Inamorata

Chapter Eight - The Sick Rose

Chapter 8. Author's note - On the side, you can see the poem "The Sick Rose", by Blake (I reference it in this chapter) with its original illustrations. He actually did his own illustrations, and so they were different for each anthology released. That was the prettiest one I could find.

"Damn, damn, damn, damn, fuck!" yelled Lace.

The other Inamoratas looked up at her. They were all behind the Club, ready to join the clientele, and Lace had cracked the door. Peeking through the small space, she had obviously seen something that she didn't like.

"What?" asked Glitter, rolling her eyes a little.

"Mr. Beckett isn't here!" said Lace.

Nightingale gritted her teeth and waited for someone to explain the situation.

"Doesn't matter," said Sparkle. Nightingale, though her head was bowed as she re-laced Rose's corset - the girl had done it all wrong - could tell that Sparkle's eyes were on her. "Mr. Castleman is here, and that is enough to keep Bobby happy, provided none of us fucks up too badly."

Lace gave Nightingale a sidelong look. "So...that's Michael?" she said, beckoning to Nightingale to join her at the door.

All it took was one look to spot Michael sitting amongst the rest of the men. Unlike them, he was not wearing an expression of pained lust, but rather one of cheerful anticipation. "Yes, that's him," she said, and assumed an air of nonchalance as she went back to Rose's corset.

"Interesting," mused Lace slyly.

"Fuck you," was the snappish response Lace got from Nightingale. "What's wrong with liking a client?"

"Um, everything?" suggested Magenta. She'd just joined them. "Just being someone who comes here automatically makes him a scumbag. Besides, Nightingale doesn't like men. Or women. Anyone other than Inamoratas, really."

Nightingale scowled. "Liar. I do like Michael. He's kind. Yes, he's a client, but he doesn't mean to take advantage of me," she said. She wasn't entirely sure why she was defending Michael. After all, everything Magenta had said was true.

"Just because he didn't mean to didn't mean he didn't do it," muttered Rose, her slightly confusing sentence falling discordantly on Nightingale's ears.

Nightingale looked at the girl and immediately felt a pang in her chest. Poor Rose, only four days old, was already embittered by life in the Bordello. Her eyes were glazed and down turned, and she was quiet with resignation.

"Oh Rose, thou art sick," she murmured sadly in the girl's ear.

Rose looked up at her, her eyes widening. "What?" she asked.

Nightingale patted her on the shoulder soothingly. "That's a quotation from a poem. After your first client," she said, her voice steely with gravity. "I'll read it to you."

Rose paled and shuddered all over. "That's tomorrow night, isn't it?" she said, her voice nearly imperceptible with fear.

Nightingale nodded. Now, anger rose in her chest, replacing the sorrow that had lodged itself there. There stood Rose, a girl of four days old. A child, for all intents and purposes. Just an innocent child, a girl. What had she ever done to anyone, in her four-days' life, to ever deserve her fate? How did the manner of her birth condemn her to such a life?

Suddenly, she felt someone grab her by the wrist. She stared down at her shaking hands as Glitter tore her away from Rose. Looking up, she saw why. In her fury, she had yanked on the laces of the corset, imagining them to be a garrote around the neck of any man who would ever hurt Rose, and had laced the corset tightly, too tightly. The girl was gasping like a dying fish.