A Girl in Black and White (Alyria 2)

I lifted a shoulder. “I’m irregular.”

A few snorts went around the table.

Agnes sighed. When I first heard her name, I’d imagined a stern old lady; in reality, she was only ten years older than me, with mahogany hair and deeply tanned skin. “If you’re ‘irregular’ again, I’ll have to notify the Superiors.”

I frowned, but knowing I didn’t want that attention, said, “I can feel it regulating as we speak.”

“Good.”

The front door slammed, and Agnes let out an exasperated noise. “What now?”

A woman strolled into the room. “Sorry to interrupt! I know I’m late, but I haven’t had much time to stop by lately, and I thought I’d come for supper.”

Not next to me. Not next to me.

Agnes let out a breath. “There’s an open seat near Calamity.”

I sighed.

“Oh, splendid.”

Splendid indeed.

Everyone waited until she got settled in, and then the plates began to arrive. Looked like carrot soup. Ugh. What I would do for an actual meal right now.

I was tracing the scratches in the wooden table, waiting for the servants to finish bringing our plates, when someone nudged my arm.

I sighed, glancing up. “What?”

“Not going to say hello?”

I really didn’t want to, but I was feeling generous since Henry was home safe. Besides, if you can’t beat ‘um, then kill them with rationality . . . or something.

So, I acquiesced.

“Hello, Mother.”

Fornicating couples in dark lit corners.

Lurid acts on the furniture.

One or two naked patrons.

Low cut bodices and spilling cups of wine.

To be clear, none of this was occurring. It was what I used to think happened in a brothel at seven in the evening; the distant sound of the church bell rang once again to alert of the hour.

Instead, the clatter of silverware and the sighing of seven jaded girls filled the dining room, our movements sluggish as the oppressive heat seeped through the jarred window, suffocating us all.

I guessed that my assumption wasn’t far off; it just wasn’t happening between the hours of seven and eight, of which most establishments closed in Symbia for the evening meal.

“I think I shall die in this heat,” Magdalena said, pulling her fiery-red hair off her neck.

“One could only hope so,” Juliana muttered from beside her, twirling her spoon in, what was in fact, carrot soup.

Magdalena only rolled her eyes, resting her chin on her hand.

“Have you heard about the festival?” Sinsara asked. “It shall be a miracle to get out of this oppressive, stuffy whorehouse.”