Page 5 of The Bartered Soul

I crack the door open, peering out to see a delivery boy standing next to a large trunk. He's holding his cap in hand and looking everywhere except at me as I stand scantily clad in the doorway. His obvious discomfort causes my lips to quirk at his nervousness.

“May I help you?” I ask the boy who glances up at me briefly before returning his gaze to his shoes.

“I… I was told to deliver this trunk to you, Miss. Um… I mean, Mistress. From the seamstress down the road. On the order of Cap— Captain Lennox, Mistress,” he says, stumbling over his words.

I’m not sure who he fears more, me or the Captain.

“I see. Please bring it in and set it near the window.” I stand away from the doorway and the boy reddens at the request, clearly nervous to enter a room in such a place. I suppress a chuckle, thinking how many young men only a few years older than him have tried to gain entry into this House, let alone into one of the girls’ private rooms.

As he struggles to drag the heavy trunk into the room, I retrieve my coin purse from under my mattress to pull out a few small coins for his troubles. But before I can hand them to him, he holds up his hand.

“Oh no, Mistress! I was specifically told to not accept any coin from you or Miss Lyra. Captain Lennox was very clear that you aren’t to part with any money.”

“Is that so?” I’m puzzled, but drop the coins back in my purse before dismissing the boy. He bows deeply to me and dashes out the door and down the hallway.

My back presses against the wood of the door as I close it and stare down at the trunk’s considerable size; I knew clothing would be sent but hadn’t expected something so large. Dread fills me as I inspect the chest, surely full of frothy laces and extravagant corsets to please the Captain’s desires, but curiosity takes hold and I can’t help but take a peek before I go down to the salon for the night.

When I open the lid, my heart skips. The objects in the trunk are far from what I had imagined I would find. These pieces are neither lewd, nor depraved. At the top, thick, soft fox fur lines an indigo cloak of heavy wool. The cloak is tucked neatly alongside fine dresses in simple, refined styles made from muted neutrals and dark jewel tones. Even tunics and dark-colored breeches cut to my proportions are included in the box.

None of the clothing is in the bright tones women of my station are usually relegated to and I thank the Goddess for the anonymity these colors will grant me. Without a thought, my fingers drift over the fabrics, and just as I suspected, the pieces are as high quality as the clothing the Captain himself wore the night he bought my company from Celeste.

It has been years since I have felt such fine fabrics against my skin and I lovingly run my fingers over the soft materials. Several other lighter items made from linen and cotton for warmer weather lie at the bottom of the stack, as well as a pair of soft leather boots with low heels suitable for walking or riding.

As I continue to look through the selection, my hands still. At the very bottom, I touch a fabric I haven’t felt for what seems like a lifetime. My hands move of their own accord, ripping the fine garments out of the trunk and onto the floor next to me so I can see the final piece lying under everything else.

Cloth of silver that looks like liquid moonlight is pooled in the trunk. Golden embroidery is stitched around the edges, showing the moon phases, protective sigils, and healing symbols. A small sob catches in my throat as I sink to my knees next to the trunk, clutching the garment to my chest.

It is a priestess’ robe.

When I can breathe again, my eyes drift back to the chest in front of me. A golden choker accompanies the robe with a thin chain dangling down from it to connect to another chain that circles the waist. When worn it glistens on the skin, fully displayed by the low neckline of the robe, matching the hammered gold circlet to place on the brow — both traditionally worn for ceremonies. I haven’t seen such things since I fled the temple, when the King’s soldiers ripped our garments and adornments from our bodies and burned them to a chorus of our despair.

I have no idea how the Captain came by these, or if he had them made. This delicate fabric is not one you’d find at a seamstress’ shop anywhere in Artemisia. Despite the tears gathering in my eyes at the knowledge that I once again own such items, I cannot comprehend the meaning behind them being included in my trunk, or how the Captain obtained them. A knot of anxiety takes shape in my stomach at the possibilities.

After a few moments, I force myself to return the clothing to the chest, carefully hiding the robe and jewelry under the wools and linens. A small compartment on the top contains undergarments and silks, none of which are as scandalous as those most of us wear regularly here in the House of Starlight.

A note sealed with a drop of dark green wax sits amongst the silks. My finger slides under the seal and my eyes scan the document — a note from the Captain himself:

I hope you find these items to your taste and proper size. Should you need any alterations, Mary Ellen at the seamstress shop will visit you at your convenience this evening – send word with the delivery boy. He will wait for an hour outside the House.

I have indicated that you should be provided with a trunk large enough to add any personal effects you choose to bring as well. Have your belongings packed and dress warmly for our departure tomorrow afternoon. – WL

A shaky breath passes my lips.

Tomorrow afternoon.

My mind quickly shifts to all of the many things I must complete before I leave. There will be no time to see clients this evening if I am leaving tomorrow, so I quickly pen a note to Celeste telling her that I will not make an appearance in the salon tonight. I send it with a girl that passes in the hallway and retreat to my quarters. Knowing that Lyra will be leaving with me, I doubt Celeste will make much of an appearance herself.

Striding back to the trunk, my fingers close over the dress from the top of the pile, it’s made from lightweight wool in the darkest charcoal. Then I quickly strip out of the gauzy black fabric I’d planned to wear this evening.

Gathering the new dress into my hands, my fingers roam over the fabric again. I’m pleased by how soft the wool is, and despite my hatred toward the Captain and anything he had a hand in, I appreciate the tight weave and fine stitching of the garment and the fact that it will keep me protected in the cool dampness of Artemisia and beyond.

I rarely wear stays or any garments that require assistance to get into, so I slip the dress over my bare skin in trial. As the fabric swishes around my legs, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the corner and have to suppress a gasp of shock at how perfectly it skims my body. The pleasure I feel from my reflection feels almost shameful.

Curiosity gets the best of me as I slink back to the trunk, removing the buttery soft leather boots. When I slip my feet into them I find they are also a perfect fit. It’s been years since I’ve owned proper shoes – so much of my time is spent barefooted in these carpeted rooms. I twist and turn my feet, wiggling my toes in delight, and am doubly pleased to find that they don’t pinch or rub.

Even though I long to run my fingers over the other fabrics again, to feel the textures and inspect the quality of each garment, I assume that there is no need to try on the remainder of the pieces, seeing as how these are all a perfect fit. With a contented sigh, I quickly undress and throw on a loose robe before dashing down the stairs to dismiss the delivery boy. Unless Miss Lyra needs alterations, my pieces are fine, and he may go.

When I return to my quarters, I take inventory of the meager assortment of personal effects I possess. My dagger is the first, and most important, item I gather. It’s placed with the cloak, grey dress, and boots to wear for the journey. Next, I carefully package my sparse collection of herbs and journal of remedies to lay on top of the clothing.

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