The driver remained with the wagon, and the guard stayed with him, but his eyes roved the street continuously. Javel got the sense that he would be ready to move at the first sign of trouble. Javel slipped closer, not even sure what his plan was. Part of him wanted to flee back to the safety of the warehouse, to the time when he knew nothing of Allie’s fate at all.
Keeping a weather eye on the guard and driver, he strolled casually toward the apothecary. People jostled him, but he ducked and dodged around them, watching the door. The driver was telling some story now, the guard smirking, and Javel slipped past them and inside the shop.
He found Allie in a darkened corner, waiting in front of the counter. The apothecary was nowhere in sight, but Javel could hear the sound of bottles being moved behind a small green curtain. He wished that he could do this in other circumstances, without an audience that might reappear at any moment, but he also realized that he might never get such a chance again. It was now or never.
“Allie.”
She looked up, startled, and Javel felt the world shift on its axis as he saw her eyes, cold and distrustful beneath their violet-painted lids. She looked at him for a long moment.
“What do you want?”
“I’ve come—” Javel felt his throat lock, cutting off the words. He summoned his memories: those nights sitting half asleep in pubs, Allie’s face floating behind his eyes, the hatred for himself that had washed over him in endless waves. Six long years he had left her here, so that she could become the woman before him. If he left her here again, how would he live with himself afterward?
“I’ve come to take you home,” he finished awkwardly.
Allie emitted a brief, throaty sound that he finally realized was a chuckle.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my wife.”
She began to laugh, the sound like a slap to Javel’s face.
“We can get you out of here,” he told her. “I have friends. I can keep you safe.”
“Safe,” she murmured. “How sweet.”
Javel flushed. “Allie—”
“My name is Alice.”
“I’ve come here to rescue you!”
“A knight in shining armor!” she exclaimed brightly, but her eyes did not change, and Javel heard a great deal of anger just beneath her bright words. “And where were you six years ago, Sir Knight, when your bravery could have done me some good?”
“I followed you!” Javel insisted. “I followed you all the way down the Mort road!”
She stared at him for a long, cold moment. “And?”
“Thorne’s people were too powerful. I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t think we could get away.”
“And in all the years since?”
“I was—” But there was nowhere to go from there. What could he tell her? That he’d been at the pub?
“I tried,” he finished brokenly.
“All right, you tried,” Allie replied. “But since you were a coward then, you don’t get to claim bravery now. You’re six years too late. I have built a life here. I am content.”
“Content? You’re a whore!”
Allie gave him another long, measuring look. That look had always been able to make Javel feel about two feet tall, but he had only seen it a few times during their marriage, usually when he had promised to do something and forgotten. He felt as though a spell had been cast upon her; if he could only get her away from here, he could surely break it and change her back.
“Is anything wrong, Alice?” a voice asked. Javel turned and saw the burly guard who had been on the wagon, standing just inside the doorway. His gaze was fixed on Javel, and the look in his eyes made Javel shudder. The man would like nothing better than to beat him to a pulp.
“Nothing at all,” Allie replied brightly. “Just trawling.”
At this, Javel’s mouth dropped open, and he suddenly understood the dual purpose of the shopping trip, the reason for the women’s fine dresses and heavy paint.
“Well, let me know if you need anything, ma’am.” Clearly disappointed, the guard backed out of the shop.
Javel suddenly realized that he had understood the man perfectly, that he had been speaking in Tear. Violence in every muscle, that guard, but his manner toward Allie was utterly deferential. Javel turned back to Allie, wishing he could take his last words back, but he sensed that it wouldn’t matter.
“I am a whore indeed,” Allie replied after a long moment. “But I am working, Javel. I earn my own money and answer to no one.”
“What about your pimp?” he shot back, hating the venom in his own voice but unable to control it.
“I pay rent to Madame Arneau. Reasonable rent, far more reasonable than the rent on a similar space in New London.”
Javel could not reply. He only wished that he might have this Madame Arneau’s neck in his hands, even once.
“In return, I get a suite of beautiful rooms and three cooked meals a day. I am well guarded from predators, I work my own hours, and I choose my own clientele.”
“What sort of whorehouse gives a whore that much freedom?” he demanded. “It’s bad business, if nothing else.”
Allie’s eyes narrowed, and if possible, the coldness in her voice became even deeper, sharper. “The sort that realizes a happy, healthy prostitute is a more profitable one. I earn three times your salary as a Gate Guard.”