practically begged for unwanted attention. The sight of the blue ruffles and bright white collar must have seemed the height of silliness to those walking about in such drab colors, but she would feel even sillier if she went back to her room to change. Better to see this through before she lost her nerve.
Squaring her shoulders, Victoria stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk and through the batwing doors. Inside, a cloud of blue smoke drifted along the ceiling, constantly fed by the cigars, cigarettes, and pipes of the men gathered around card games. A bar ran the length of the wall to her left. Bottles of liquor gleamed under the light of the kerosene lamps lining the walls. Against the far corner, a man in a bowler hat and suspenders plinked at an upright piano, occasionally stumbling upon something that resembled a melody.
A hush fell over the room as the doors swung shut behind her. Heads turned and chairs scraped along the floor as the men took in the sight of her. Their eyes were cold and probing. She could feel them exploring every inch of her body, lingering on the swells of her hips and chest. Her tongue darted across her lips. "Good day, gentlemen."
"Wrong door, sweetheart," came a voice.
"Brothel's across the way," said another, getting a laugh from the rest.
"If you're taking customers, there's a storeroom in the back."
Victoria's cheeks flushed a deep red. Her eyes dropped to the floorboards.
"Aw, see, you all went and made her color up." The voice was the one she'd heard out in the street. "That ain't no way to treat a lady of the night, now is it?"
Another laugh rolled around the room. Indignation began to boil beneath Victoria's humiliation. It rose inside her until she found the courage to look toward the speaker, blue eyes sparking with anger.
The object of her rage sat at one of the tables, surrounded by four men. Unlike her companions, she hadn't turned her chair to face the young woman when she entered. Her attention was focused on the cards sprouting from her right hand like a greasy bouquet. The woman's other hand held an empty shot glass in a loose fist, her index finger toying with the rim.
The silence in the room showed no sign of ending, so Victoria took a step toward the woman. "I beg your pardon," she said.
"You don't look like you need to beg for anything," the woman replied, turning to face her. Age and sun had folded the skin of her face into itself like sheets on a well-made bed. Her hair was the color of a photograph: black and white and grey. A single streak of white ran from the edge of her hairline into the long braid that ended halfway down her back. Dark eyes glimmered at her as the woman broke into a grin. "I reckon every man here could beg you for a year's pay and you'd still have enough to buy us all a round."
"I am not a prostitute."
The woman snorted. "Sure you ain't. Just because you only spread your legs for one rich feller don't make you any less a bawd. How many times you rut with him afore he bought you that fancy dress?"
Victoria's blue eyes narrowed, her cheeks fading from red to white. "None. Not that it's any of your concern, but I am not and have never been married, so I am no man's whore."
"Well, you ain't wearing that fancy getup for nothing. I'm more than a mite curious what would bring such a proper lady into the Print Shop if she ain't looking to ply her trade. You just get a hankering for some of my famous whiskey, or is you here on other business?"
"As a matter of fact, I am," Victoria said, her back as straight as a flagpole. "I happen to be looking for someone."
"Among this lot?" The woman's laugh was as coarse as the stubble on the men's faces. "I don't reckon we got anything you'd be after, young missie. Now, you got something some of these boys here'd be after, though, so I'd watch your back if I was you."
Victoria refused to let their eyes bother her. "I was instructed to come here. By a priest."
Another laugh. "Sounds like you got
Squaring her shoulders, Victoria stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk and through the batwing doors. Inside, a cloud of blue smoke drifted along the ceiling, constantly fed by the cigars, cigarettes, and pipes of the men gathered around card games. A bar ran the length of the wall to her left. Bottles of liquor gleamed under the light of the kerosene lamps lining the walls. Against the far corner, a man in a bowler hat and suspenders plinked at an upright piano, occasionally stumbling upon something that resembled a melody.
A hush fell over the room as the doors swung shut behind her. Heads turned and chairs scraped along the floor as the men took in the sight of her. Their eyes were cold and probing. She could feel them exploring every inch of her body, lingering on the swells of her hips and chest. Her tongue darted across her lips. "Good day, gentlemen."
"Wrong door, sweetheart," came a voice.
"Brothel's across the way," said another, getting a laugh from the rest.
"If you're taking customers, there's a storeroom in the back."
Victoria's cheeks flushed a deep red. Her eyes dropped to the floorboards.
"Aw, see, you all went and made her color up." The voice was the one she'd heard out in the street. "That ain't no way to treat a lady of the night, now is it?"
Another laugh rolled around the room. Indignation began to boil beneath Victoria's humiliation. It rose inside her until she found the courage to look toward the speaker, blue eyes sparking with anger.
The object of her rage sat at one of the tables, surrounded by four men. Unlike her companions, she hadn't turned her chair to face the young woman when she entered. Her attention was focused on the cards sprouting from her right hand like a greasy bouquet. The woman's other hand held an empty shot glass in a loose fist, her index finger toying with the rim.
The silence in the room showed no sign of ending, so Victoria took a step toward the woman. "I beg your pardon," she said.
"You don't look like you need to beg for anything," the woman replied, turning to face her. Age and sun had folded the skin of her face into itself like sheets on a well-made bed. Her hair was the color of a photograph: black and white and grey. A single streak of white ran from the edge of her hairline into the long braid that ended halfway down her back. Dark eyes glimmered at her as the woman broke into a grin. "I reckon every man here could beg you for a year's pay and you'd still have enough to buy us all a round."
"I am not a prostitute."
The woman snorted. "Sure you ain't. Just because you only spread your legs for one rich feller don't make you any less a bawd. How many times you rut with him afore he bought you that fancy dress?"
Victoria's blue eyes narrowed, her cheeks fading from red to white. "None. Not that it's any of your concern, but I am not and have never been married, so I am no man's whore."
"Well, you ain't wearing that fancy getup for nothing. I'm more than a mite curious what would bring such a proper lady into the Print Shop if she ain't looking to ply her trade. You just get a hankering for some of my famous whiskey, or is you here on other business?"
"As a matter of fact, I am," Victoria said, her back as straight as a flagpole. "I happen to be looking for someone."
"Among this lot?" The woman's laugh was as coarse as the stubble on the men's faces. "I don't reckon we got anything you'd be after, young missie. Now, you got something some of these boys here'd be after, though, so I'd watch your back if I was you."
Victoria refused to let their eyes bother her. "I was instructed to come here. By a priest."
Another laugh. "Sounds like you got
Similar Books
