Chapter Text
The corruption begins with the mouth,
the tongue, the wanting.
The first poem in the world
I want to eat.
-Where it Begins, Erica Jong
The Jewel of Lemoyne fucking stinks. Arthur sits on the back of his poor, overworked mare, and Saint Denis sprawls out before him. The damp, swampy smell of Shady Belle pales in comparison to the heavy blanket of smog that seems to emanate from the city. Plumes of smoke funnel out of monstrous concrete buildings that seem to swallow everything around them. They seem almost giants, trampling and squashing and consuming the natural world that he has become so accustomed to. Sleeping under the stars and fresh air has spoiled Arthur for freedom, and Saint Denis seems crushingly oppressive in comparison.
From the end of the bridge, Arthur can see people skitter about the outskirts like ants. The factories belch smoke every few seconds, and the sky above has turned a repellent muddy grey. Electric companies advertise in great block letters, and the water surrounding the ever-expanding city is murky black.
He thinks of little Jack and how there are so many ways for a child to get hurt in a city like this. Abigail had clutched Arthur's hand before they left and looked at him with her pale eyes, full to the brim with tears and with all the trust and dogged admiration that was rightfully Johns. He sometimes forgets how young Abigail is. Motherhood has stripped the sharp, tawdry exterior from the early days. John had not comforted her, and Arthur did not think it was his own place to. Still, he patted her hand, twisted in his sleeve and told her he would do his best. Jack, with his innocent face and open heart. How he runs about calling him Uncle Arthur and winds his tiny arms about Arthur's neck when he slips him a bit of candy. He remembers the other boy who had loved candy, peppermints. When Arthur remembered, he would bring him a little bag of them. Often, he did not remember.
His mare wheezes and neighs in protest of the foul smell of sweat and smoke. After all those weeks of fresh air and open fields, she must feel the oppressive atmosphere in the city more than he does. He strokes her silken grey neck, and she calms, but only minutely, flaring her nostrils and tossing her elegant neck. Cassandra, he calls her. Hosea jokes, Cassandra the prophet. Arthur can only hope she is not a prophet. From the look in her accusing eyes, her only prophecies could be disaster.
"Sorry, girl." He murmurs, and she snorts irritably.
The streets are a mishmash of rich and poor, young and old. Everything is hurtling so fast that it makes Arthur's head spin. Women bustle down the street with lacy parasols and feathered hats, their hoop skirts sway, and they pick them off the muddy streets. Lawmen patrol in jaunty caps and cobalt blue coats, their buttons gleam when they swivel their necks suspiciously. Men crumpled on the street in dazes of opium, the sweet scent of it cloying in Arthur's nostrils. Working girls with their sad eyes and wandering hands. Children point at him and snicker when they see his wide-brimmed hat and his mud-caked boots. Arthur is out of place here, in his practical work clothes. Even if he changed those, he would still be conspicuous in the city. Men like him and Dutch are obvious in their lethality.
The sun is sinking, and the towering street lights flicker on. It blurs and softens the place, the warm glow blurring the concrete buildings and illuminating the rows of apartments in the shops above the streets. He kills time in shops, buys Cassandra some sugar cubes and feeds them to her apologetically. She is still annoyed with him and nips his palm while he feeds them to her. He sketches the tall Creole-style houses, the mob milling around him, and the little apartments that seem to buzz with life. He tries to find some beauty in Saint Denis but with little success. People here have a sleazy, reptilian quality about them. It makes Arthur uneasy. He asks the shopkeeper about Angelo Bronte, and the bearded little man turns pale and all but kicks him out of the shop. He tries again at a tailor's who attempts to force Arthur into a variety of watered silk waistcoats; with difficulty, Arthur extracts another location from him. A building with sconces at its red panelled doors and the word "SALOON" lettered at the helm is where he finds himself. A voice cuts through the haze, and he feels the muzzle of a gun pressed through his jacket—a mad cackle and then, Dutch.
The inside of the saloon is richly, gaudily decorated. White linen tablecloths are draped over the round tables, and people mill about them, bellowing over their drinks and kissing each other's cheeks. The ceilings are high, and red velvet curtains with twisted gold fringe loop over the arched windows. French and Italian and that thick burr so typical of Lemoyne all blend into the same raucous buzz of voices. "BASTILLE SALOON" is painted in yellow behind the bar. Bastille. It rings a bell in Arthur's mind from years ago. Dutch had told him about it, men who had crushed the government and stormed a prison with their sheer force of will, or force of stupidity as Arthur had thought at the time.
A blonde woman screeches shrewishly in the corner, smoking and shouting obscenities. He goes to the harried bartender, who tells him he will be just a moment, but judging by the crowd, it may be several. He looks around him, the men wear ridiculous round hats, and their brightly dyed waistcoats strain over their bulging bellies, from a life in the city. The women are all dressed in the height of fashion, their waists laced tight with corsets and their hair in high, teetering styles over their ears. They wear rose, violet, and blinding diamond earbobs that sparkle as they toss their heads. Pipes are puffed, and cards dealt, and the faces all blend to one.
All except for you.
Arthur sees you, then. Squashed up against the bar and gesticulating madly at the bartender. You wear an immense black coat that looks like it belongs to a very large man. The sleeves are pushed up your forearms, which are stacked with gilt bracelets that clink and slide as you gesture to the bartender.
"Joe! Joe!" The unlucky Joe is wrestling a drunken man towards the spittoon. "Joe– I'm late already, and if they dock my wages, Joe, you'll answer for it." Your voice snaps, accent less save for a lilt that strangely reminds him of Trelawney. There's a flat quality to your voice that makes Arthur crane his neck to hear more, not high or low, not soft or harsh. Crystal clear, every word enunciated and slowed to the point of dissection. "The key, Joe."
Your face is angled away from him, but when you call the bartender again, he sees you. Foreign. Face painted thickly, mouth lined in a lurid shade of red and eyes dark with kohl. You are powdered and rouged within an inch of your life, and it contrasts sharply with the baggy, shapeless coat and its fraying cuffs. Your hair spills out of its metal combs, it curls around your face, and pieces have dripped onto your worn collar. Juggling an oversized carpet bag that you shift from hand to hand, you roll your eyes when he does not answer, and then sidling over to the wooden gate that separates the poor bartender from the increasingly belligerent crowd, you tap him on the shoulder and lean close to his ear. Your collar gapes a bit, and a shimmering strap comes into view. You tuck it away hastily. Arthur squints and tries to read your words, but he is distracted by a drunken screech.
"It's Miss Powell to you, and I need some bloody cocaine!" A woman seems to be causing a commotion. She hurls a book at a man who tries to approach her. It sails past his head and lands in some corner of the bar. Two men raise their hands and approach like they might a mad dog. She snatches up a fatly stuffed cushion from the red velvet chaise and holds it up threateningly at the men, and they cower backwards. She wears a fantastic peacock feather in her golden hair, which sways with her mad gestures. It catches the light for a moment, distracting Arthur from his curiosity.
When he looks back, Arthur sees you slip behind the bar, and then you are gone. He blinks, craning his neck over the bar. Surely he has missed something. But you are gone, and Joe, the bartender, has decided to bestow his attention on Arthur.
A whole dollar for whiskey. Jesus Christ, he hates this place. "The real stuff from Scotland", when he could get just as, if not drunker, on that homemade liquor that Miss Grimshaw dutifully brews every few weeks. He takes a resentful sip, and he has to admit, it is good. It is strong and has a rich flavour that Miss Grimshaw cannot replicate. He drinks one, and then another. A whole dollar, he might as well enjoy it. He watches people mingle and mix, scanning the room for any trace of a worn black coat. It must be late at night, or perhaps early morning now. It is hard to tell inside; the light could be from the warm red lamps, and this city seems to churn on, regardless of the hour.
He asks the bartender, about Angelo Bronte while ordering a fourth drink. Joe who seems to have had quite enough for one night, pauses his cleaning of a glass and stares at Arthur wide-eyed. He whispers agitatedly as if caught red-handed and tells Arthur he has come to the wrong place. He turns his head and begins tidying the bar.
Arthur slips into the alleyway. It is dark, with only a pale grey cast where the sky indicates the sunrise. He is about to go forward and lie in wait for the children that the drunk had directed him towards. Instead, he hears a sharp, irritated voice from up ahead.
"Robin got paid twice this last week!" That flat quality of voice has flared up indignantly. He can barely see you, swaddled in the black coat, the bare light of dawn reflects off your hair. Arthur cannot help himself; he tucks himself out of sight against the brick wall. You clutch the same carpet bag, which seems to be running away from you.
"You know if it were up to me, the likes of you wouldn't be allowed in these places." The man's voice drips with contempt. That ambiguous hatefulness Lenny told him about bleeding through. He can practically see you fizzle at the words, even in the dim light of the alley.
"The likes? The "likes" keep seats full at the Râleur." Your voice is agitated.
"Signor Bronte tolerating showgirls in respectable places does not mean I do." The man continues, he is Italian. His words slur on the vowels and are heavy with drink. Arthur can see his shadow swallowing you up.
"We agreed on a price." You sound forced into a cool, dangerous composure. The man steps closer and says something Arthur cannot hear. Arthur sees your hand slip into your coat pocket, discreetly. Arthur would know that movement anywhere. You have a gun.
The man staggers forward, and Arthur reaches for his own weapon. He sways a moment, and you reel back a little, expecting violence. Reluctantly, the man shoves a wad of notes into your hand and stalks off. He watches you lick your thumb and count the notes with a speed he has only seen on Dutch. With a huff, you tuck the carpetbag firmly under your arm and head upward to the street.
The sun is rising, bathing the alley in warm, golden light. Arthur follows, and a glint in the mud catches his eye. Gold. He kneels and picks up a smooth, snakelike gold chain with bells attached. They chime a little as a cool breeze, the first since his arrival in Saint Denis, fills the alley.
Arthur is going to the Théâtre. By all accounts, a fool thing to spend money on. Let alone two dollars. Arthur saw a cabaret once, years ago. Dutch had taken up with a blowzy blonde giantess who had stood about a head higher than Dutch. Arthur and John had been forced to stand in the audience for weeks on end so Dutch could woo her. The sheer impossibility of it appealed to some childish part of him that still wonders at the impossible. And, he must return the bracelet to you. You know, Bronte, at least through employment, perhaps you can point him to Jack. Jack, little innocent Jack whose father cannot be a man enough and who tells Arthur tearfully that he wants "Uncle Arthur" to be his Pa instead. Yes, even a small chance you know him is worth it.
He sits, tucked into the back row and watches, and finds in it some cheap amusement. The Théâtre Râleur is strangely beautiful. The high ceilings, shiny gilt paper, and crimson velvet are at odds with the miscellaneous crowd. Payday for workmen, and they sit at the very back, whooping and whistling drunkenly, a little crowd of quiet folk with little spyglasses sit in the box above him. Bobbing bonnets and tophats line the horizon of his vision, and a tiny man in a bright suit skips onto the stage. He bows deeply and introduces himself as Aldridge T. Abbington. His voice has a rollicking, engaging quality that replicates Hosea's talent for spinning yarns.
The dancing girls flare their bloomers in various colours, and a blonde woman sings very tunefully. A dark-haired giantess challenges a drunk to a duel and sends him flying across the stage.
The gaslights dim, and Abbington leaps forward, booming across the noise of the crowd. With a flourish, he introduces you as " Seductress of Serpents" He claims to have found you among an exotic cult that worships sacred snakes, and the audience murmurs with eager disbelief. You are meant to speak only an ancient pagan tongue; Arthur knows this isn't true. Your threats against the bartender in Bastille Saloon were in plain English.
You enter with a great serpent coiled about your shoulders, lifting its gleaming body high as the unseen orchestra strikes a low, pulsing note. Your bare feet gleam beneath the footlights, golden cords with tiny bells looped around your ankles and one wrist. Arthur glances for the bracelet in his own pocket. Over the roar of the crowd, he can barely hear their soft clink.
You smile that strange half-smile and begin your slow, sinuous routine, the music thrumming through the boards of the Théâtre.
"She knows how to dance with a snake!" and a whooping cheer rises from their ranks, thick with drink. Your costume leaves little room for decency, plunging to your waist, with a sparkling skirt swirling about your calves.
You arc your arm, and the snake deftly dislodges the comb from your hair; it spills loose to your hip. The house falls silent as you bow, the serpent dipping its head in time. A neat trick.
One last smile, and you are gone. You gather your pet with grace, step past the falling red curtain, and wave lightly at a lovestruck young man in the front row before vanishing into the shadows backstage.
Arthur takes his chance and slips back through the maze of the Théâtre; he slips a dollar to the man standing dutifully at a door marked not to enter, and Arthur is cast down a corridor far less grand than the rest of the Théâtre. The wallpaper, while gilt, is in a sorry state, peeling and damp. The place is full to the brim with dusty props and broken furniture. He walks and walks till he reaches a door, behind it he can hear faint hoots and the unmistakable sound of women. He knocks, hoping you will come to the door so he does not have to face awkward questions about why he is here and why he is armed to the teeth when visiting a Théâtre. He knocks briefly and hears a flurry of movement as people dive to the door.
Belatedly, he realises that it is a dressing room, and he is about to face the wrath of women who may be in the process of getting dressed, or undressed for that matter. Before he can contemplate this new and horrible possibility, the singer pokes her head out. She has a harsher look when she is so close, and Arthur can see smudged spots of rouge on the high apples of her cheeks. The flowers pinned in her bun are false and bobble garishly. She raises the tip of her nose haughtily but does not look surprised to see a man at the door.
"Who owns the feller?" Her tone is long-suffering. She widens the door so Arthur is in full view. A muddle of faces, painted like dolls, peer back at him curiously. There is a collection of negatives, and she rolls her pale eyes. "Aldridge says we can't let 'em back here anymore, bad for business. Own up." There is a series of scoffs, and someone from within shouts that Aldridge says a goddamn too many things.
"Ma'am, I'm here to return this, the lady with the snake. She dropped it." He holds up the bracelet, and the singer opens the door a little wider. Arthur can see into the dressing room. Racks of jewel coloured clothing line the walls, and there are women crammed in rows in front of the mirror. A flurry of ribbons, greasepaint, and the strong smell of perfume oil assault his senses. He sees a dark head weave through the throng and past the singer, who waggles her eyebrows disapprovingly at his appearance. A girl in the back cracks a joke about sheep-fucking and the whole room erupts with laughter. You slip past Robin, the singer and click the little door shut behind you, crossing your arms over your chest, fully dressed, thank god. The costume you wear is covered by a worn men's dressing gown you clutch shut at the neck. It has small holes, like cigarette burns, in the sleeves and at the indigo folds pooling around your ankles. Shifting from one slippered foot to another, you stare up at him questioningly. You squint a little, as if recalling something.
"You look familiar." You say, passing the back of your hand over your mouth to wipe at the plum coloured paint. The dark smudge around your eyes has bled into the creases, giving you an oddly vulnerable look.
"I was at the Bastille Saloon. We didn't speak." You nod as he speaks, and he wonders if you noticed him, too.
"Arthur. Arthur…Callahan." He sticks out his hand and then thinks better of it. You are, after all, a woman. And women don't touch strange men. Especially men who look like Arthur does. He opens his other fist, to your bracelet, flattening his palm so the bells slide over his fingers. Before Arthur has a chance to mourn the loss of the ten dollars he could have gotten by pawning it, you reach to pluck it from his wide palm.
"Thank you, Mr Callahan." There is a genuine note in your voice, and Arthur recognises true gratitude in it. You turn the bracelet over, jingling the bell a little. Your dressing gown tie loosens a little as you let it, showing a silky expanse of skin, dusted with bronze flecks of shimmering oil. For a moment, Arthur is captivated by the movement of your hands. Small and rough, with nails filed into sharp points, they have a clear oil or lacquer on them that makes them shine in the corridor's low light. "Can I pay you? I only have a couple of dollars on me, but I—"
"It wasn't any trouble." He cuts you off, and you begin to turn, to go back into the clamour of the dressing room. "You can help me out, though." You nod, lashes fluttering. "I'm looking for a feller by the name of Bronte. Angelo Bronte."
Your face loses all trace of gratitude. Stiffening, you hug your arms about yourself and fix a cold, hard stare onto Arthur. Arthur has seen friendlier eyes above a shotgun.
"I don't know any "fellers" called Bronte. Thank you, Mr Callahan." The resoluteness with which you lie amuses Arthur. He stifles a laugh and composes his face into an expression tried and tested for extracting truths.
"I ain't looking for trouble." Arthur tries to keep his voice as low as possible. "But if you are workin' for Bronte, maybe you've seen a boy."
"A boy."
"Yeah. 'Bout four years old."
You cock your head quizzically, but Arthur can see that sharp gleam of understanding. You know something.
Arthur reaches into his satchel and produces several crushed bills. A greedy, vicious look crosses your face at the sight of the money, like a hungry cat. You realise, and arrange your face into that carefully cool expression again, but the facade is gone. Arthur has seen that expression so many times on Dutch and recognises it in himself. That heady promise of security and food to eat and clean clothes. Money. Your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out, but you tuck your hands into your sleeves. He extends it to you slowly, practically watching you count the bills in your head.
"I don't know any boys." Your voice is half-hearted, eyes starry and lovestruck at the sight of the money. Arthur counts a few more bills out, smoothing them out so the $10' printed on them is in full view. You falter, and Arthur knows he has won.
"Flavian Street." You blurt. "He lives on Flavian Street." Then you make a swipe for the fifty dollars Arthur impulsively decided Jack's life is worth. He whisks it out of sight, and you scowl at him.
"Is the boy safe?"
"Yes." You sound irritated, and a note of embarrassment at your own greed bleeds into your voice. "Mr Bronte likes children." Another dive for the money, and Arthur holds it back, a little mean. Flushing, you scowl and toss your head.
"One more thing." Arthur holds the money out of reach, baiting you. Your nostrils flare a bit, and there is a curious little flash at the edge of his vision. Your nostril has a little jewel pierced into it; it winks and sparkles. "Bronte hires you girls, privately?"
"Sometimes." You shift your weight, eyes never leaving the notes. "He conducts a lot of business meetings."
"What kind of men is he in business with?"
"All kinds." You nibble your lower lip, then sigh. "Lawmen on his payroll, gamblers, politicians, anybody who is somebody."
"Pinkertons?"
"Name sounds familiar." You shrug, and at last he lets the bills drop into your waiting hand. You pounce on them, counting greedily. Your eyes go wide, and you count again, just to be sure, before tucking the money into your top, fingers disappearing into the collar of your long dressing gown. When you look up, you're smiling, bright, dazzling, so sweet it disarms Arthur in a heartbeat. You look like a cat that's got the cream.
"Listen." Arthur's voice drops a notch. "You find out anythin' about the Pinkertons, their patrols, when they come sniffin' around, anythin' that sounds important. There's a whole lot more where that came from."
Arthur turns toward the corridor. "I'll come back here. If you hear anything about Pinkertons or Bronte's boys, keep it ready for me. I'll come lookin'."
This suit is tight. Arthur fiddles with the collar of the sleek tuxedo that Trelawny produced on a moment's notice. It heaves up his armpits and falls short of his wrists and ankles. He looks ridiculous, trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Apparently, ready-made suits for beasts of his size were unavailable on short notice.
The coach wobbles with the weight of the four of them, and his mood brightens when Hosea begins to talk of his youth. He can almost picture it. Hosea has been silver-haired and wrinkled since the day he met him. But he was always spry and shrewd, shooting and fighting as well as a young man. It is only in recent years that Hosea has slowed down. Arthur sometimes hears him, the rattle of his lungs, the way he struggles to catch his breath after going up the stairs at Shady Belle, how the kick of a rifle makes him sway. When he speaks, Arthur imagines him with dark hair and that glint in his eyes, charming ladies at the ball and picking their bracelets off their wrists during a waltz. Dutch grins under his coal-black moustache, and Arthur feels a bit lighter. It is like the old days, the three of them going off to rob with the promise of a big take and the joy of being together. He is not even irked by Bill's presence, his usual disdain for Bill's bumbling idiocy melting into camaraderie borne of shared discomfort in their respective costumes.
They arrive at the Mayor's house, and there is a beauty to the house that even Arthur's untrained eye can recognise in its painstaking architecture. Pillars and arches and exotic plants all surrounded by white marble and velvet carpets. He follows Dutch to the balcony, and he can see the whole garden, buzzing with music and alight with small starlike bulbs draped over the trees. A fountain stands in the middle, funnelling out waves of clear water. He leans over to Dutch to comment on the sheer waste of it, clean water, not to drink or bathe in, to look beautiful. Dutch, however, is busy offering his regards to Angelo Bronte.
Bronte is flanked by giant, armed Italians who titter like schoolgirls when he speaks and hang on to his every word. He widens his arms to Dutch and Arthur, and when Arthur shakes his hand, it is devoid of the calluses of work and guns, but as soft as a girl's. He has a strong scent, like an expensive cologne. It cloys in the air like a cloud. Arthur spots you, then.
Off to the side of the fountain, you are standing close to a woman he realises is the Théâtre Râleur strongwoman—Horatia, or perhaps Hortensia. You look terribly different from how you do at your show, from his position on the balcony. Arthur can see the gleam of a gold comb in your dark hair. Huddled close with the pale‑haired singer and the fire‑eater. A gaggle of ladies in bright colours mill about the fountain, feathers in their hats bobbing and their jewels glimmering, but the four of you stick together. The women surreptitiously avoid brushing against you and keep a healthy distance from your tiny circle. Arthur takes a drag of the cigar he has been offered and watches the smoke cast a heady cloud. Even the smoke here tastes expensive. He watches as you pull at the pink sleeve of the strongwoman, whispering something in her ear that makes her gasp and pinch your side as you laugh impishly. As if he can read the thoughts in Arthur's head, Bronte waggles a beringed finger at you four to point you out to Dutch.
"Ah. And there you have the ladies from the Théâtre, though "ladies" is too generous a word for such creatures. Charming girls, very pretty, but not the sort one invites to a respectable party. The Mayor insisted, you understand; he wished to show his support for the arts." Bronte's voice is oily. You are here on business, same as him. Arthur wonders if the Mayor would feel the same if he knew Bronte had hired you privately.
He watches you toss your head to some men, and the singer beckons them forward. They bumble over and are drunk enough not to care if their wives see them in the company of showgirls. One of them reaches to run his hand up your side, and you pivot so expertly to avoid the touch that Arthur would have missed it had he not been watching so closely.
But you smile a syrupy, practised smile and produce a pamphlet and a ticket from your skirt to present to the man. You float away to chat with the Théâtre Manager, whom Arthur had not noticed till you had linked arms with him and left your three companions to contend with the growing crowd of men. Dutch's voice cuts sharply through Arthur's thoughts, breaking his attention away from the smooth line of your bare shoulder.
"Go mingle and see what you can find out." Dutch is already descending the marble staircase leading to the party, and Hosea follows him down, adjusting his cuffs.
The cigar from earlier did not calm his nerves, and he needs another fix. He makes do with a tall glass of champagne in one of those stupid, fragile glasses; he folds his hand around the stalk of it and hopes his sausage fingers will not break it in half. He attempts to make polite conversation with a lady wearing a gargantuan hat with impressive feather plumes, which he is sure could have been seen from Valentine. He pours champagne for some ladies who stand back, gossiping and twitching their fans lazily. Spoiled, placid ponies twitching their tails at flies. He catches sight of you again, back in tow with the other women, and the four of you flutter around that Abbington fellow like butterflies.
He is distracted by a funny little man with round specs that remind him of the owls he used to slingshot from trees with John, folded over and hacking up one of the appetisers. Arthur claps a hand onto his back, and the man thanks him gratefully, peering through his round glasses and handing him a little card. He turns, and you are standing right in front of him.
"Mr Kilgore, is it? Or is it Mr Callahan?" You smile brilliantly, showing all your sharp teeth. Your hair is no longer wild and loose, but tamed and smoothed and pinned back so it lies over your shoulder and the side of your neck in tidy waves. Arthur's collar is starting to feel tighter, and he reaches to try to loosen the clownish bow that Hosea forced on him.
"Morgan, actually." He does not know why he gives his real name; perhaps he feels you two are equally out of place here, or maybe it is the champagne. It makes an odd sense of understanding bloom in Arthur's chest. Something glints in your eyes, curious and searching, but it disappears and is replaced by that gleaming smile.
"I know. You look nice, Mr Morgan." Your voice is smooth, and you gesture towards his tuxedo with one hand; you have hammered gold rings on all ten of your fingers, and the warm lights dance off them. Arthur is unsure whether the comment is made in jest at his gangly awkwardness in the outfit or out of true politeness. He cannot read your face beyond that smile and those clear, dark eyes.
"Thank you, Miss." He gives an awkward half-bow of acknowledgement. "You look real nice." Idiot. Arthur has seen you almost naked on stage, but somehow this compliment seems overly familiar.
You grin widely and honestly this time, twitching your skirts so he can appreciate the full effect of the gown. Arthur realises it was not a lie in the slightest. You do look pretty. The gown is a little out of place in its environment, a little too bright a colour. The sleeves dip low over your shoulders with no shawl or necklace to disguise the neckline. The sweeps of fabric collect low on your waist and taper off at your ankles. It's revealing given the occasion, but Arthur suspects that it is the intention. He averts his gaze from the swell of your breasts and the press of your belly in the silk.
The girls you are with are wearing similarly mismatched gowns, too shiny and skimpy to be guests of honour. The jewel pierced into the arch of your nostril glitters; the strongwoman in the pink dress has an arm full of designs that seem to have been poked into her skin. The fire eater has burns on her arms that her puffed sleeves do not quite conceal.
There is a pleasant air of scandal around you and your fellow performers. That is the intention, to draw attention and sell, sell, sell. Still, your skin flushes from the drink, and your lashes are darkened, making the flutter of them all the more obvious. You bat those long lashes at him as you speak.
"Do I? Aldridge did well to pick these gowns for us. I expect we will sell many tickets." You look pleased at the thought of that, and Arthur is feeling rather drunk. You take his hand so quickly and so lightly that Arthur does not realise it until he is left holding a white card ticket for a show. He can still feel the cold of your rings as you are pulled away by the singer, who is fending off another wall of men who are drunker than the last.
He sees you next, perched on the steps in some far corner of the party. Your skirts fan over the steps, and a pair of brown leather work shoes peek out from the skirts. As he approaches, you hastily throw your skirts over them, concealing them from his view. All the other women are wearing beaded slippers and dancing shoes. You gather your skirts and make space for him to sit by you.
You produce a gold cigarette case with a curling monogram etched on its surface, finely crafted from real gold. Arthur has spent long enough robbing people to know what solid gold looks like. You extend the cigarette to him, and your bangles clink softly. He takes it, and his fingers brush the inside of your rough palm. Slipping your own cigarette between your shiny, darkly painted mouth. You bend your head, and he lights it for you, the tiny flame casting a glow over your face, illuminating dark eyes and casting the shadow of your lashes over your cheeks.
There's a dark print of your lips on the cigarette. Arthur watches as you pass your thumb over your lower lip, rubbing away a smudge. The gesture stirs up a memory, that time he'd brought Mary a little pot of lip colour. She'd nearly dropped the thing, shoving it back at him and fussing that it was vulgar, that only fancy women painted their faces, and whatever would Daddy say? The memory leaves a sour taste in his mouth. You fiddle with your cigarette case.
"That real gold?" Arthur does not think his conversational abilities will be noted on his tombstone. You turn the case over, running the sharp tip of your polished nail along the engravings.
"I think so. It was a present from a gentleman after a performance."
"Gift. Huh."
"Well. Not quite a gift. More like I robbed him." You grin. "I thought it was fate." You tap the initial, proffering the case to him.
"His fate was bein' robbed then?" Arthur cannot help but laugh.
"Sure." You rap a polished nail onto it. "His fate was fulfilling my dreams of having a solid gold cigarette case."He turns his head to direct the smoke away from you. You are sitting close, and your shoulder brushes his softly, just the barest of touches, but it radiates through his arm.
"Did the boy make it back safely?" Your voice is flat, eyes fixed on the swirls of smoke, but there is genuine interest beneath the surface
"He did. Thank you."
You nod, accepting the thanks with a tilt of your chin. "Is he yours?" You say abruptly.
The question catches Arthur off guard; he exhales, quick and sharp. Arthur thinks of when Marston left, the way Abigail had cried herself sick, and he had held Jack in his lap while she slept. Jack is not his little boy, but he could have been. Arthur would have let him be.
"No. He ain't."
You take another drag, and the two of you sit in companionable silence. You're close enough that Arthur can smell the carbolic soap from your bath, and the faint trace of perfume carries from your hair. You are without the gloves the ladies around you wear, and he can see the smooth curves of your arm tapering into your forearms and wrist. You tap a lick of ash onto the step, and it sizzles and dies at your feet. Wisps of hair cling to your temple.
It's been a long while since he's been this close to a woman who isn't part of his gang, and longer still since he has lain with someone.
That's all it is, he tells himself. Too long without a release, and it's starting to go to his head.
You blink at him as if you can read his mind.
"Are you quite all right, Mr Morgan?" Your voice cuts through his haze of thoughts. "You look a bit red."
Arthur opens his mouth to lie and tell you that it is the drink and not the unsettling hardness in his trousers at the sight of your bare shoulders. Before he can speak, he is cut off by the sound of a man, squealing like a pig.
One of the women, the strongwoman, has walloped a little Frenchman straight in the face with her fan. She signals madly at you for rescue. The man, not deterred, makes a lunging attempt to bury his face in her bosom.
"Oh, dear." You lift yourself swiftly from the stairs, dropping your cigarette and gathering your skirts in one hand. "Hortensia, I'm coming!"You look briefly over your shoulder.
"I'll see you soon, Mr Morgan." And you sail away to pry the man off your friend, Arthur can feel the ticket you gave him burning a hole through his coat pocket.
Arthur lifts your discarded cigarette, half finished, with the print of your lipstick on the end. He raises it to his mouth. He removes the ticket from his pocket, and there is a scrawl on it in black ink.
"DOYLE'S TAVERN. THURSDAY AFTERNOON."
Doyle's Tavern is a dump, by all accounts. The paint is peeling, and Arthur can hear the faint patter of mice. You sit at the table closest to the window, and Arthur almost does not recognise you. Your face is free of greasepaint, and your hair is loosely tied back. Gone is the pretty copper-coloured dress of a few nights before, and gone is the beaded costume of the stage. Instead, you wear a plain blouse and skirt with unfashionably narrow petticoats. The harsh lines of paint had made your features sharper, and its absence has softened them to the point of distortion. You look younger, and discomfort seeps into Arthur, sure as poison. One ankle tucked under you on the chair reveals a ruffled row of petticoats that frays a little above your worn boots, brown with threadbare laces.
In front of you, a mountain of peach cobbler, and you are steadily working your way through it in neat, rapid spoonfuls. As Arthur approaches your table, you wave and call to him, the sound muffled through mouthfuls of cobbler. He sits across from you, ordering himself a beer and taking a long, cool sip. Saint Denis is hot today, and sweat drips down his spine, soaking through his shirt. He hopes you cannot smell him, but he doubts you can smell anything at all, buried in the plate as you are.
"I didn't know they served that here." The Tavern seems to serve only light beer or amber liquor, which the bartender swears is of quality.
"They don't. Birdie makes it for me special." The cobbler is disappearing at unprecedented rates, and you wave to Birdie, who leans over the bar with a wrinkled smile, showing toothless gums. "People are looking at you, Mr Morgan."
"S'not against the law last I checked." He says. "How come you called me here?"
"Are you one of the boys who runs with Dutch Van Der Linde?"
The question catches Arthur off guard, and he watches your face as you contemplate a syrup-soaked piece of peach.
"And If I am?" Arthur keeps his voice level; he cannot read your great eyes.
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not turning you in" You give him a withering look. "They wouldn't reward me anyway. On account of my being a woman, and foreign."
The mountain of cobbler has disappeared into a few crumbs swimming in a pool of golden syrup. It leaves your lips glossy, and you poke your little tongue out to lick at it. You set down your utensils and wipe your mouth with a napkin. You reach into a pocket and find a wrinkled scrap of paper. "It's a mansion, a little way out of Saint Denis. Idlewild Manor, it's called. The owner died a week ago and left the house pretty much empty. He's got a son, but he's of no use." You point to the scrap, which Arthur realises is a poorly drawn map.
"I didn't ask for tip-offs." He says, but his interest is piqued anyway.
Eyes gleaming, you reach for the scrap with a swift flick of the wrist. "Are you not interested? I thought you would be, seeing the reputation Van Der Linde has ."
"Didn't say that, neither. How'd you come by this?"
"He used to frequent the Théâtre, and he had a fondness for Hortensia." Your voice is brusque, and you lick the spoon. "He was filthy rich, Hortensia says he had crystal chandeliers in his bathroom. Poor thing, she's prostrate with grief."
"I'm sure she is." Arthur is fairly certain Hortensia is mourning the chandeliers more than the man. Keeping this thought private, he watches as you lick the spoon again and chase crumbs with it. You beckon Birdie over, and he brings out another pan of cobbler and heaps it into your plate.
"Still hungry?" He says, a little acidically.
"Yes." You answer abruptly. "I'm hungry all the time. No matter how much I eat." There is a keen note of honesty in your voice that makes Arthur regret he said it at all. These regrets are quickly quelled when he hears your next words. "And I want a thirty-percent cut."
"Thirty-percent? Ha! Want a horse and carriage too, Madam?"
"Fifteen for the information and fifteen because I'm not turning you in." You saw sweetly.
"Twenty. 'n I don't turn you in." He drawls. You settle into the new heaping of peach, cinnamon, and pastry. "For conspiracy."
"Making threats doesn't suit you. You have a kind face." You grin at him like a cat. "Twenty-five."
"Twenty. I'm takin' a risk by robbin' on your word." You roll your eyes but reach your hand over your plate, meaning to seal it with a handshake. Knocking the spoon sideways and spilling syrup onto your wrist. Without thinking, Arthur takes a napkin and wipes it off your inner wrist.
"Twenty it is. I want thirty next time." Your voice is airy, as if he had not touched you at all. The brief warmth of your skin lingers on Arthur's fingertips.
"Next time. Sure." He snorts, but there will be a next time, for he is ripping a page out of his journal, scrawling "TACITUS KILGORE," and sliding it to you. "Anythin' else, you leave it under that name at the post office, and I'll come find you again."
You fold it up carefully and drop it into your pocket. Taking up your spoon, you eye the rest of your food menacingly.
"Would you like some cobbler, Mr Morgan?"
When Arthur visits the Théâtre Râleur for a second time, he kills a man.
He watches your show, watches you with renewed appreciation for your talents. You handle the snake with the ease of a dancer, coiling and manipulating and directing it as you please, and while Arthur is not particularly fond of snakes, this one is a very fine specimen indeed. Massive, probably as long as he is tall and splotched with rich brown patterns. The scales shine in the gaslights, and in your hands, it is as docile as a lamb.
He wonders what it is you have for him, wonders if you are stringing him along with the promise of information in hopes of getting paid. The note you had left at the post office only had a ticket enclosed, and a barely legible scrawl that had the initials of the name you use on stage.
You must not be paid much if you are doing off-the-record shows and performing for businessmen. That hungry, greedy look when you saw money, your insistence on a bigger cut. Arthur recognises it in himself. His weakness is for a big take. For as long as Arthur can remember, from the day Dutch and Hosea had taken him in, his life has been a violent one. They raised and groomed an attack dog, and Arthur excelled at it, but he allows himself these brief indulgences. The snake coils in your arms, and you take your bow and leave the stage.
Arthur waits until the crowd has thinned, then slips out into the cold night. He follows the sound of raised voices down the narrow side alley that runs behind the building, where the stage door breaks the dark with a sliver of orange light. There you are in the dim glow, your coat half‑on, pinned to the brick wall by a massive drunken man. The man has his hand caught around your jaw and is breathing lecherously into your mouth. You must have been waiting for Arthur on the little steps of the entrance because Arthur can see your feet are in house slippers, the sight of the house slippers, worn and holey and soaked in mud, makes an unfamiliar protectiveness surge in Arthur's chest. The man hikes his hand up your skirt and plunges a greasy hand into your top. You cry out, and he retrieves his hand and shoves it over your mouth and nose, so your furious cries are muffled. The suspension of your hair covers your eyes, and the man handles you towards the door. You whimper helplessly like a hurt animal, and this is what spurs Arthur into action.
Arthur prides himself on a cool head. Presence of mind means survival, and Arthur has learnt to curb his temper and think before he pulls his weapon or readies his fists. Before he can register what he has done, he has jerked the man off your flailing body and shoved him, head slamming against the wall. The man's heavier than Arthur expects. The rebound sends Arthur's temple crashing into the brick, and warm blood trickles down his cheek.
The drunk lunges again at him, bellowing something belligerent about whores and the like. Arthur doesn't think; he shoots the man square between the eyes.
A mess of blood and brains is all over his coat, and you are standing motionless, your coat in a small heap at your ankles. Arthur touches his fingers to his temple; it is only a cut or scrape, and, thankfully, skin-deep. He looks down at the man, who is missing most of his face and then looks at you. He does not know what he expects when he sees your face. Fear, perhaps?
There is a vibrant expression on your face. Like someone has lit a flame in the depths of your eyes. You look at the dead man with an expression of deep satisfaction and raise eyes that are fierce with joy to Arthur's face.
Then, the reality of what he has done sets in, and you swivel your head suspiciously to see if anyone saw or heard. Gunshots late at night are not uncommon for Saint Denis, but you crane your neck for several moments, listening for the telltale drone of blue-coated lawmen. When you do not hear it, you turn to look at Arthur, assessing the gore splattered across his coat.
"Arthur. The body." You do not seem to realise you have called him by his first name, but it pulls Arthur from the stupor that bloodshed always causes. You lean down and reach for the man's ankle, as if to drag it.
"Leave it." He leans down and loops his arm around the man's thick waist, hauling him over his shoulder. He has forgotten what a mess Colm O'Driscoll has made out of his shoulder; it aches dully when Arthur adjusts the bloated man onto it. "Go back inside. I'll come back."
You look relieved. "I—This isn't the first time he's come back here. Usually I'm with Robin, and I have a revolver, but it's broken and —thank you." The words pour out in a nervous stream, and Arthur can see the smudges on your neck where the man had grabbed you.
"I understand," Arthur says, and watches as you turn and go into the door, costume shimmering in the low light. He hauls the man up, cringes a little at the wet drip of blood on his boots. He slips back, weaving through the alleys and little roads of Saint Denis and dumps the man in a pile of trash, with a revolver tucked into his stiffening palm so the bullet lodged in his forehead looks self-inflicted. Arthur walks back and tosses his ruined coat into a bin on the way. When he arrives at the Théâtre, all the bulbs are switched off. It must be late.
It is beginning to drizzle, and it trickles into the collar of his shirt from the brim of his hat. You open the back door, peering out with wide black eyes to make sure he is not a lawman who heard the commotion. You widen the door and let him inside. You have washed your hands and face and removed your ruined slippers, but you still wear the costume from the night. It sinks low over your breasts, revealing the inward curves and rides up at your waist so Arthur can see the dip of your navel in the soft pouch of your belly. You don't seem shaken for someone who has just witnessed a murder, and you lead him into the dressing room. No longer lined with chattering women, the room has an air of shabby grandeur that reminds Arthur oddly of the Braithwaite Manor. There are large lamps that emit a pale glow, and he sets his hat on the vanity. A clear decanter with a few drops of amber liquor at the bottom rests on the vanity, and there is the reason for your serenity. You turn your head, and Arthur can see a flush in your pale brown cheeks, wiped of greasepaint. You hold your liquor well; your movements are not those of a drunken showgirl; they are as smooth and coordinated as they are on stage.
A few stubborn drops of blood cling to his sleeves. He pushes them up past his elbows, the motion deliberate, and peels off his gloves one finger at a time. You turn to the desk, rifling through a drawer until your hand finds what it's looking for. When you hand it over, there's a flash of pride in your eyes. Arthur smooths the page across the vanity, and as the creases flatten, comprehension dawns. Rows of print, times and places, patrol routes traced across a map of Saint Denis. A quiet grin curls at your mouth. No wonder you're so pleased.
"Nicked it off a man at one of the saloon shows. He had a badge, and he looked—well, he looked expensive, so I cleaned his pockets." Arthur wonders just how close you were to him if you picked his pockets without him noticing. Despite this disconcerting thought, Arthur knows this information will please Dutch. A schedule lets them plan; they know where the men will be and which places are easy to hit. He draws for his satchel to pay you, and a brief, longing expression crosses your face when you see the money, but you shake your head.
"You killed him," you add finally.
"Sure did." He mutters, and you fall silent.
You nod once, then glance at the coins. "You don't have to— not after that."
Arthur considers taking your offer, but he sees the look on your face, thinks of the worn brown work shoes you wore at the Mayor's house, and looks at the soles of your feet. They are callused and scarred, and the backs of your ankles are scabbed over. He counts out coins and sets them on the desk.
"You're bleeding." Your voice is apologetic, stripped of its usual humour. "Sit down."
Arthur obeys. You take a clean rag from one of the many littered around the dressing room. Dipping the cloth in the abandoned decanter of whisky, you sidle up beside him. Pushing back his hair from his forehead so it doesn't clump with the blood, you put the cool cloth to the cut on his temple. It stings, and he hisses. Skin deep, but it sends a bolt of pain through his skull, you murmur an apology and begin to wipe the blood from his jaw and mouth. The touch is tentative, and your hands shake, from proximity or from the sight of murder, Arthur does not know.
"I should leave. I'm sure your boss won't be happy to see me." He says, with little conviction.
"It's just me closing up tonight. Kitty—no, Robin is unwell, and Aldridge had an engagement."
Arthur is so close to you. He can see the faint purple cast beneath your eyes, the soft mouth, bitten and worried from sharp teeth. Your jewellery clinks and jangles. You wear so much jewellery that it might be considered vulgar. Wide golden cuffs on your arms and your wrists with those belled bracelets, the same on your ankles. A pendant with a paste gem rests on your breast. It doesn't look vulgar from where Arthur sits. It just looks like you.
Your hair falls loosely about your shoulders. He inhales the damp scent of rain and perfume, watches the rise and fall of your chest, the budding outline of a nipple in the sheer costume. You're close, so close he could lean forward and rest his forehead in the valley of your breasts, just for a moment, just to stop thinking. He can allow himself this, these greedy gulps of fantasy; the dip of your navel through the ruching of your costume, the loose, dark waterfall of your hair and the press of your hand, braced against his shoulder as you wipe the blood from his temple. God help him, it has been so long. So long indeed that he has remained faithful to memories of Mary and faithful to his own common sense not to sow more wild oats. Subjecting another woman and child to his clumsy fatherhood and his abrasive ways. Even when his body had hurt for touch, even when he came close to paying for the comfort of someone else's body, he had trusted his better judgment. Now fantasy will have to sustain him, for his restraint is wearing thin.
Arthur sees the man cooling in the alley, a violent, unceremonious death. Your fierce eyes, the way you looked as if you could grind your heel into the abyss where the dead man's face used to be. He remembers Mary Gillis's, no, Mary Linton's white, unstained hands. Abigail's face when she saw Jack, Marston's awkward gratitude. Light as a bird, you touch his neck to clean an errant splotch of blood from his pulse.
Abstinence has been Arthur's bedmate for so long that he has forgotten what carnal lusts do to a man. He has killed a man, for the sin of lust, and Arthur will follow him to hell. He rises to go and to curl up in his room at Shady Belle and milk his need and all his shame into his hand. You catch his wrist, your hand barely fitting around it. Your eyes are dark and still, and Arthur has never seen such endlessness in anyone's eyes. Stepping closer, reaching up, up on your tiptoes. Cool breath, scented like whisky, brushes against his cheek.
Against his will, his hand goes to touch you. Yes, he can touch you. He can let himself take a little more. Trailing down your neck, he runs the tip of his finger in a straight path down your sternum, feeling your shallow breaths and your silky skin. Your heart beats quickly against the rough pad of his index finger, like a frightened animal. Arthur wants to press his mouth to it so much that he aches and hardens painfully. He searches those great, still eyes for any signal that you do not want him. For this could be a fantasy of his own making, the thought that someone desires him in his worn and ugly state.
Desire has been muted inside him for his whole life, it feels like. Only the fleeting bolt of heat when he last saw Mary, the odd flicker when Charles removes his shirt to chop wood. The desire to protect Abigail and Jack from John's clumsy cruelty. Desire, desire, all coiled up inside the pit of his belly, unravelling in erratic spools at the sight of your painted face and exposed bosom. He finds no resistance in your eyes, no repulsion. Desire, desire, flaring in those lovely eyes.
Taking his hand in your own, you turn his palm outward. Tracing over the lines in his palm, calluses and scars.
"I read fortunes, sometimes. In palms. It's all horseshit, but I'm convincing."
"Reckon I already know mine." Arthur manages, his voice unsteady.
You guide him to cup your breast, fingers small and sure on his wrist, thumb stroking the swollen vein where his pulse hammers. The soft, full weight of you fills his palm, his thumb finds your nipple and circles. You shudder, a fine tremble goes through your body, and you sink against his. Your hands search him too, splaying over his lapels and smoothing up his belly and reaching up. Slow, greedy, you thumb open the button at the base of his throat.
You drag the soft, chapped mouth along his throat and lick at the sweat pooling in his clavicle. His hand tightens convulsively on your breast, and it draws a gasping noise from you, like a rabbit in a snare.
Arthur is ruined.