do for the tally was pull the ticker-tape from the tally printer, run it through the reader, and record the results in her ledger. It was neat, effective and clean, just as Rita expected her employees to be.

Crunchtober 2012 Day #3

Write about the sky you were born under.

Connor Graves was holding court in the grand salon. Courtesans, princes and captains of industry grouped at his feet as he exuberantly expounded upon the virtues of his native city from his position on the credenza.

“Edinburgh sits high on a crag, her face immobile, unaffected by the ravages of time. Her volcanic bone structure supports a patrician brow crowned with the tiara of castle walls. Royalty twirls in the hem of her skirt, a glittering trim at her dancing feet. Her gown, strictly corseted, laced along the stays of close and wynd, is severe and somber in cut, but decorated with tucked away extravagances and coy flourishes.”

He took a breath and a healthy drink of whiskey before adopting a tone of voice halfway between the naughty indulgences of a small boy, and the whispered coercions of an ardent lover.

“This is a lady who reveals herself slowly, batting her eyes not as the coquette, but as the dangerous and intoxicating vixen. The city dances the Dance of Seven Veils perpetually stopping at the sixth; never revealing her final secret. She teases, tantalizes, strokes and embraces you, all the time knowing that you love her more than she will ever love you.”

“Come now Connor,” cried Prince Georg, “surely you are inflating her charms for our benefit?”

“Not at all!” cried Connor, “Edinburgh is a place of mystery and romance. Ghosts live cheek-by-jowl with bankers, students walk in the shadows of the resurrectionists, ancient cemeteries serve as convenient spots for lover's trysts. Past and present mingle with the future in Edinburgh.”

“I know that for a fact,” teased Morag as she twirled her bright red curls with slender fingers. “If I step foot in Edinburgh, my past will overcome my present and cancel out my future in an instant!”

This was greeted with appreciative laughter, but Connor was not ready to cede the floor to frivolity. “It is the light of a late summer afternoon that will be your undoing in Edinburgh,” he said. The reverence in his voice, and the far-away look in his eyes pulled the group’s focus back to his imposing frame.

“Summers in Edinburgh hold a particular fragility, and as the sun travels the long pathway to its night-time resting place in the Firth, the air fills with gossamer threads of gold. It as if the sheerest of veils drapes the bowl of the great blue, burnishing every reflective surface with riches beyond price.

“At moments like that, the air is so pure it hurts to breathe. The light is so fine it slips through your fingers and you know that if you could only capture it you would hold the keys to the secrets of the ancients.”

There was a reverent hush as Connor stopped speaking. His audience, held spellbound at his description of the ancient seat and capital of the empire, parted silently as he climbed off the credenza, slipped back into his loafers.

“Now if you will forgive me,” he said while making a slight bow to the Prince, “I really must see to my other guests.”

“Is Edinburgh truly as Herr Graves says?” The Prince asked Morag as the group broke apart.

“To Connor it is,” she replied, “and because it is so to him, it has become so to me as well.”

Crunchtober 2012 Day 2

Shadows

Just Fletcher was a man who threw a long shadow. Born Boy Fletcher, property of Joseph Fletcher, esquire of Wyatt, South Carolina, Just had been a free man for most of his fifty years. Being a free black man in the latter half of the nineteenth century did not offer a great deal of opportunity for social advancement, so Just had perfected the art of operating from the shadows.

It is not possible for a black man of soaring height and bulwarked shoulders to escape notice, but Just moved so silently and spoke so seldom that white folks were prone to dismissing him on sight, a propensity that Just exploited to slip onto the ship unseen.

Rita’s message had been urgent, and she had marked the envelope with the sigil of his old master, a code used only in the most dire of emergencies. Although she had not expressly said to come silently, Just felt it was better that no one know of his return to the ship until he had assessed the landscape.

He slipped along the promenade with footfalls a soft as cotton, passing several couples engrossed in amorous ambles and a group of younger gentlemen smoking cigarillos and chivvying each other; working up the courage to enter the salon and talk to the girls.

The dockside lanterns lent a golden glow to the night, and Rita had kept the ship’s gaslight turned low to take advantage of the ambience. Just slipped into the aft passageway and took the stairs to the captain’s cabin in three long strides. He scanned the hall for intruders out of long habit, and noting that all was as it should be, he slid his key into the lock and turned the handle on the burnished maple wood door that stood between his old life as Connor Graves’ friend, and the new one as his avenger.

***

Shadows were a comfort, a refuge, and a tool. All three of which would be desperately needed now that his friend and employer Connor Graves was dead. Although Just burned with desire to find the murderer and repay villainy with suffering, his personal vengeance must wait.

The villains must know that Lady Katherine stood to inherit the Palace, and if they were willing to ignore social standing and royal friends in order to kill Connor, they were not likely to balk at taking out a slip of a girl in sixth form at boarding school. Just had to get to the school before anyone else could find the girl; Kitten must stay safe at all costs.

The Glasgow docks were teeming as usual. A unique blend of scabbies, merchants, rope monkeys, naval officers, and urchins moved in all directions. Voices floated above the crowd; boarding calls, price haggling, insults and greetings dancing on eddies of fortune seekers and bottom feeders. In the whirls of color and motion, no one looked to the shadows and the silent giant who slipped past the commotion and was lost in the night.

Crunchtober 2012 Day 1

Write about leaving...

Connor Graves, swept the silky lock of shockingly white hair off his brow, studiously hiding the wince of pain that accompanied the gesture. He lifted himself slightly, adjusting his position on the silk settee causing a fresh gush of blood from the gaping wound in his side. A woman knelt at his side, her deep plum velvet skirting gathered into wads which she used to apply pressure to the wound.

“Even your magic, Rita, will be unable to save the cushions, I fear.” Although his life dripped through the sieve of fine Viennese silk and pooled on the Persian rug, Connor’s famous charm warmed the room and heightened the sense of impending loss.

“You must tell Just,” Connor went on as if he were detailing the day’s itinerary as normal, “that he is not to blame. I would not have allowed him to miss the funeral of his father and were he here then he would most likely be in the same condition as I am, and then who would look out for my Kitten?”

“Hush now, Connor. Don’t waste your breath. Lizbet has gone for the surgeon.” The woman’s voice shook with the awareness she refused to acknowledge.

“Now Rita, you and I have never spent our breath in orders and demands, there is certainly no reason to begin now. And regarding now, these words are all I have with which to take my leave, I do expect you to honor that and let me speak.”

Rita choked back a sob and bowed to his will. When Connor James MacMillan Graves set his mind to a thing, that thing was accomplished.

As his business partner, madame and friend ceded the ground, Connor’s mouth quirked with the ghost of a smile.

“Kitten will need looking after, and I want her to know nothing of the circumstance of my demise. The villain who did this has earned his just reward and I am content for the Lord Almighty to deal with him. What is most important is that the Palace, the girls, you and Just Fletcher must soldier on. Without the income from the winter cruises, Kitten will not be able to finish school. You must see that she is kept from the knowledge of this. Rita? Do you hear me? Katherine is not to know.”

“But how?” The Madame’s face drained of blood as the import of his words struck her. “Connor, you cannot mean the girl is not to be told of your…” She choked on the words, horrified at what he was asking.

“No one is to be told dear Rita. You must remove my body when my spirit has fled. Take it to the aft hold and pickle it if you have to, but remove all evidence of my death. When Kitten has passed her 6th forms, and the season has come to a successful close, only then can you let it be known that I have expired.”

A fine sweat broke out on Connor’s normally pristine forehead. “I am afraid my dear that I have no more time. Do this for me. Make the Winter season into a long farewell. Make excuses. Say I have gone to conduct business in farthest Araby. Write letters to Kitten in my name. Say all the things a father should say to a daughter upon taking his leave. Above all, you and Just must keep her...”

As elegantly as he had lived his life, Connor Graves slipped into death. Rita stood, her bloodied skirts falling sodden over her petticoats. She moved as an automaton, laying the body of her employer and friend neatly onto the ruined carpet, straightening the room, hiding the settee under a luxurious fur throw. If Connor wanted to keep his death a secret, then she would have to save her mourning for another time.

The winter season of 1894 would forever be branded in her mind as the season of the long goodbye.