Like a Wisp of Steam, Thomas Roche [list of e readers txt] 📗

the sky and struck her. The moment of flashing light and rolling thunder played out as the Innocent stood transfixed by the most potent expression of Nature's energy. Then the storm ended, and she fell to the ground, annihilated.

Curtain.

Applause.

* * * *

"Assignations, players," said Davis, holding high a thick bundle of cards. Everyone backstage crowded around as the manager handed them out. Ricar hung back, letting the new talent have their moments of glory.

Miss Dyr, freshly back from the dead, flipped through the dozen or so cards with her name, then frowned. "Where's the one from the senator? I saw him in the private boxes. He's always here."

Davis checked the last of the cards. "It appears there wasn't one."

Something came over Miss Dyr then, Ricar noticed. Not the hurt of a jilted lover, nor the tantrum of a child denied a promised sweet. This was something different. Those big brown eyes closed to slits. Miss Dyr threw the remaining cards of lesser admirers at Davis and stalked away. By chance, Miss Alwyx stood at the door leading to the dressing rooms, blocking Miss Dyr's way: a sheepdog confronted by a hissing cat. Even as Miss Alwyx began to move out of the way, the tiny woman spat, "Well?" Miss Alwyx, who was a head taller and half again as heavy, shrank back as Miss Dyr exited.

This was a problem, Ricar knew. Players had the right to refuse any assignation, but that meant the House received no assignation fee. Too many refusals hurt the company, and Miss Dyr's senator was a significant source of revenue.

As he helped Davis pick up the scattered cards, Ricar said,

"I'll handle this."

"You'd better," said Davis, accepting the cards. "We don't need an arrogant Innocent. Neither does the senator, it seems."

"It's probably nothing, some business that pulled the senator away. He'll be back later."

"Regardless, start thinking about a replacement. In the meantime..." Davis handed him a card. "You're wanted in room eight." He turned away and left the room.

A replacement? There hadn't been anybody half as good as Miss Dyr in the last round of auditions. Ricar had trained an understudy, but he hadn't used her and hoped he'd never have to. Like it or not, Miss Dyr brought people in every night.

Backstage was nearly empty now, everyone off to assignations or to get undressed. There he found Miss Alwyx, sitting in front of the mirrors next to the abandoned piles of floral bouquets.

"Don't take Miss Dyr personally," Ricar said.

"I think I was off, Mister Donal. I didn't make her look good." Miss Alwyx picked up one of the jars of cold cream and a rag and started removing her makeup. "Maybe I'd make a better Servant."

Ricar thought she'd just look silly in a Servant's costume.

"Your performance was fine. Don't worry about other players.

That's my job."

She smiled briefly, then said, "I didn't get any assignations."

He waved the air dismissively. "The punters need time to warm up to new players."

"I see," she said quietly.

"I have an assignation now, but remember, there's always tomorrow night."

She forced a smile he found endearing—almost the Innocent's smile.

As he walked up the stairs to the assignation rooms, he wondered what to do about Miss Dyr. Once, he could have used reason and a touch of flattery, but now she wouldn't listen.

The moment Ricar entered room eight, his client, a plump young woman waiting next to the bed, blurted out, "You're going to rape me!"

So much for nuance, Ricar thought. "Calm yourself, my child," he said, slipping back into the Patron role as he caressed her cheek. She was positively quivering; he could tell she had been anticipating this for a long time, rehearsing it in her mind, perhaps even sending letters about it to the domestic magazines. Was this a gift for her coming out party?

A fling before her wedding?

"Stop fidgeting, girl," he said, putting a little more steel in his tone.

She did her best, her hands fairly still, but her feet kept shuffling.

Settling on the room's single chair with a proprietary manner, he asked, "Why is it necessary for you to report to me?"

She launched into a rambling speech appropriate to the scenario, the kind he had heard many times before, about how the other (imaginary) members of the household tormented her and blamed her for breaking the good dishes.

He felt the temptation to just go through the motions, learned through hundreds if not thousands of other assignations—say the words, make the moves. The client would probably not even notice if his performance was mechanical. No matter. For this moment, in this room, he was the Patron, and she was the Innocent, and he would do his best to live up to her expectations, and his.

Ricar held up one hand. "Enough." She stopped. "It is clear you think your position entitles you to special treatment. It does not, and it is my duty to impress this upon you."

Her eyes grew wide as he stood and moved the chair before her. He put the cushion over the back and reached out for her, but she eagerly threw herself into position.

There were several points on the specially modified chair where clients' hands could be tied, regardless of their height or arm length. He put four full loops of thick, soft rope around each of her wrists, then walked around behind her and raised the skirt of the Innocent's dress, exposing her white bloomers. The Rake or Brute would be quick and rough, but the Patron took his time as he tugged her underthings down, revealing a pale, white, rounded backside. Professionally, he noted a mole on her right thigh, something to be avoided later.

The rod and the cane were exactly as they should be, hanging on nails by the door. The assignation card said that this woman had little experience, so he chose the rod, which could be used lightly. It was an excellent instrument, cut from fresh birch twigs and handcrafted by the prop department that morning. He swung it