suresaint· ( ft ZELDA ! )
Tonight, like all the other nights, the parlour was smothered in a haze of cigar smoke and smelt of sweaty bodies, whiskey and cheap perfume. The only thing that could be seen through the smog were the glowing gas lights hanging from the walls and wooden beams, but even the light emitting from these lanterns was poor; dimmed by the dusty, browning glass encasing it. For as long as she can remember, those lanterns never got wiped down. But it hardly mattered. The patrons who visited this particular spot in St. Denis weren’t here for the brothel’s decor, but for the women it had to offer. And they were fine, young women. Nice women. Funny women. Women who she understood had more to offer than just their cunts, though that was all the interest that they got was for. A warm, wet hole for a couple hours and a couple dollars. That was all.
Ain’t a man around who cared to know their names. Just as well, because this way none of these men realised just how stupid they were bein’ when they talked about their wives and their children, or their property, their land, or how much money they had in their banks. The women hear everything here. In fact, she wagers they know more about the men who visit than what their wives do, and men like to be listened to, so they keep coming back, and they keep spending their cash, and fucking, and drinking, and talking. Shit, she actually thinks there was more talking being done than there was fucking. She sees and hears all of it, not because she is one of the girls but because she lives in the room at the very top of the building. The madame paid her for her and her girls’ protection through board and half a wage, which was fine with her as long as she had a bed to sleep in and warm food to eat.
And she loved ‘em, the girls, and had a little somethin’ with their mistress. They liked flirtin’ with her and battin’ their eye lashes at her, and sometimes a few of ‘em would come up to her room in their white gowns and sit on her bed and talk to her, and gossip to her. Used to kiss her a little too, ‘til Madame Jennie found out and scolded ‘em for kissing the protection. She likes to think that the woman was a little jealous. Anyway, they still kiss her, just they do it a little more secretly now, but still openly call her their lovin’ husband. In turn she calls ‘em all her pretty wives. It only started as a way of teasin’ their mistress for her funny rule. No kissin’ the guard dog, she’d said, which was a bit rude, but when she thinks on it she supposes she is a little like a dog. She shags like one. That had been almost five years ago to this day, and things had stayed pretty much the same, save for a few girls comin’ and goin’…
Tonight she sits at the half out of tune piano and runs her fingers lithely along the yellowing keys, a cigar burning away between her lips, her shirt sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her chest glistening with sweat through its open collar as she looks back at the throe of drunk, hearty dancers stomping and skipping around the middle of the room. They kick up the dust from the floorboards and spill their drinks out of their glasses, but no one cares. They’re just laughing and dancing and groping at each other, and she’s all fine ‘til the saloon doors swing open and the Sheriff’s pretty wife walks in. Her fingers stumble over the piano keys in surprise and comes to a jarring stop, and everyone groans, and swears, and implores her to keep on playing, but she doesn’t. She waves ‘em off, plucks the cigar from her mouth and puffs out the smoke before stopping the married lady at the doors.
“’Scuse me,” she starts, and seems to grow taller now that she’s off of the stool. “But this ain’t much of an establishment for a lady.” A small smile drags up one side of her mouth until she’s grinning somethin’ dirty. “A… dis-respectable persons en’erprise only.”
YOUR HUSBAND IS A USELESS MAN. of course, what would you expect with him being a man? they might think they own the place but you know far more women who use their heads than you do men. stick a shiny sheriff’s badge on one and he starts to think that he’s the bee’s knees . . . your husband is the poster child for that. and yet here you are, doing his work - a ‘ man’s ‘ job, because he doesn’t deem this case important enough. he knows better than to answer to you and you were adamant that you would go to investigate. he meets you with a ‘ do what you want, honey. ‘ and a ‘ if you must. ‘ and you must because the life of a woman is important and if you can find her . . . or help . . . then you’re doing some good in the world.
you might not wear the same badge as your husband but folk around here know your business. you climb off your horse, your loyal steed guinevere, and you pat her and tell her what a good girl she is before feeding her a sugar cube. and then your boots carry you up onto the wooden stairs in front of the establishment and you soon enter with your head held high. the whole place smells like booze and smoke and you’re tempted to cough. but you don’t, because you’re a lady and you don’t want to draw too much attention to yourself.
but it’s too late. you’ve already gathered enough attention to feel eyes on you from every corner. they know who you are - you’re sheriff drake’s wife. they might not know your name - they may just know your title, your status - but they all know your game. you’re definitely not welcome here, you can feel it in the stares but nobody says anything to you . . . nobody except her.
you know of zelda niles and you know that she isn’t like the other women here. she’s much more like one of the men except - less sleazy. but she’s definitely not like any other of the women you’ve met since being here. she approaches you and you keep your posture straight, standing just a little bit taller than her. ❛ i’m not here to seek pleasure, miss niles. ❜ although you’re certain you’d find more fun here than you would at home. ❛ heard about a lady that’s gone missing - one of your ladies. ❜ and yet it surprises you that this place is still bustling as much as it is, even with a girl missing. ❛ thought i could be of some help. ❜
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