The Courtesan Quarters were a marvelous place if you couldn’t see or smell. It was probably an old stone cellar before they refurbished some wooden walls to create makeshift rooms and iron bars to keep all the women inside. A single small window, the size of her hand, in the back of the cellar let in the barest hints of what was happening in the outside world. Nira wasn’t even sure that it was supposed to be there, since it just seemed like some stone had broken off and Sir Bucken hadn’t decided to fix it. With ingenuity and cooperation though, the women were able to make their living situation more bearable. To pay for the communal things that they used, each woman paid a percentage of her salary for the communal things that they used. The youngest women paid twenty-five percent while the oldest women paid ten. This brought in items like chairs and tables for the living area, extra drinks and food that actually tasted like something, and decor and cleaning supplies that made the place seem less dreary. They also rotated chores based on each woman’s responsibilities outside the cell. Nira didn’t have to do anything for the next few days since she was assigned to be a partner: a blessing and a curse.

Even so, Nira really appreciated that they did this, since this was where she usually lived everyday from sunset to sunrise. She was early today. Some of the other women were still completing their daily chores. A guard stood at the prison door, two baskets at his feet.

He was tall, strong, and his glare reminded Nira of her worth. His nickname around the women was the “the Kobra”, and Nira had been told many times never to accept any food or drinks from him, period. It was also advised to not be around him without any company. Ironically, had someone like the guard taken the place of the saint last night, she had no doubt he would have taken advantage of her and then showered her with coins and gifts.

“YOUR DRESS,” the Kobra bellowed.

“What else am I going to do?” Nira thought. If it was possible, she would have punched him. Instead, she just replied with a pleasant smile, undressed in front of him, and handed him her red formal dress. He took it greedily, examined it for any wear, and dumped it into the basket for clean clothes rather than the one for dirty ones. She walked over the edge of the antechamber and found her clothes from yesterday that she had left neatly folded. A moldy green gown with a tattered white sleeveless tunic. It was too stuffy for summer and too cold for winter, but in spring — as it was now — or fall, it was surprisingly pleasant. Beside a half empty jug of contraceptive paste, there was only one other garment left from last night; looks like she was not the last woman today.

“YOU ARE TAKING TOO LONG, GET IN.”

She really wanted to punch him. Quickly, she changed into her clothes and rushed through the gates before the guard started living up to his name. It slammed behind her with a metal clang, followed by the sound of the lock being set.

Once inside, Nira could only just drag her body through the open living area and towards a small hallway with rooms on each side. Nobody’s room had doors, just colorful curtains discarded — no, generously donated — by King Leopole and his family. They complimented the sheets of wood that acted as their rooms’ walls. Truly, the entire area was a frugal masterpiece.

Nira finally got to her room and drew open the curtains. Cheril, her roommate, was already getting herself ready. She was up earlier than Nira had expected. Many of the women skipped their daily cleaning routines because there were only a few days that they needed to impress partners. However, Cheril wasn’t one of those women, and Nira really appreciated that because it rubbed off on her as well.

“Oh, you are back so early,” Cheril said in her soft and high pitched voice. It was a sensitive topic with her, since some folks bullied her for it. They would call her names like “Squeaker” or “Little Mouse”. Nira was always surprised by the number of people that got annoyed by the existence of Cheril’s voice that they even went as far as to call it fake. People really needed to learn to mind their own business. To make matters worse, her tormentors included the clients as well. Nira saw the effects of this first hand when she saw Cheril come back some nights - too many nights - crying, instead of being with her assigned client. Because partnering with a client was the most lucrative job available, it meant that Cheril didn’t earn enough to pay her fair share, so many of the other women shunned Cheril from their activities and celebrations. It didn’t help that she had stopped growing once she hit twelve years; she could barely stand up for herself even if she wanted to.

“Yes,” Nira muttered.

“Why, was he a bad one?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

And with that, Nira collapsed on the old and dirty sheep-skin mattress that she called her bed. It was one of the few things Odilia left her before she bought her freedom. She wrapped the old dirty blanket over her body and burrowed deep into it, signalling an end to any further small talk. Slipping her hand underneath her mattress, making certain her movement was hidden, she grabbed a pinch of ground up vespum from a pouch and put it on her tongue. Vespum was her terrible habit that she hid from the world. It had started when she arrived, and in spite of its risks, it had done her more good than bad. Her family and friends would hate for thinking that. Nira had been agonizingly sober for nearly a month now, saving the pouch underneath her bed only in case the tremors returned. But today was different. Today she needed to dull the pain.

The painful realization that she had missed her opportunity started to seep into her. The memories of her past played in the theatre of her mind, and Nira, the lone audience member, suffered through it all. Actors in the play dancing and singing and laughing in some long-forgotten fantasy world. Any other day, she would be up on stage with them, imagining what she would do first when she returned to Hanbur, but today-

The vespum was taking too long. It never took this long. She dug her hand to grab some more to slip in her mouth.

In another section of her mind, the potential punishments by Sir Bucken played on repeat, their dread slowly poisoning the theatre. Headaches. It was funny, she never got them as a kid, even making fun of the adults that did, but lately, they just never seemed to go away. And the…