Page 45 of The Shadow of Breninsol
“He wants the freedom of surrender, for you to be in control and at your mercy. He wants to serve you and your desires. Put a cage on him and he’ll thrive in it.” Eleanor’s lips quirked as she made her way through the water, aware that she had the whole bathing chamber listening and watching her. “Sometimes you might need to make him submit to you. Like walking on him, there is pleasure to be found in pain. It’s up to you to decide how much pain to give him. If he’s been a bad boy, then he deserves every denial, every spank, and every dig of your shoe you have to give to him.” Her voice and the water rippling around her steady movements were the only noise.
Eleanor walked up the steps where Milk and Cookie were sitting. They’d been avidly watching her as she neared and Milk thickly swallowed as the water trickled over her skin. “If he’s been a good boy,” she continued, “then he deserves to pleasure you. You decide how he pleases you.”
Eleanor took a few steps until she was standing above Milk. She leaned forward and grabbed his chin to look at her. Unintentionally, he leaned into her grip, as his eyes widened in surprise or lust. She wasn’t sure which, and thought neither was he. “And if he’s been averygood boy, I let him come,” she purred.
Milk barely caught himself from falling into the pool when she let go of his chin. Eleanor left the bathing house to a stunned silence and a low, “Damn,” followed her naked self out of the chamber.
Chapter Eighteen
The Cloth
“Hot Pies. Get your Hot Pies!”
The sudden yell made Eleanor jump. She wanted to glower at the bearded peddler with a full basket in his arms, but she couldn’t. Instead, she kept her hands close to her weapons, knowing the shout could have been a diversion as much as an accident.
She could have spat the pilfered peppermint leaf at the man, had she not needed to chew it. Not that she would have, but the momentary image of her doing just that gave her a satisfied little smile as the pie peddler’s shouts rung in her ears and followedher with the stream of people. This was the worst part, being jostled while navigating through the busy street to reach the open market square that contained the Cloth.
The many shops lining the streets leading to the Cloth didn’t help. Their swinging signs stated their businesses, with brightly painted shutters that were vibrant enough to catch the interest of passing trade. Peddlers lined the busy street, taking advantage of the crowds by selling whatever they could on their feet. It was unavoidable to evade every peddler, as they kept their wares in baskets strapped to their backs or held in front of them. Eleanor just wished they didn’t have to be so loud to attract attention. As much as she hated how they added to the rising hubbub, she enjoyed each noise that each peddler came up with to sell their product. To her ear, no two sellers sounded the same.
“Hot Pies. Hot Pies here!” the high-pitched voice hollered through the crowd.
Eleanor felt tempted to buy a pie purely because of the pie peddlers’ shouting.
She took a breath as someone knocked against her elbow. If she wasn’t careful, the tangled mess of everyone could easily overwhelm her, but she maintained her focus on her purpose.
The necklace.
She didn’t know if she’d find what she was looking for, but she had to try. Guilt licked at her for not having tried for so long. This was the least she could do.
Eleanor’s fingers repeatedly trailed over her concealed weapons. Attarician daggers were strapped to each of her thighs, and she had hidden two more beneath the stolen bodice. She also had sheathed her long knife and her dagger with the decorative handle into each of her holey boots. She had considered wearing her old leathers, but that would have garnered too much unwanted attention. Today, she wanted toblend in with the crowds. She was wearing one of the two day-dresses she owned that weren’t from the shared collection of dresses at The Ladies Grace, with her old stained white tunic worn over the top and tucked underneath the bodice. Her well-worn cloak was thrown over it all to keep warm, but her timeworn boots weren’t helping in that matter.
The ensemble wasn’t too bad, even if the dress had long since faded from its warm green colour, and its hem was woefully frayed. After she’d salvaged it from Worth’s, she’d sewn up the garment’s holes more than once, and at this point it was holding itself together through mere threads alone. Similar to her sanity navigating this hectic street that led to the Cloth.
Although, Eleanor was thankful she wasn’t heading towards the Grain. Regardless of the lingering hangover, she didn’t think she could deal withthatassault on her senses today. Thinking about it was bad enough. The violent blend of sweet metallic and raw grass odours that came from fresh meat and fish mixed, along with the fetid smell of straw and excrement from the bleating sheep, clucking and squawking chickens, and other livestock combined with the growing shouts of the sellers competing for customers.
Eleanor let a breath loose and kept brushing her hands over her thin pieces of metal concealed in the bodice’s lining. No, she wasn’t going to the Grain today, nor anytime soon if she could help it. If the Cloth proved to be a dead end, she’d have to try the Flea. Only then would she deal with the musty smell of those so-calledantiqueson display in the shade of a Great Oak tree. It was one of the few left in Breninsol and had witnessed much — possibly too much — in the city’s history. She shuddered at the thought that perhaps it was one of the few Great Oaks in the Kingdom of Solas.
After she survived this ordeal, then she could go back to bed and enjoy a bottle or two of wine, or whatever she found hiddenunder the floorboards. Resolved, Eleanor continued to grit her teeth as she moved through the hectic road leading to the Cloth.
The crowded street dissipated as she reached the market square where all manner of stalls were crammed in. The tan stone shops, with cheerful coloured shutters, wrapped around the square. They had a constant roaring trade, while the stalls in the square could change on a weekly basis.
Eleanor was among a throng that paused as a pair of city guards strode past. They clanked with each step in their helms and armour, that consisted of a shiny bronze half-breastplate and beige tabard. The city guard was a common presence in the Exchange and patrolled the markets, hoping to dissuade thieves and pickpockets, to ensure honest trade and keep the peace.
Eleanor let out a relieved breath that the city guards hadn’t even noticed her in the crowd and made her way down the nearest row of orderly stalls, all covered in colourful tarpaulins. She pulled her cloak closer as a breeze made her shiver. From being in such a tightly packed street, she hadn’t felt how cold the wind was today. Once, she had wondered why mortals wrapped themselves so thoroughly in their brightly patterned woollen cloaks or shawls. She had understood they felt the cold, but didn’t understand what that had meant. Now, as she pulled her plain cloak around her to fend off the biting wind, she understood. It was the only protection they had.
A riot of colours caught her eye, and she realised with a groan that she was not in the jewellery rows, but in the clothiers’ rows. She was on the wrong side of the Cloth.
As much as the Cloth was her favourite of the three markets, Eleanor wasn’t in the mood to be here today. She needed to either retrace her steps and shove her way around the teaming edges of the market or continue through.
With a sigh, Eleanor trailed her fingers over her concealed weapons as she made her way further along the row. It was a welcome relief that the heaving crowd had dispersed into manageable clusters, so she could at least peruse the clothier stalls.
It was a riot of fashions, from practical clothing to the most impractical, with every fabric and colour that existed: rich blues, deep purples, earthy greens, jewelled oranges, and vibrant yellows in cottons, linens, laces, and silks that caught in the bleak sun. Velvets that looked so plush her fingers could sink into it. Matching ribbons in all kinds of widths, feathers that looked to be from birds she’d never seen in Solas, and other types of embellishments she would have never thought to include in an outfit.
A variety of hats in all shapes and sizes, some looking so ridiculous she was sure they’d be perfect for the aristos. There were even underwear stalls, proudly displaying their garments, as they should be, considering how fragile the embroidery looked on some of them. Several silky sleeping sets would have tempted her if she had the money. Shoes for every event and occasion, from riding boots to slippers with feathers and beads sewn in delicate patterns, that looked like they would shatter if she was to wear them. Scarves in all sizes and sheers, delicate pocket kerchiefs, and warm woollen shawls. The interwoven brightly coloured patterns, much like the Great Oak, had stoodthe test of time’s relentless march, but she couldn’t say the same of her own weary will.
It was a mission unto itself to stop her head from turning in every direction to see everything, but Eleanor reminded herself why she was here. The necklace. As if the air knew what she was thinking about, a frigid blast of wind ruffled the tarpaulin-covered stalls, making the stallholders rush to grab onto their loose items lest they get carried away in the wind.
The city guard roamed a little too close for her comfort in the jewellery rows and each covered stall had their own personal guard standing to the side to protect their boss’s jewellery, as vigilant as Madam Grace’s goons.
