1
Cate
A cloud of the deepest blue, edges of midnight bordering on black, fills the room as the man thrusts one final time, his grunt of release echoing around the spacious suite.
I latch on to the threads of color with my Gift, even as I come down from a climax of my own, finding the darkest hues of his grief, the color so saturated it becomes tangible, and I pull. Gently at first, then more firmly, twisting the strands, folding them up into tiny little pieces. Pieces I can then tuck away in the hidden recesses of his mind, allowing him to find a brief respite from the sadness enfolding him. I compress his grief, like a sponge wrapped in a tight fist. Eventually it will expand once again, the sadness refilling him, but for a short while at least, this man will know peace.
When I finish packing up his sorrow and have buried it deep enough so it will no longer disturb him, I stroke my hands down the expanse of his bare back. He tucks his face into the groove of my neck and cries while I soothe him, his nakedness now more emotional than physical. I don't take offense. Many of my clients end up in tears after a session with me; usually it's a sign I've done my job well.
Eventually, those tears subside, and he pushes aside the gauzy golden curtains draping the bed and rises, dressing quickly, leaving payment by the door before showing himself out. I make it clear to my clients that they never need to feel shame concerning what happens in this room, but some handle the rush of emotions easier than others. I have seen Charlie often since he buried his wife and child a year ago, casualties of an Uprising attack, and he has never been one for pillow talk.
I wait for the door to close behind him before I slide out from between the scarlet silk sheets covering my massive walnut four-poster bed. Fishing my dagger from underneath the pillow, I fasten its sheath around my upper thigh and slip it back into place, my thumb rubbing the smooth curve of the ruby buried in its hilt, a habit I've had since Harold gifted me the blade on my eighteenth birthday. It provides comfort more than a line of defense. I pocket the small handful of coins the man left in the gold elephant-shaped bowl that rests on my dressing table. I don't bother counting because it doesn't matter how much I earn. I'm not doing this for the money, or at least, not solely for the money.
The light in my suite of rooms is dim and sensual, the flicker of the candles muted by the lush crimson walls. I turn up the gas lamps ensconced on the walls once the man has left, lightening the space.
In the brighter light, I examine my face in the gilded mirror above the dressing table, ensuring my makeup is still impeccably done-it is, not even a smudge of lip paint out of place since I don't allow my clients to kiss me on the mouth-and slip into my robe. It's the same scarlet as my lips, and long; the silky sleeves are lined with soft feathers. The honey waves of my hair cascade down my back, a little mussed but still thick and shiny. Despite the toll that using my Gift takes on my body, I still look flawless.
I think about donning one of my costumes and joining the final performance of the evening-which actually takes place in the earliest hours of the morning-but I don't have the energy. Instead I stride to the golden bar cart that lives in the corner of my suite, pouring two fingers of whisky into a cut-glass tumbler and almost collapsing at my two-person table.
There has been an increase in demand for my services since the beginning of the Uprising two years ago, and while I try to never say no to genuine inquiries-determined to assist as many people as I can-I'd be lying if I said I wasn't exhausted, emotionally as well as physically. My clients might leave our sessions sexually satisfied with their emotions abated, but even when I'm able to find pleasure of my own, it doesn't counterbalance the heaviness of bearing their feelings or the strain on my body. I'll need to soak in a bath with one of Bianca's healing tonics before I think about seeing another client.
"How many have you seen tonight?" My twin sister Andra opens the door separating our adjoining rooms, helping herself to my booze and joining me at the table.
"That was my fourth." I take my first sip of whisky, letting the alcohol burn down my throat and warm my belly. Whisky helps my recovery, but the need to stay sober during appointments outweighs the benefits, and I don't imbibe until I've seen my final client of the day.
She grimaces, the frown pulling down on her perfectly full lips. "It's too much, Cate."
"They need my help." And I've never been one who could stand by and let people suffer. Andra has always considered this one of my biggest flaws.
"Was it good for you, at least?" She shoots me a sly grin over the rim of her crystal goblet. Andra only requires rest after using her Gift, but that doesn't stop her from stealing my gin whenever the mood strikes her.
I roll my eyes. "You know that's not the point." I swirl the remaining whisky in my glass, letting the richness of its scent fill my nose and fortify me. "Have you checked in with Harold at all lately?"
Andra's eyes, the same color as the light shining through my whisky, the same color as mine, flash with some sort of perturbance. "I'm still having a block where Harold is concerned. I haven't been able to read anything in his future for weeks now."
I sigh, throwing back the last of my drink. "Something tells me the lack of Sight does not bode well for what's to come."
Andra frowns, but there isn't much real worry in it. She has the undying optimism of a younger sibling who's never had to worry about much in her life, even if the age difference between us is a mere few minutes.
The two of us have been living here at La Puissance-Stratford City's premier pleasure club-since we were kids. When our parents abandoned us shortly after Andra's Gift revealed itself, we were left as wards of our home province in Scota. Sent to an orphanage for Gifted children, we quickly learned that being a ward, particularly a Gifted ward, meant being neglected. When that neglect turned to abuse, I convinced Andra we needed to run away. We snuck off into the night, making our way from Scota to Avon's capital city. For a while we lived on the streets, depending on strangers for food and a little coin now and then. Because we're both Gifted, we were unable to find any sort of work without sponsorship, and who was going to sponsor two neglected children? I thought we might be on the streets forever until Diana found us. She and Harold took us in, gave us a place to live, and, more importantly, gave us a safe place to explore our Gifts.
Andra started having visions when we were just four years old, but we were too young and inexperienced to know what was happening to her until several years later when we met Diana, the Seer who was a den mother of sorts at the club until her death not long ago. Diana helped Andra hone her powers, helped her turn her Gift into a beneficial tool. Neither of us even remembers the parents we spent our first four years with, and we haven't spent more than a few days away from the club since. It's our home, and our sanctuary, a sanctuary for all the Gifted in Avon, or at least, as many Gifted as are legally allowed. The discriminatory laws limit the number of Gifted who are allowed to reside in one location and make it almost impossible to find legal work. Luckily, in Stratford City, the laws against Gifted aren't typically enforced.
My own Gift didn't appear until later, when I came of age and had a torrid fling with one of the bartenders. It was his first time as well as mine, and when he finished after a few seconds and the room exploded in a riot of color and elation, I thought that was what happened for everyone. It wasn't until I relayed the story to Diana that she informed me most people do not experience a kaleidoscope of color and an avalanche of emotion during intercourse. Between Diana and some of the other Gifted members of the club, we discovered the true nature of my Gift, and from then my goal was to harness it in a way that could provide relief to those who truly needed it, which is what I have been doing for the past seven years. Growing up at La Puissance, I always knew the option to be a courtesan was open to me but never pressed upon me. When the nature of my Gift was revealed, it felt as though it was meant to be.
I push my chair back from the table and rise, untying the belt of my robe. I step into a simple dress, the black cotton soft against my skin, and turn around for Andra to lace me up. "Are you going back out on the floor tonight?"
Andra shakes her head and swigs the last of her drink before doing up the ties on the back of my dress. "I've told enough fake fortunes for the evening."
The patrons of La Puissance love Andra's "visions"-the ones she sells that magically foretell everything the client wants to hear. Sometimes what they want to hear matches the reality of what she sees for them. But usually not. It doesn't stop club patrons from returning to her again and again, taken in by her snappy wit and charming smile. None of them have any idea what she's truly capable of, and I've always aimed to keep it that way. Having a Gift of any kind is frowned upon; having the kind of visions Andra has is downright dangerous.
"Come with me to the kitchens, then. I'm starving."
Our footsteps are hushed over the ragged and dingy crimson carpet lining the hallways of the upper floor of La Puissance. Down below, raucous laughter and clinking glasses and live music still permeate the air, the loud brass of the horns competing with the incessant thumping of the drums and the shouts of glee. The lower level of La Puissance is all glittering colors and bright sounds; it stands in stark opposition to the upper levels, which are all about decadent silence. The closed doors we stride by are thick enough to hide the sounds of pleasure emanating from within, but it's no secret what is happening behind them. The evening may no longer be young, but the club is nowhere near ready to say good night.
We make our way to the end of the hallway, down the back staircase, and into the kitchen. The club hasn't exactly been rolling in resources since the Uprising began, but the age of the building shows more here than anywhere else, even in the dim light of the gas lamps. There's a group of women in various stages of undress crowded around a worn wooden table, the surface covered with scratches and burns, initials and doodles etched into every available inch. It's not a big kitchen, but that doesn't keep us all from gathering here when we have free time.
The wood-burning oven keeps the room hot, even in the coldest months of winter. Eliza, the head cook, is permanently red-faced and sweating and can usually be found yelling at one of her assistants to work harder and move faster. But she dotes on us girls, the women who make La Puissance the most sought-after pleasure club in all of Avon. Not all the workers at La Puissance are Gifted, just as not all are courtesans, but everyone here is treated equally and has been for as long as we've lived here.
Eliza arrived at the club the same year as Andra and I. She was in an abusive marriage in Venezia and was forced to leave everything and everyone she'd ever known behind to escape her husband's violence. We all grew acclimated to our new lives together, and though she would never admit it, I'm her favorite. When she sees Andra and me making our way through the cooks and servers dashing about the cramped space, she immediately hands me a plate of bread, cheese, and fruit, like she had it waiting for me.
I sink into my usual spot at the table, between Bianca and Andra, across from Meri, Rosa, Helen, and Tes. The seven of us have been here so long, I don't remember a time in my life when they weren't a part of it. All Gifted, all abandoned by our families. All without anywhere to go or any way to make a living if it weren't for the generosity of Harold MacVeigh.
Meri reaches a hand across the table, nabbing one of my strawberries and popping it into her mouth. "Did you hear the latest?"
I shake my head as I smear a stripe of soft cheese across the warm and crusty bread. Meri is an infernal gossip, and I know she will report the latest whether I want to hear it or not. A fellow Gifted with the ability to cast beautifully realistic illusions, Meri charms everyone who visits her bed, and many who only wish they could.
"Supposedly the Uprising leaders are meeting tonight to accept the monarchs' surrender."
My hand freezes, the bread halfway to my mouth. This is not Meri's typical gossip.
"The monarchs are going to surrender?" Rosa voices my question before I have the chance to. Her big brown eyes widen as she tosses her long black curls over her shoulder, wrapping her thick robe tighter around her lithe figure. Rosa hails from Talia and has never adjusted to the cooler weather of Stratford City.
Tes purses her lips. "That's what everyone is saying." Her blue eyes darken with worry, and I know she is thinking of her close childhood friend, the prince of her home province of Kalmar. As far as I know, the two haven't seen each other much since Tes came to live at the club when she was seven, but they still exchange letters, and I know she still cares for him.
I reach across the table and pat her hand. "I think this is a good thing, Tes. If the Uprising wins, it means we get our rights back. Plus, it means an end to the fighting, which is better for everyone."
Copyright © 2025 by Falon Ballard. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
