The air in the grand hall was thick with the cloying sweetness of jasmine and the acrid sting of expensive tobacco. Madeline stood in the flickering shadows of the wings, her heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs. She had flatly refused the gossamer-thin blue silk Joylin had offered, opting instead for a heavy, high-collared crimson gown that felt more like a shroud than a costume. Beneath it, she still wore her cloak, her veil a desperate barricade between her and the hungry eyes in the dark.
"She looks like a funeral mourner," Nicole hissed from the front of the line, her voice dripping with malice. "No one will bid a single copper on a girl who hides like a coward."
Madeline barely heard the mockery. Her mind was racing, a cold realization dawning on her. This wasn't cleaning. This wasn't "attendance." The word chosen echoed in her mind, turning her blood to ice. Charlene's warning—it isn't honest labour—screamed in her ears, but when she had tried to turn back toward the red door, a burly guard had blocked her path with a silent, immovable glare.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Seekers of pleasure and keepers of secrets!" A man with a protruding belly and a voice like grinding gravel stepped onto the stage. He wore a black shirt strained to the bursting point, his face flushed with the heat of the room. He reminded Madeline so much of Mr Woodsman that she felt a physical wave of nausea.
"That's John," Joylin whispered from behind her, her hand resting briefly on Madeline's trembling shoulder. "The Auctioneer. The one who sells the dream."
"Firstly," John bellowed, his arms wide, "we have the exquisite Rebeccah!"
Rebeccah stepped into the spotlight, her dark hair pinned in a severe, elegant bun. She moved with a practiced, feline grace.
"A hundred copper coins!" a man shouted from the haze of the pit.
"Five hundred!" a woman countered from a velvet booth.
Rebeccah reached up, her fingers lingering on the silk scarf at her throat before she let it fall, exposing the pale, bare expanse of her shoulders. The room erupted.
"Two silver coins!" a man in a red hat roared, standing up.
"Two silver coins? Going once... going twice..." John's eyes scanned the room like a hawk's. "Sold! To the gentleman in red!"
Madeline watched, her breath hitching, as Rebeccah descended the stairs and sank onto the man's lap, her arms coiling around his neck before he led her toward the dark corridor of private rooms. Madeline felt the floor tilt beneath her. This was a market. And the cargo was flesh.
"And now," John's voice dropped to a theatrical whisper, "our reigning queen. The incomparable Nicole!"
The crowd went feral. Nicole strode onto the stage, her golden hair catching the light like spun fire. Her dress was a scandal of hemlines, exposing legs that seemed to go on forever.
"Ten silver coins!"
"Fifteen!"
Madeline stared, her jaw dropping. Fifteen silver coins? That was enough to settle her grandmother's debt and buy a small cottage.
"Thirty silver coins!" a couple shouted in unison from the front row.
"Thirty silver coins? Sold to the Lord and Lady!" John crowed. Nicole blew a kiss to the room, her eyes locking onto Madeline's for a fleeting second—a look of pure, triumphant arrogance—before she vanished with her buyers.
One by one, the line thinned. The air grew hotter, the scent of desperation and greed more pungent. Madeline felt like she was standing on the edge of a jagged cliff, the wind howling in her ears.
"Finally," John said, his voice dropping into a low, tantalizing growl. "We have a mystery. A riddle wrapped in crimson. A girl who promises the face of an angel but plays the devil in the dark. Gentlemen, I give you... The Veiled Maiden!"
The Ominous Rhythmic Drumbeat of the house band intensified. Joylin gave Madeline a firm, urgent shove. "Go. You are up next."