Chapter 1: The Mother’s Secret
The air in Madame Isabella’s private garden tasted of oil and ozone, thick with the perfumed mist that hissed from the brass-capped pistils of the mechanical flowers. They bloomed in sickly, synchronous pulses, their light casting a greenish pallor over everything. Dante leaned against the cold iron frame of an ornamental trellis, its metal twisted into the shape of two serpents forever locked in a coital spiral. He was trying to look bored. It was part of the service.
“You’re distracted tonight.” Isabella’s voice was a low purr, cutting through the rhythmic thrum of the garden’s machinery. She emerged from behind a shuddering topiary shaped like a peacock, its tail fans shuddering with a sound like rattling chains. At thirty-eight, she wore her hunger without shame. The silk of her burgundy dressing gown clung to every curve as she moved toward him, the damp earth silent under her slippered feet.
“Just admiring your… horticulture,” Dante said, offering her the easy, practiced smile that paid his rent. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“Liar.” She closed the distance, not with a walk, but with a predatory glide. Her scent, jasmine and expensive sherry, overwhelmed the artificial florals. “You’ve been fidgeting since you arrived. Thinking of her?”
A cold trickle, unrelated to the mist, traced Dante’s spine. “Of who?”
“My daughter, of course.” Isabella’s gloved hand came to rest flat on his chest. She could feel the steady, controlled beat of his heart. Or maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she just liked the solid feel of him. “My little Pandora. She’s been… different lately. Out all hours. Comes home smelling of machine oil and cheap gin. And there’s a look in her eye.” Her thumb stroked a slow circle through his shirt. “A woman’s look. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
The question hung in the humid air. Dante kept his breathing even, his green eyes giving away nothing but a polite, client-approved interest. “She’s eighteen. It’s what they do.”
“Is it?” Isabella’s other hand came up, trapping him against the trellis. The cold iron bit through his thin linen shirt. “This is more than teenage rebellion. It’s a transformation. A week ago, she was all scraped knees and wrenches, talking about gear ratios. Now?” She leaned in, her lips a hair’s breadth from his ear. “Now she moves like she knows what her hips are for. She’s got a new… confidence. A knowing.” She drew back, her gaze searching his face. “It’s fascinating, don’t you think? To watch a girl become a creature of desire.”
Every muscle in Dante’s body coiled tight. He knew that look. He saw it in the mirror sometimes, in the dark hours. It was the look of something hollowed out and put back together wrong. He thought of Pandora just days ago, laughing as she fixed a stubborn valve on a streetlamp, grease smudged on her nose. His Pandora. His only real friend.
Isabella misread his tension for arousal. A slow smile spread across her face. “It affects you, doesn’t it? The idea of it.” She pressed her body flush against his, her silk-covered heat meeting the rigid line of his erection straining against his trousers. It was a professional response, an autopilot of physiology he despised but could not control. She ground against him, a slow, practiced rotation. “Talk to me about her while I do this. Tell me what you imagine she’s been doing.”
“Isabella.” His voice was tight, a warning.
“Or don’t talk.” She nudged him backward, away from the trellis, toward the center of the garden where a large, polished steel examination table stood, its surface cold and unyielding. It was usually for her automaton repairs. Tonight, it was for him. The small of his back hit the edge, and she pushed, leveraging his weight until he was sitting on it, then leaning back onto his elbows. She climbed atop him, settling her weight on his thighs, her knees pinning his hips. The mist from a nearby mechanical rose enveloped them in a cloying, rose-scented cloud.
Her gloved fingers found the buttons of his shirt, working them open with efficient tugs. “She came home yesterday,” Isabella murmured, her breath hot on his exposed sternum as she spread the fabric. “Her clothes were torn. Not in a fight, no. Torn in… specific places. And she had this mark,”—Isabella’s finger traced a meaningless pattern on Dante’s abdomen—“just here, on her neck. A bruise, deep and purple. The kind a man’s mouth makes when he forgets himself.”
Dante stared at the glass ceiling, where the city’s soot-stained fog glowed an ugly orange from the gaslights below. He focused on a crack in the pane, a spiderweb of flaws. He detached. It was a skill, the first one he’d learned in this life.
“Was it you, Dante?” Her voice was suddenly sharp, devoid of its earlier purr. Her hands stopped their tracing. “Did you finally decide to sample the cheaper vintage? My strange little girl?”
He turned his head to look at her then, his expression carefully blank. “I don’t mix business with friendship.”
She studied him for a long moment, then the hungry smile returned. “Good.” She resumed her movements, her hips rocking against him, the friction maddening through the layers of fabric. “Because she’s not for you. She’s for someone with real taste. Someone who appreciates… unrefined potential.” She leaned down, her lips brushing his. “You see, I know what she’s been doing. She thinks it’s a secret. Her little acts of rebellion. Following certain men to certain parts of the city.”
Dante’s detachment cracked. A fissure. “What men?”
Isabella laughed, a rich, throaty sound. “Jealous? Don’t be. They’re my friends. Business associates. I asked them to keep an eye on her. To… guide her exploration.” She sat up, looking down at him with a depraved triumph. “For a week, I’ve had her followed. Every night, a different gentleman. Showing her the parts of the city a proper young lady shouldn’t see. Letting her taste things she shouldn’t taste. My little project. Her maturation, accelerated.”
The world tilted. The thrumming of the garden faded into a high-pitched whine in Dante’s ears. He saw Pandora’s face, not laughing, but confused. Scared. Coming home torn and marked. A week. A different man every night. Guided. He felt the bile rise, sharp and acrid in his throat.
Isabella saw the revulsion he could no longer hide. It seemed to excite her further. “Oh, don’t look like that. She’s safe. They’re gentlemen. They know she’s mine. They just… prepared her. Broke her in. For tonight.”
She shifted her weight, one hand sliding down to fumble with the fastening of his trousers. “Because tonight, my dear Dante, is the culmination. My friend Mister Verrick is hosting a gathering. A very private viewing. My daughter is the guest of honor. And you,” she said, finally releasing him, sliding off the table, “you are going to be late for your next appointment if you don’t hurry.”
She smoothed her gown, the moment of raw need suddenly replaced by a cool, dismissive elegance. As if they had just discussed the weather. Dante pushed himself up, his movements stiff, his mind a white noise of rage and horror. He buttoned his shirt with numb fingers.
“The payment is on the console by the door,” she said, already turning to adjust the valve on a wheezing, lotus-shaped apparatus. “Do send Pandora my love if you see her. Tell her… tell her to wear something nice for Mister Verrick. He dislikes machine grease.”
Dante walked out of the garden, through the opulent, silent house. He took the envelope of cash without looking at it, shoving it into his coat pocket. The grand front door clicked shut behind him, sealing away the humid, perfumed nightmare.
The cold night air of the city hit him like a slap. He stood on the steps, gasping, the image of Pandora—his Pandora, fierce and funny and kind—being delivered to some "gathering" like a presented dish burning behind his eyes.
He knew where Verrick lived. A fortified manor on the edge of the industrial quarter. A place where sounds were muffled and tastes were expensive.
Dante started to run. Not toward his next client. Not toward his sparse rented room. He ran through the gaslit streets, his polished boots splashing through foul puddles, his breath tearing from his lungs in ragged clouds. He ran toward the only piece of his life that was real, and he prayed to gods he didn’t believe in that he wasn’t already too late.