he fought it back; slammed a lid on it.
“I’m Gordon,” he said. “And may I say that it is my very great pleasure to meet you, Flora.”
7
The prostitute’s tent is so thick with spicy, aromatic smoke that Megan chokes as it hits the back of her throat. She blinks until her eyes get used to the haze, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. The smell in here is immediately reminiscent of Bodbran’s tent, and the prostitute, who sits on layers of sheepskin and is wrapped in woollen blankets, smokes a similarly large and conical wrap of herbs. On a low, smooth cross section of oak log, a dozen or more squat tallow candles drip and hiss, creating a small sun, its brightness causing Megan to squint.
The prostitute beckons with both hands.
“Come. Come to me, girl. It’s a blessing to see you again.”
Stooping, Megan goes to the woman, who unwraps her shroud of blankets and enfolds her like a long-lost daughter. Megan doesn’t need to will herself more form; she is here in the weave as solidly as she exists in the day world. The prostitute holds her for a long time and Megan senses a tremor through the woman’s tight embrace. When she lets go and Megan retreats to sit down, the prostitute is wiping away tears of her own. Her face has changed; less furrowed by resigned cynicism, the prostitute now looks careworn but content and wears no trace of makeup. She adjusts her position on the skins, wincing, and smiles at Megan.
“You haven’t changed at all, girl. How lucky you are to hold your youth so well. Now, after all this time I can’t keep calling you girl. What’s your name again?”
Megan laughs.
“I’m Megan. And I only saw you yesterday.”
“Ah, yes. I remember.” The prostitute draws hard on her fat roll-up, holding the smoke in for a long time. As she breathes out she says, “But it’s been a sight longer than that for me, Megan. I may see the weave. I can even enter it since you visited me that night. But I can’t travel it the way the Keepers do.”
How stupid of me, thinks Megan. I should have known that time might have passed for her.
“What’s your name?” Megan asks.
“Folk hereabouts call me Carissa.”
“Carissa. That’s lovely.”
“Well, it’s better than Annie the Attic Attraction.”
Megan blushes.
“How long has it been, Carissa? Since we met?”
“In three months, it’ll be a year. I refused my next customer the day I saw you. And the one after that. The next one that came up the stairs was drunk. He had the eyes of man who’d been hurt as a child. Hurt and abandoned. I can see these things. Any road, he didn’t understand what ‘no’ meant. Thought it was a game until I tore a strip off his cheek with my teeth. That just made him more committed, though. He stuffed his wallet into my mouth and broke both my shins with his kicking. Rode me all night after that and then refused to pay because of his face.”
Megan sucked at the air in shock and her hands flew to her mouth. Carissa smiled.
“It wasn’t so bad. He left enough money for a bonesetter to fix me up but the Mistress didn’t want Annie the Attic Attraction any more after that. I knew what I needed to do, though. It was time to cross the river and start again. I do alright now. Folk tell me their pains. They ask me the way forward. Most of them pay. And sometimes, when the things I’ve told them come to pass, they come back and pay me more. It’s tiring at times, but no more so than being on my back all night, and I do a lot more good this way than I used to.”
“And you’re happy now,” says Megan.
Carissa considers.
“No. But I can see happiness in others sometimes. And that’s blessing.” She leans a little way forward to whisper, “A blessing I’d like to repay.”
Megan is ashamed at her misreading of the woman’s demeanour. And after everything Carissa has been through, all she has now is her tent and a reliance upon the kindness of strangers. Surely there is something
“I’m Gordon,” he said. “And may I say that it is my very great pleasure to meet you, Flora.”
7
The prostitute’s tent is so thick with spicy, aromatic smoke that Megan chokes as it hits the back of her throat. She blinks until her eyes get used to the haze, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. The smell in here is immediately reminiscent of Bodbran’s tent, and the prostitute, who sits on layers of sheepskin and is wrapped in woollen blankets, smokes a similarly large and conical wrap of herbs. On a low, smooth cross section of oak log, a dozen or more squat tallow candles drip and hiss, creating a small sun, its brightness causing Megan to squint.
The prostitute beckons with both hands.
“Come. Come to me, girl. It’s a blessing to see you again.”
Stooping, Megan goes to the woman, who unwraps her shroud of blankets and enfolds her like a long-lost daughter. Megan doesn’t need to will herself more form; she is here in the weave as solidly as she exists in the day world. The prostitute holds her for a long time and Megan senses a tremor through the woman’s tight embrace. When she lets go and Megan retreats to sit down, the prostitute is wiping away tears of her own. Her face has changed; less furrowed by resigned cynicism, the prostitute now looks careworn but content and wears no trace of makeup. She adjusts her position on the skins, wincing, and smiles at Megan.
“You haven’t changed at all, girl. How lucky you are to hold your youth so well. Now, after all this time I can’t keep calling you girl. What’s your name again?”
Megan laughs.
“I’m Megan. And I only saw you yesterday.”
“Ah, yes. I remember.” The prostitute draws hard on her fat roll-up, holding the smoke in for a long time. As she breathes out she says, “But it’s been a sight longer than that for me, Megan. I may see the weave. I can even enter it since you visited me that night. But I can’t travel it the way the Keepers do.”
How stupid of me, thinks Megan. I should have known that time might have passed for her.
“What’s your name?” Megan asks.
“Folk hereabouts call me Carissa.”
“Carissa. That’s lovely.”
“Well, it’s better than Annie the Attic Attraction.”
Megan blushes.
“How long has it been, Carissa? Since we met?”
“In three months, it’ll be a year. I refused my next customer the day I saw you. And the one after that. The next one that came up the stairs was drunk. He had the eyes of man who’d been hurt as a child. Hurt and abandoned. I can see these things. Any road, he didn’t understand what ‘no’ meant. Thought it was a game until I tore a strip off his cheek with my teeth. That just made him more committed, though. He stuffed his wallet into my mouth and broke both my shins with his kicking. Rode me all night after that and then refused to pay because of his face.”
Megan sucked at the air in shock and her hands flew to her mouth. Carissa smiled.
“It wasn’t so bad. He left enough money for a bonesetter to fix me up but the Mistress didn’t want Annie the Attic Attraction any more after that. I knew what I needed to do, though. It was time to cross the river and start again. I do alright now. Folk tell me their pains. They ask me the way forward. Most of them pay. And sometimes, when the things I’ve told them come to pass, they come back and pay me more. It’s tiring at times, but no more so than being on my back all night, and I do a lot more good this way than I used to.”
“And you’re happy now,” says Megan.
Carissa considers.
“No. But I can see happiness in others sometimes. And that’s blessing.” She leans a little way forward to whisper, “A blessing I’d like to repay.”
Megan is ashamed at her misreading of the woman’s demeanour. And after everything Carissa has been through, all she has now is her tent and a reliance upon the kindness of strangers. Surely there is something
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