Page 2 of Crown of the Courtesan

I keep walking, pretending not to hear, and he passes by.

“—whore!”

The word hits like a jagged rock meant to maim. I lose my balance and stumble into the filthy puddle I’m avoiding. Water—and what I hope isn’t excrement—invades my ankle-length boot, seeping between my toes and causing a shiver to run up my spine despite the late-summer air.

Across the street, the apothecary’s cracked window reflects my vexed face.

My glow flickers.

Aware that all eyes are upon me, I keep my luminescent features expressionless and my posture graceful.

I don’t want to give them something new to write about in their scandal papers. Their rumors grow increasingly wild to spur sales, and unfortunately, it works. So much so that the wicker basket hooked onto my arm conceals the gossip newspaper under a heavy stack of novels. Even I can’t help but read the horrid things they publish about me—they’ve successfully turned me into a mockery in their salacious renderings, complete with my signature waist-length curls.

And if I’m being honest, it’s not the first time a commoner has called me a whore either, but it hits differently now, my Keeper’s voice echoing in my head, calling out the same slur. My stomach tightens with a barbed pinch, but I steady myself, taking a deep breath through my nose.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I twist just enough to peek at who said it. A group of lowborn women huddles around a wooden wash barrel. Soapy water overflows in waves as they scrub homespun clothes on corrugated washboards. Their eyes drop when they notice me looking, yet they continue whispering until one bursts with shrill laughter.

Whore.

Courtesan.

Property.

It’s all the same to them. They don’t see me as Tabitha Rilea. They don’t see me as a person at all. I exist solely for their entertainment, which sometimes comes in the form of malice and contempt.

The finery I wear and the decadent food and parties I enjoy with the nobles make them both obsessed with and disgusted by my kind, despite neither of us having control over our fates in this aging kingdom. We both trade our bodies, just in very different ways. Sadly, we are more alike than they care to admit.

The cathedral bells ring out; it’s late, and I can no longer shop for peace of mind. The spire towers over the market, casting its crawling shadow. The warning hum vibrates through my tense muscles, making me hesitate.

I need to head back to prepare.

But the corners of my mouth slowly turn into a feline grin, and my feet choose the path leading to the shore instead.

Two

Far on the horizon, a thick wall cloud sparks with intricate webs of lightning. I pull the hood of my black silk cloak over my head.

Fewer and fewer people stroll down the shore, hurrying to leave before the rain. This works to my benefit. Nobody is paying attention to me.

Nestled within the rolling dunes and discarded driftwood, a blue cottage stands on a raised portion of the coastline among a collection of ramshackle homes. It’s only large enough to accommodate one or two people. Yet despite its minuscule size, the home is sturdy, like its occupant.

His boots rest outside the weatherworn entrance.

I knock—just a tiny rap.

The floorboards in the house creak, and the door opens.

Captain Lir fills the threshold, smelling of salt water and citrus. Muscled from his work in the shipyard and many journeys out at sea, he’s easily three times larger than I am and so tall that he ducks under the doorway to greet me. His cropped sandy-brown curls frame a handsome, freckled face. Small lines appear at the corners of his honey-colored eyes, which gaze past me.

Eyes never focusing.

Never seeing.

“I hoped you would return,” Lir says, his expression relaxing.

“How could you tell it was me?” I ask breathlessly, noticing the few gray sprigs of hair around his temples that weren’t there before. He can’t be older than thirty, but aging doesn’t care when it claims you, bite by bite.

“You have quite the habit of arriving on this day.”