Chapter Four: Who is Eleft?

Ilyria looked up at the fragrant shape and saw a set of double chins that shook with laughter. She stepped back, dusting down her trousers, trying to get her bearings. When no one emerged from the street behind her, she allowed herself a sigh of relief.

The large woman with the chins finally managed to stop laughing. She smiled at Ilyria and the thick makeup caked around her eyes and mouth cracked and flaked. She wiped her watering eyes.

“Sweet Oren’s gods, child,” she said, “You fight with the wiles of a desert cat.”

Ilyria was silent, uncertain how to answer this strange woman. The woman went on, “But you are no child are you,” her eyes dropped to Ilyria’s chest, and she raised one painted eyebrow, “nor no boy.”

Embarrassed, Ilyria pulled the shirt closed. The buttons must have come off during the fight with the robbers. And her pockets were empty. Ilyria realized that she had run out of ideas.

“I need help,” she said to the woman.

“That I can see,” said the woman. She shifted her substantial weight from foot to foot, still eyeing Ilyria as she thought. “Nothing for it then,” she said. “You must come with me.”

She turned and started back down the street. She walked somewhat awkwardly, as if she had some difficulty controlling her own movements. When Ilyria did not immediately join her, she stopped. “You have a better arrangement to consider?” she asked.

Ilyria had no answer. She sighed and fell into step beside the woman.

“I am Madame Skia,” said the woman as they walked, “And you are?”

Ilyria thought quickly.

“Eleft,” she said, remembering one of her mother’s serving girls. The girl had used black polish on Dirk’s brown leather boots and for this transgression, Dirk had had her head shorn and her face branded with the mark of a thief. Ilyria had only heard about it after when Daria had been irritated by having to find another girl to replace her. The girl had disappeared into the desert.

Dirk was not a man who took anything lightly, let alone a public humiliation such as a runaway bride.

“Eleft?” said Madame Skia, shooting her a look that could have been interest or disbelief. Ilyria found it hard to read her expressions beneath the thick mask of makeup.

“Just Eleft,” she said, choosing her own interpretation of the question.

“Very well. Is there someone looking for you, young Eleft-disguised-as-a-boy?”

Would her absence have been discovered yet? The wedding was set for the late afternoon and her mother would still be sleeping. Dirk may still be with Haris’ widow. The thought made her once again feel ill. But with both her mother and Dirk otherwise occupied, it was possible the alarm had not yet been raised.  

Deciding a lie would not protect her, Ilyria settled on a half-truth. “Perhaps,” she said.

“Perhaps?” snorted Madame Skia, “Perhaps is a wish uttered in the dark before the lights come on.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” said Madame Skia, stopping in front of a door. It was an unremarkable wooden door in a wall of the same weather-beaten rock and clay as any of its neighbors. Madame Skia removed a ring with a single long, pale key from beneath her skirts, and looked around before inserting it. “You wish to disappear?” she said.  

Ilyria looked at that plain door and the bone-colored key and the strange woman who wielded it. She felt her insides constrict with something that might yet have been fear. Still, it was nothing compared to what she had felt in the late hours of the night when Dirk had called forth that dark, slithering evil. With Madame Skia watching her so closely, she suppressed the shudder that threatened. Did she wish to disappear? She wondered herself.

Madame Skia turned the lock and began to open the door. With the door still open just a crack and only darkness to see past it, she turned to face Ilyria.

“Before you answer, Eleft,” she said, “You and I need an understanding. One,” she held up one long finger, the nail painted dark as blood, “That this name is the last lie you tell me.” She paused, waiting for her words to settle with Ilyria, then held up a second finger, “And two, that whatever trouble you are running from should remain out of my house.” Again, she waited. Ilyria began to respond but Madame Skia interrupted her, “I advise you once more and for the last time: remember my first rule before you speak.”

Ilyria did.

“Eleft has no need to disappear,” she said.

Madame Skia’s eyes narrowed.

“You are sharp, child. I shall give you that. Come now,” and she reached forward, pulling Ilyria by the arm past her and through the door.

Ilyria waited in the darkened vestibule as Madame Skia closed the door, taking her time to pocket the key. Beyond, she glimpsed an open courtyard but within the small space, the smell was intoxicating. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Beneath the sweet, spicy scent of incense floated a smell she had only overheard merchants discuss in hushed tones. She recognized from their descriptions the bitter tang at the back of the throat, the gentle buzzing behind her eyes, the way her body began to feel light, airy, almost as if she could …

“Best not to linger,” said Madame Skia, now pushing her through the archway that separated the vestibule from the courtyard.

She could never have guessed at the delights of this courtyard from the ordinary exterior of the house. Plants with iridescent leaves and flowering with colors she could hardly name, cascaded from every wall and corner. Large cushions draped in jewel-colored silks and velvets lay scattered on the stones. A canopy of filigreed shahtoosh, undulated in a cool breeze, providing shade to the sleeping occupants of the cushions.

Madame Skia surveyed the scene before her for a few moments with her hands on her hips. She seemed amused. Then she brought her hands together in a clap so loud that Ilyria put her hands to her ears.

Across the courtyard, girls sat up sleepily with groans or sighs. Birds, roused from their own quiet sleep, began to whistle and chirp at each other across the courtyard. Ilyria had to duck as one swooped over her head in a flash of emerald green and she was momentarily dazzled by the flash of jewels tagging its legs.

There were more girls in the courtyard that she had at first thought. They were sometimes two or three to a cushion and as familiar as sisters with each other. Ilyria felt herself blush at the disarray of their clothes and how comfortable they all were in their various stages of undress.

One girl tumbled off a cushion nearby, landing at Ilyria’s feet. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and smearing black kohl eyeliner in long smudgy stripes along her face. Squinting one eye shut, she looked up at Ilyria and smiled dreamily. Her eyes were blue as cave pools and distant as the stars.

Madame Skia clicked her tongue at the girl.

“Miasma,” she said, “You have been indulging too much in the chariko again. It is for the clients, stupid girl.”

Miasma continued to smile. Her curly hair seemed to float around her head in a cloud of silver and gold.

Chariko was the name of the spice Ilyria had smelt in the vestibule. They provided it to … clients? Ilyria felt uneasy. She had learned many things listening in on the merchants’ conversations. Not all of them had made sense at the time.

“But Madame,” said the girl called Miasma, “You look so so …” she waved her arms around in the air and then seemed to be distracted by the movement of the shimmery fabric covering her arms.

Madame Skia rolled her eyes at Ilyria.

“You might think it is the charo, but actually Miasma came to us like this. Miasma,” she said, snapping her fingers until Miasma looked at her again. “This is Eleft,” she gestured toward Ilyria, “Show her around.” Her voice trailed off and Ilyria saw her looking at a tall man who had entered the courtyard through another door. He wore a long cloak, the hood of which covered his face. He held his hands clasped in front of him. Ilyria looked at his feet, but they were customarily bare. Then she remembered that she was still wearing Dirk’s boots. Madame Skia walked toward the man, her posture stiff and formal. She greeted him with a small nod, and they left together through the same door from which he had arrived.

Miasma clapped her hands, “A friend!” she cried.

“Oh Mia, you think everyone is friend,” called out one of the other girls, a girl with cinnamar skin against which her pale green eyes stood out like ice on sand. She stood and Ilyria saw she was naked except for a thin gold chain around her waist. She strolled over to Ilyria.

“Bonbon,” she introduced herself, “You will need to fix your name. It’s boring.” Ilyria tried to focus on the girl’s eyes. “You should be …” she reached out, fluffing Ilyria’s hair, pulling apart the torn shirt. She examined Ilyria as dispassionately as if she were a market animal. Ilyria stood and accepted the inspection with an unequal combination of shock, embarrassment, and curiosity. “You should be Kitten.”

Ilyria burst out laughing. “Kitten? Really?”

The other girls had begun to crowd around her, commenting on her hair, her eyes, her skin, her shape, everything. She felt suddenly like she had a whole crowd of sisters and it made her uncharacteristically compliant. They led her off telling her they would have their new little kitten all bathed and perfumed and dressed up in no time.

Ilyria stared at the apparition in the mirror. She dimly heard the girls around her cooing and complimenting her. But what she saw drained the blood from her face even beneath the layer of silvery powder with which she was covered. She looked like Daria Agrio. She looked like her mother. Her tears began to leave trails through the pretty shade of pink her cheeks had been blushed. The fine dark lines around her eyes smudged. The girls called out in horror, but Ilyria could not stop. This was not at all what she wanted. To look like this. To be seen like this.

Perhaps Bonbon had called Madame Skia, or perhaps Madame Skia had followed the commotion. But soon the girls had been shooed out of the room and Madame Skia was standing over her. She handed Ilyria tissues and Ilyria used them to wipe away tears and make-up until she felt and looked less Agrio and more Ilyria. Or Eleft. Or even Kitten. Anything but Daria.

“So, you will be our fresh-faced Kitten,” said Madame Skia, shrugging. “It’s new but it might work. It will be something different for the clients.”

Ilyria knew she had to speak up now. She had heard the girls talking about the previous night and she knew for certain what sort of house this was. “Madame Skia,” began Ilyria, “I am so grateful that you have offered me shelter but I …”

“You have other options?” said Madame Skia. Ilyria was silent. “You have skills I can use like,” she listed them on her fingers, “cook, cleaner, logician, solicitor?” Ilyria shook her head dully. She could play the piano and speak passable Itoulp. She had received high marks for her knowledge of Idixatian history. Was this all she was? Her worth measured by what she could contribute to a house of ill repute. Madame Skia’s eyes narrowed as she watched Ilyria. “You think you are too good for us?”

Miserable, Ilyria shook her head. “No.”

“Then you work. Like everyone else.” Her tone softened. “It’s not so bad, child. This is a good establishment. I don’t tolerate nonsense from the clients.”

“Yes.”

What else could she say?