1. The Hothouse Flower


    Date: 9/14/2015, Categories: Historical, Author: FeliciaGreene, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    Shell, they will use their Hands and Tongue and Secret Places in ways that would make our Prim Parisian Whores blush...' I dream of those Eve-like women, with their honeyed skin and full breasts and shameless tongues, and the night seems warmer. * The carriage stands out; a painted lady in a street of muddy drabs. The gold paint shines through the smog and slurry, with the neighborhood children pointing and loudly marveling. For the first time since my father's death, I feel the money in my blood. Alain looks worse for wear; he is too red, his skin crumpled with pillow creases. I must use less mandrake next time. 'Get to one of the wagons,' he says shortly, throwing out an arm to the trail of flower-filled carts lining the street. 'The coach is mine.' I look at the wagons. They are covered with muck and slime; the Queen will not see these. They will creep around the back of the palace like wretches, their cargo kept from damage with sacks and blocks of ice. I look at the dress I have chosen for the day, a purple silk, and I am furious. It is unwise to hide my hatred, this I know - but I do not care, and I take great relish in looking deep into his bloodshot eyes. 'Swine before pearls,' I say, spitting on the floor by his shoes, and Alain turns abruptly on his heel to climb into the coach. The fact that he is not man enough to strike me in public makes me laugh. After a half-hour's ride atop the second of fifteen flower carts, I decide that an open sky and petals underfoot ...
    are infinitely preferable to even the most elaborately decorated coach. I am almost a child again; throwing dead flowers onto the roadside, making jokes with the sunny-faced boy of about fourteen in charge of the horses. He even lets me share his meal; a hunk of bread and cheese that I eat with no regard to decorum. Soon crumbs are gathering in the folds of my dress, and I wrap an unused flower sack around me like a cloak. Swallows are wheeling overhead. I am content. 'Aristo pig!' I hear a stone whistling; a cry of alarm from Alain as the coach is hit. There is a group of people at the side of the road, waiting at the borders of the city. They look dirty, their eyes full of wary hate, and I sink down to the level of the topmost sack of flowers. The coachman at the head of the cart trail is shaking his fist, a stream of bad language falling on the stone-throwers, and I hear them laughing. With a shaking hand I reach into a flower-sack, drawing out a mixture of earth and sand, and quickly smear it over my face and hands until I am as indistinguishably dirty as the crowd. The wagon boy is looking at me with something like admiration. 'You'd do well to keep that face-paint on until we're out in the fields,' he says quietly as the cart passes through the crowd without incident. 'Your kind aren't popular at the moment.' 'I don't have a kind,' I say, and the boy laughs. 'I'll keep out of sight until we're there.' 'It's more than a day's ride,' he says, 'and we'll be changing horses. ...
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