Chapter Text
A deep, golden-brown wooden bowl, chipped here and scratched there, the lacquer long-since faded- valuable to you precisely because it’s an item you’ve had for so long.
A constant is a comfort, regardless of what it is.
Carefully, so as not to waste a drop, you ladled in thick, white, creamy mushroom soup, piping hot- smoke swirling and twirling slowly, pirouetting itself into lazy loops- heaping it into the bowl greedily. Rich and earthy, the aroma wafts up, enough for you to salivate, mouth already prepared to eat and eat until you’ve polished your bowl clean and served yourself a second helping of the slightly salty, lacy, tawny mushrooms decorating the chiffon white soup. Just as a treat -you’ve earned it, really, haven’t you?- just for the simple pleasure, you pinch the crushed, dried parsley, sprinkling it generously over the soup- to give it a slightly livelier color, some life to this comfort food, though between you and me, it doesn’t really add any flavor, does it?
But you’ve had a long day and you’re tired and you just want to feel like you don’t necessarily want to die. But this is the Market, where you could die even if you didn’t particularly wish it, and sometimes, some spiteful part of you wished that one of these killings you always hear about would finally be about you.
You open your book, What Lies Beneath, which to be honest is a book that you don’t really enjoy and sort of find boring but every book you've tried for the past two months has been boring too, so you suck it up and grit your teeth and force yourself to read about characters that you wouldn't really mind seeing killed off and a plot looser than your nightgown. But you can’t just sit there and eat and do nothing else. You need to eat and read, at the same time, because otherwise reading feels like a waste of time and eating is downright miserable. Eating is not a solitary activity, you believe, dismissing those who claim they find happiness on their own- eating is not to be done alone. You need to eat with someone, and since you quite frankly don’t trust anyone in the Market to eat with/near them without one or both of you being poisoned-
(Well now, we both know that’s a lie. Even before you moved to the Market, when there was the relative safety above ground, you still were alone. Maybe you’re meant to be alone?)
Because what is life, if not consumption and more consumption? Of art, of music, of books, of food, as if everything you ever do and see and taste is for the sole purpose of distracting yourself. Time is so precious, so valuable, the solitary thing you can’t get back- unlike money, unlike clothes- and yet everything you do is to spend it, to burn it, to make it go faster. And why not? It’s not like you have anything to look forward to. Last year is the same as this year, today is a carbon copy of yesterday and tomorrow and last week and next month and there’s nothing you can do about it. There’s just nothing you can do at all.
A fat, hairy, spindly spider carefully crawls over the olive-green leather binding of the tome, and you sigh, pick up a foggy mason jar filled to the brim with clear blue marbles, dump them out on the floor- hearing the click-clack! Cheerful with every smooth, round marble that falls and clinks to the floor and rolls and scatters like spilled rice in every direction- under your bed, below your desk, a new carpet for your ground- and cup the mason jar above the spider, with the cover of the book trapping it from below and the glass jar encasing it on every other side. The jar looks like a sort of upside-down bell, and the spider pushes its thick, widow-black legs against the jar, beady glimmering eyes looking up at you in accusation. “Consider yourself lucky,” you mumble, tying on your mask- light gold accenting what was otherwise a plain, forgettable charcoal (that was the point), “at least you’ll get out of the jar.”
You pull on a heavy velvet cloak, pigeon gray and forgettable (that was the point), slip on your brass knuckle rings, and shove the door open with your elbow.
When you step outside, it isn’t quiet (it never is). To you, this is the middle of the night, to you, everyone else should be asleep, but- especially here, in the nicer parts, in the not very likely to be mugged and killed right there on the street, more likely to be dragged into an alleyway parts, in the not everyone has an empty stomach and most people own more than the clothes on their back parts, it was bustling to a near-sickening, downright claustrophobic level. Not because of the quantity of people, no, in fact the wealthier parts had far less populating it- but because of how much space each person seemed to take up.
A small series of dirt paths lay flat outside, and all you had to do was take the wrong one to end up sold or dead or robbed. No wind sighed, no trees groaned, no birds sang, no rain drummed. Why would anyone choose to be here, why anyone, even if they had money to stay, consent to remaining in a land lacking sun's warmth beating down and snow’s beauty cushioning everything, was bizarre. You know why you did it, but it didn’t make sense why anyone else would.
Taking a few meager steps from your front door, and then a meter and then another, you crouched, releasing the spider between two houses so it wouldn’t get crushed underfoot on the sidewalks or roads. It scurried out from your book to the smooth, paved ground, and you right yourself, knees creaking- you really should stretch more.
Your room- your house, technically?- is not home (it never has been). A low ceiling, water-stained (how, you ask yourself, was it water-stained when there was no rain to leak from above? The world may never know, but the subtle hint of rotted wood was there all the same) hung above you, peeling walls and a threadbare maroon carpet. You don’t even like the color red, and it’s scratchy so you always have to wear socks on it. Your closet door hung limp, askew, the slightest rustle enough for it to fall off its hinges so you’d have to readjust it, clothes strewn on the clothing chair- while technically chairs are for sitting, tossing your cloak off after a long day onto the chair snowballed into tossing everything onto the chair until it took on the role of a makeshift bin. The drawer in the nightstand beside your bed never closed all the way- the drawers had been shoved crooked into the frame and you couldn't figure how to even them out- and you slept not exactly on a ‘bed’, in the sense that it wasn’t a frame or a mattress, but rather a black mat on the floor, with a pillow and a thick, warm comforter atop it. That part was actually consensual: the flat, hard ground was better for your back, comfier for your spine- you actually had a mattress but gave it to someone else after leaving it unused.
(Mostly unused. 99% unused. You tried sleeping it when you first bought it, but it was a bed. A queen-sized bed. A queen-sized mattress.)
(There are some objects that are not meant to be used by one person, like a see-saw. Or a bed. A mattress.)
But
(There are some things that are not meant to be done alone. Eating mushroom soup. Sleeping upon a queen-sized mattress.)
When you shut the door behind you, you want to scream- you want to cry, to tear off your skin, to rage against the world, against all injustice-
Your perfect bowl is flipped over, piping-hot, creamy liquid smeared all over your desk, dripping (streaming! Like a waterfall!) down the edge in rivulets, pooled in a rich, thick puddle on the ground. You pinched the knob to your drawer- ready to snatch your dagger- but no sooner had your fingertips brushed against the metal than a (frighteningly large) hand clapped over your mouth, yanking you back like a spring trap- you stumbled over your feet, only to crash your back into him.
“It’s okay,” a voice soothed- a breathy whisper, meant to lull, to ease- but still you had the sudden and all-consuming urge to reach up to your face, to pick at it- “relax.”
His (strong calloused) hand was large enough to clasp over your lips and nose just the same. The drawer was no longer within reach- although your shoulders tensed, your stomach coiled, your jaw clenched- all physical reactions that never went away- your mind did not react with the haze of raw panic it used to. Too much time in the Market had simply desensitized you.
Against his (large rough) hand, which muzzled you, restricting but not entirely blocking your breathing, you pushed out your tongue- his hand twitched, he kept it there regardless- so you bit, the way a mouse nibbled at a rope, then the way a lion thrashes at a deer, tasting sweat and skin and then the iron tang of blood- he flinched, and something pointed and sharp dug into your side. All you wanted was to dig your fingernails into the bump so heavy on your chin, blemishes just begging and aching to be picked until they popped. “Try that again. Let’s see how well you fare with a shredded liver.” His voice- so low, so near to your ear- so deep, why was it so pleasant- only like a siren, inviting you to certain death. “Now. I’m going to remove my hand. You scream? I skewer your pretty waist. Understood?”
You nod your acquiescence meekly, and- and he digs his knife into your side, enough to tear through your cloak and to catch your nightdress- so you nod again, vigorously, and he chuckles, a patronizing well done.
Slowly, he detached his cupped palm from your lips, and your eyes centered on the warm blood trickling down- a little rivulet, so pretty against his skin. Instantly, instinctively, you gulped in breaths, now that your nose and mouth were free- and you were panicking as it is, nausea rolling itself out like a carpet in the bottom floor of your stomach, because you did not get by in the Market on your strength. Your speed, your stealth, even the punches of your heavy brass knuckles were meaningless now: they only helped to slip away from the enemy, or to shatter their teeth and break their nose when there wasn’t the risk (guarantee) they’d run a knife right through you- it was nothing when trapped, here, with a man who was pure muscle- he loomed over you, behind you- a wall blocking your way out, a tower caging you in- never have you been so aware that you’re 5'4. Never have you wished you’d put your effort into muscle building rather than slipping away unnoticed.
(Never have you felt a chest so broad and warm and firm pressing into your back).
“Listen,” how ridiculous- what else would you be doing right now, anyway? It’s not like you were distracted and in the middle of something and he needed to be sure you heard him- though, there was a particular full crater you needed to empty out in your cheek, “I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t let you go.”
“Oh, what am I gonna do? What am I gonna do, report you? Not like any of the guards around here are good for anything but bribes. So in what world am I a threat? All I do is chores.”
“You want to learn the secrets of a castle. Do you turn to the king deaf to his advisor’s schemes of assassinating him? No? Perhaps you should try the queen blind to the guillotine hanging above her until it falls? No? Then do you make the Earl ignorant of where his wife spends her evening soirées? No! You go to the servants, to the worker-ants who know every inch of the castle far better than the queen ant who sits so comfortably in her home.” He said, all serious and almost-but-not-quite impassioned, and there was also a piece of skin you could just feel on your temple that you had to peel off.
“It is as you said- worker-ants, there are many.” You said quietly, “hey. Could you loosen your grip around me just a little? I need to pick at my skin right now or I’ll die. Please,” you added, still quiet despite his rumbling voice, “you can slit my throat if I try to run or attack you, okay? I just- please. It’s been bugging me since this started.” A long moment, drawn out like a thread, tighter and tighter- until he nodded his acquiescence, a curt tilt of his chin, releasing you from the cage of his (so warm, why was he so warm? Nothing’s ever warm down here) arms.
And you saw him. Oh, how you saw him.
The tendons that pulsed in his thick neck, the cords of raw muscle along his bare chest, so proudly displayed like a peacock gloating over its feathers- out of justified arrogance, the peacock knowing full well how eye-catching it is. The emerald, the gold, the leather- and when he tilted his head, you were overcome with the sudden urge to grab his hair, to coil those thick locks round your fingers, to yank it so that insipid neck is pulled further back, to see what he's like when he's not so teeth-grindingly smug-
“To do away with me is to still have the rest of the staff under your thumb, and we both know violence isn’t what you’d use: your silver tongue works better than any silver weapon you may wield. You have no use for me, and I won’t tell anyone: leave me be, I am of no worth to you or to anyone.”
“If you wish to poison, do you go to the shoeshiner or the chef? No, dear, you misunderstand me: I mean to say that it is you- you are the laundress.” You can’t help it: your hand drifts to your face, to that patch of skin not concealed by your mask: that big, angry, swollen lump still hadn’t gone away, firmly planted as a weed that you had to dig your fingernails into, as an ever-present loose kernel between your teeth, and you pinch your index and thumb into it from either side to push it, to pop it. You fidget with it as he speaks:
“It is you that I seek, you who spends elbows-deep in others’ dirty laundry. Sheets that are as clean and untouched in the morning as they were the night before, even though the Duchess was supposed to be sleeping there. Cuffs blotted rust-red, a blouse doused in wine, a skirt smeared with bile, the hems of a trouser with mud clots clinging to them. Every piece of clothing tells a story- it’s the girl who sobs when she finds her nightgown stained red because no one bothered to explain a thing, it’s the man who begs and bribes others not to share what they’ve heard but is unaware that you, scrubbing his stained-sticky white sheets, are witness to his- to all- secrets.”
“You are seeing an egg and imagining it to be golden.” That insipid bump, why won't it burst? Why won't the puss ooze out? You pinch it closer, tighter between your thumb and index finger. It was getting on your nerves, and his voice and his words, too, were grating on you.
“Being a merchant means learning sometimes the most valuable items are the most overlooked.”
“So I’m a piece of merchandise.”
“Well: The knowledge you hold makes your head more valuable than that of an emperor’s.”
“Why won’t you get it through your head? Me washing people’s clothes doesn’t make me useful , it makes me as disposable as the rags I use!” This line of argument, this attitude, was a better weapon than any quick legs or brass knuckles in the Market: the whole point of any market is to gain something, acquiring either an item or information or a myriad of things- and if there was nothing to be gained from you, if no one had any use for you, you could keep your head down and not draw any attention (that was the point) and stay alive year after year as acquaintance after coworker mysteriously disappeared or was replaced, respectively.
“My dear laundress, do you know what I could offer you? The food, the payment, the social status?”
“I don’t want to be used, you coxcomb! Leave me alone, I’m-” dug your crescent-shaped nail in, “not-” jammed it in, just a little more “interested.” And it popped, that stupidly large bump, bursting with fresh, bright blood staining your fingertips, flowing under your nails.
“Don’t you wanna know how I got this far? Always-“ and he slid his hand up to pinch your chin (with his large, thick thumb), “tie-“ and he tilted your head to look at him, his theater mask all white and cheerful, cracked and fissured even with all the bright porcelain joy, “loose ends.”
“Then kill me. You may then bed every woman and wine with every man- indeed, pour until you’re all merry and jovial and their lips are loose enough to spill forth every secret they’ve tucked ever-so-tightly behind their teeth, you may push and heave and turn over every boulder, stone, and pebble laying above or below the earth- and still, you will not find a solitary soul- not one- who can give you what you the sort of secrets I know.”
(Instantly, you regretted it. Why had you spewed all that out? The whole point is to convince him to leave you alone, as a merchant searching for gold to sell, finding a plain rock, tossing it aside and leaving it in peace. You don’t want him to find you useful.
You don’t.
Do you?)
He tilted his head, amused, and reached his (long-fingered, wide-palmed) hands into an inner pocket, “sounds like you’re begging me to believe you’re valuable, after all.”
He plucked out a neatly-folded, properly-creased, white silk handkerchief, took your (comparatively much smaller, but even rougher, and so much more calloused from years of marinating in warm water and ash-lard soap and scrubbing vigorously) hand, now smeared with blood that flowed into every tiny indent- the hair-thin lines of your fingerprints, now each thin line defined with bright red in it- and dabbed away, ever gently- more gently than you would've expected from him, yes, but at the same time, more gently than anyone’s ever touched you. Ever. He wiped your fingers, one by one, so carefully you’d think you were a vessel of gossamer, of glass. "A peace offering", he says easily, reaching into his inner pocket to pull out a wooden container, smooth and polished- removing the lid to display layers of nutty meringue, smooth buttercream, and chocolate ganache in light, peaked mounds. “You see that buttercream? You know how it’s made? Nuts- in this case, almonds and pistachios- are boiled in sugar and ground into a smooth, sweet, mouth-watering mixture. And the chocolate mounds? Look how airy, how utterly weightless-”
And you could see it play out before, could see yourself being kept fed and fat with delicacies you’d never imagined, foods you could never, ever get access to the market- not without a salary you’d, let’s be honest, never achieve. It would be so easy. So easy to be pliant, compliant, spilling every secret from loose lips like a string of pearls, one smooth globe rolling out after another- until. Until. He’d gotten bored of you and gotten everything he needed from you but now you knew too much and disposed of you. Until one of the nobles you work for connected the dots and disposed of you for your indiscretion. You snatched the box- he chuckled in satisfaction- and upturned the box upside down, dumping out the creamy chocolate and finely-ground, shaved almonds- and when the meringue plopped down to the floor, you ground it all beneath the sole of your filthy old boots.
“My morals are not so easily bought. Try another. I’m not the only laundress in the Market- I’m not even the only one in the Ruby Palace. No, no. The fact that I know others’ secrets so clothes is the cherry on top, but not the cake itself. You must be after me for some other reason…”
Of all things, he laughed. “You overthink beyond need. You’re the easiest target, the one without any friends or family in the Market-”
“No connections if I suddenly drop off the map.” You finished flatly. To his credit, he had the dignity to at least not deny it.
He reached into his pocket, boasting a bottle with a seductively long neck, clean glass, and an apricot-colored liquid, switching the bottle slowly back and forth. In a mournful, dripping with disappointment tenor voice, he explained: “The acidity of this would've balanced out the sweetness of the chocolate ganache, and gone quite nicely with the nutty meringue. The lightness of the liquid would aid how thirst-inducing the thick buttercream is.”
“I don’t-”
“Drink? I know. I prefer it that way, actually- too many sources leak simply because a little alcohol poked a hole or two in them.”
“I expect it to be poisoned.”
“I’ll drink it with you.”
“You probably built up immunity.”
“You think too highly of me.”
“Always better to overestimate your enemy.”
“I’m not your enemy.”
“Then quit acting like one.”
He set the bottle down on your table with a muffled clink. “There’s a lovely bakery- nice and open and with enough patrons- that is, eyewitnesses- and, though I assure you I didn’t buy out any of the workers there, you’re not obligated to order anything if you don’t want to, but if you do, I’ll pay for it. I’ll be waiting there.”
“You’ll be waiting forever.”
You were neither trusting enough to drink it nor well-off enough rough to toss it out, so the bottle stood vigil over you as you slept.
When you awoke, a white, open-bloomed oleander lay on your desk as if this was its home, with its golden center and delicate, thin five petals.
An interlude:
That night, you stared up at your ceiling- you, flat on your empty mat, which was your way of telling yourself you wouldn’t be sleeping yet: you only sleep on your right side, so when you need to think, you lay on your back, a subconscious signal that you don’t intend to sleep right now.
Because here’s the thing. You didn’t doubt that you weren’t the only one in the market without friends or family. Sure, some did have both the former and latter, but really, how many people changed their masks, changed their names, started afresh time and again? And even those who’d been here for years- how many were quick to slip poison into someone’s goblet, to lie just because they know full well they can get away with it? But you supposed it was a Venn diagram: people who did the laundry at the Ruby palace, and people without any connections to notice if they go missing (and, subsequently, no one to turn to. No one to gossip to, no one to let anything slip to)- and you happened to be the perfect apex, the meeting point between the two- long enough the market to know how it works like you do a chore, but obscure enough that you’d make the perfect prey- tool, really- for Oleander.
And you knew that death was at every corner here. A security guard that you ticked off, an old woman who wouldn’t think twice of offing you, a priest who’d gotten bored of you and your stubborn, defiant attitude. You’d been wary, but not paranoid, when you’d first come here- cautious, but not to the point that you expected anyone you spoke with to turn out to be a killer, a thief, a pimp, a merchant trading much more than items. But you were kind. Kind enough to give contact information to a girl named Trinity who needed help, kind enough to offer food to those who asked for it.
And here was the thing. Not everyone was evil, not everyone was out to get you. Even as your paranoia rose month by month, you were aware- in your brain- that not everyone was lurking around some corner, ready to pounce at you. But I felt like it. And even when you did hit it off with someone- a charming man named Adonis, a friendly worker who’d inherited a local store but who, scoring to tumors, wouldn’t last very long in it- it didn’t mean anything. Because it’s easy, so easy, to just… stop. Stop meeting up. Stop talking to each other. Stop sharing anything more significant than what you’d done over the weekend. Be friendly, but not friends. Casual, but not caring.
Nice, but not kind.
And so, while you remained kind, while you never stopped offering food to those who asked, you also realize that there was no sense getting attached to anyone. Even… even Bruna, who was larger than life, somehow both responsible and fun, both no-nonsense and compassionate- well, she was good to everyone. You weren’t an exception, and you know full well you like her more than she likes you because, well. You’re not really friends. Just a loyal customer and a patron who always delivers.
(And if Oleander was the first person, ever, to set foot in your house? Well. he didn’t need to know that.)
You reached over, plucking up the flower, pinching it between them band index gainer, pushing the green juice out of the stem till it stained your fingertips, till it was flattened between them. The first gift you’d gotten, either.
(sometimes, your coworkers would bring sweets or snacks for a lunch and be willing to share them, but what if they were poisoned, what if they… you never knew. You never knew.)
So what if he would kill you when he no longer needed you. So what if he was probably lying about why he wanted to work with you. So what if you were a little scared of how he’d found where you live, and how he’d know to enter the house when you were- wait, had he put the spider there, knowing you'd take it out? Or was this you being justifiably and reasonably paranoid again?
You pinch the stem firmly, the delicate white petals drooping over your face- because here's the thing. Here’s the thing. If you had a friend, a trusted advisor, whoever, you’d tell them about this. And they’d take you out of it. Because all you needed, really, was someone to listen to you, someone to tell all this to- not necessarily advice, not even active support, just someone to pour all this to- and then you’d arrive at the conclusion that this is ridiculous and of course you wouldn’t do it.
But you didn’t. You don’t, and you haven’t, and you won’t. If you agreed to this, you’d have someone to talk to regularly about your job, about the things you saw and heard there that you couldn't tell anyone- and here was someone asking, even wanting, to hear you talk. Someone you could meet up with outside of either your house or your workplace. Someone to… to look forward to seeing, someone to greet you, and not because they’re a bartender or a shopkeeper, but because he came to you.
(And if he’s the first person you’ve spoken to that wasn’t a coworker or to whom you were neither employee nor customer, well. He didn’t need to know that, either.)