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The masked man

Mother Miranda/reader

Warning for explicit content.

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Danamir Corneille is the perfect man — charming, intelligent, and always on the move. His reputation of a traveling doctor has earned him both admiration and suspicion, he remains a mystery to everyone who crosses his path. But beneath his carefully crafted facade lies a secret, one so deeply hidden that few even dare to question his true identity.

You are a noble woman named Vermilyea Lament, known for her grace but shadowed by her cold, unpredictable nature. Her presence commands attention, but her actions leave many wondering whether she’s as immaculate as she appears or something darker.

Your paths collide in a dangerous game of power, secrets, and trust, as you navigate your growing obsession with one another. Will you unravel each other’s mysteries, or will the tangled web of your desires and betrayals destroy you both?

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Chapter 1: New death, new beginning

Summary:

Ghosts from the past often like to dance among people during masquerades, because even they are part of the performance.

1897 - Veret, France.

The coffin lines up with the earth once the furious sun takes a central position in the endless, blue sky.

The weather is quite curious today. It has been raining all morning, not to mention night, so the air is thick with unpleasant moisture, while the soil under heavy boots is soft, wet and messy, forcing out a curse from numerous mouths as people dirty their shoes on it. However now, in the middle of the day, the rain is absent. In its place rays of sunshine pierce and twist the faces of the those who have left their homes. There is even a remarkably beautiful rainbow above their heads, which fades with every passing second, as if the many eyes observing it are making the bright colours shy and uncomfortable.

White clouds are dancing and forming a dome through the sky, almost acting childish, not paying attention to the sorrowful event just below them. If one thought about the landscape with a bit more artistic vision, it wouldn't be completely wrong to say heaven is opening its gates for yet another soul, who awaits peace after the many hard years of living. And if death is a saviour and life is a curse, then it's easy to see the difference between the above and below. Mass of people, gathered together to mourn over a dead body, which they selfishly shove into the ground, hoping the soul will make it to heaven. It's an absurdly ridiculous idea, but everyone follows it. Everyone stays still and will eyes locked into the coffin while the priest reads out loud from his sacred book.

You've never understood the purpose of funerals. As a child you believed it was a way to show how much grief can a person hold over someone else. Because you remember different faces, twisted from sadness, lowering down to kiss a corpse and then whisper sweet words, that meant nothing to the person who passed. One after one, in a straight line, men and women, sometimes children, offering endless love only for them to later on lock their beloved in a box, underground. In your position, which you share with nobody else, it's selfish - to limit someone from their freedom, to cage them, even in death and then let your bitter tears out for everyone to observe.

On the other hand, you understand that it is a tradition and it's important, yet you can't feel a thing while looking at that pale, non-living skin, or the lowered coffin, or the finished grave. And you acknowledge this is not because you barely knew the woman in it. The problem comes from somewhere deep inside you, it doesn't matter who you're going to see in that casket - a real reaction would ever come your way. There is faking it, of course, and you are a master in your craft. A mimicked twist of eyebrows, a forced tear or two....and calculated words, ready to glaze the ears, which need to hear them. That is why you bend your knees, allowing your expensive dress to touch the mud, and you get a handful of dirt, throwing it on top of the coffin, with a lowered head. Every single person around you does the same and by the time the last one is finished - the official funeral ends.

"Vermilyea!!" - a voice rings through the air, soft and feminine, but loud enough to gather turned heads and curious eyes. You sigh, slowly smoothing the fabric of your dress as you stand up, supported by strong knees. It's really a pity, the nice green colour is now covered roughly with mud around the edges. You don't find it pleasant when your clothes get dirty, not because you can't get yourself another pair, but rather because of self image and the desire to look flawless all the time. You lift a hand to cover your colourful eyes from the shining rays of sunshine, while you try to locate the voice, which so eagerly called your name out.

You're not surprised to recognise your mother a few meters a head of you, standing elegantly and still, not too tall and not too short, just like your own height. She has decided to wear a black dress, convenient - after all she came to a funeral and she's smart enough to leisurely hide the spots from the stubborn, wet dirt with a dark fabric. Your mother - Miriam, who took the noble name Lament, wasn't always so well dressed and with such perfect, raven coloured curls, however her attitude and behaviour were always fitting the ones of an important figure in society. You can already understand as to why you're being called. "You're doing too much." rings inside your ears even without a real voice whispering it. You might not be too similar, or close to mother, but there is one thing you clearly share in common - the are of pretending, just for different reasons.

Every step reveals a bigger portion of her face, few wrinkles visible in between her eyebrows, under her eyes and around her red painted lips. She hates them, massaging her skin every night in hope to make them disappear. Yet the one who she's usually supposed to impress doesn't mind them in the slightest. You don't have an opinion on the topic, aging is natural and comes for us all. Your mother's fake smile looks bigger than usual as her eyes narrow down you and hate to find out your shoes are now ruined by the mug. How unfortunate.

"Are we leaving?" - you question, lifting up a hand to run through a few wavy strings of golden hair, that has gotten out of the proper order you spent half and hour adjusting them into this morning. The slight breeze is not your friend when it comes to the long, curvy river on top of your head, but you don't like it tied up, tamed...so you endure.

"Not yet, Vermilyea." - your mother's tongue cuts like a sharp pair of scissors. She rolls her shoulders back, clearly frustrated, eyes searching for someone in the the crowd, but between so many faces she doesn't seem to find her desired one. So only you remain in her center of attention. - "Élise was a very good friend of our family, we should stay more and...mourn her properly." - despite her hard to find words you don't find a single track of grief on that pale face in front on you.

You've only seen Madame Élise twice. The first time she was trying to sell an old jewelry box to your mother, you remained close to them, watching silently as the other woman convinced your mother to buy not only the old box, but also tons of cheap necklaces she doesn't wear anymore, and she accepted. If you truly knew Miriam Lament you wouldn't be surprised, she's a masked aristocrat, always trying to fit into the role she accepted more than fifteen years ago. The second time you spotted the now dead woman was close to the woods, where you usually go to search for crows. Élise was lifting her skirt for another man back then, younger, handsome and... dirty. It wasn't so long ago, and of course there were rumours about her dying from a shameful infection, however only her husband could really tell the truth.

"Staying by her grave won't change anything." - you see how your mother's hand tremble with anticipation, her rings threatening to fall off. Instead of lifting her palm to smack your cheek, she just calms clears her throat.

"Then change yourself, Vermilyea." - she lifts her chin in direction of the ground of people, who are still staying by the grave, watering it with tears. - "Your opinion is not superior." - your reaction is limited to a quiet hm.

Soon, another figure arrives at the scene. Just the one Miriam was looking for. Her facial expression immediately changes to a soft one, with a more realistic smile and eyes, filled with care. Your father is a proud and handsome man, with heart so full of love towards your mother that sometimes hurts him. You're often compared to him, despite having no biological connection with the man. It's certain you carry the last name of Richard Lament, but the kinship ends there, he has raised you as his child, with affection and love, but you could never return the same to him. You're indifferent, he's just a parent figure, just like your mother.

He puts a hand around his wife's waist, bringing her close for a kiss. If Miriam has something against his beard she makes sure to not show it. Not like there are any signs she doesn't like it. The man's beard is in dark, shiny colour, similar his hair, but the area around his chin, lips and overall mouth is in slight lighter colour, grey to almost orange. People talk and laugh about it, some praise him for being such an obedient husband and spending most of his time between his wife's legs, which he never denies. He has had many lovers, paid and unpaid, but never a wife and Miriam was his wife. Richard whispers something in her ear and your mother's lips form an almost perfect 'O'.

"Vera, if you're so disinterested in paying respect to the dead..." - she refers to you with the part of your name, which aims to represent your grandmother Vera. You've never met the woman, but your mother talks highly of her, as if she was someone important and not yet another maid for a rich salesman. Miriam lifts a gloved finger, pointing somewhere behind her husband, to the direction he came from. And sure enough there is another man there, waiting. - "Why don't you comfort the living? Monsieur Pierre must be suffering, he could use some company..."

You nod, perfectly understanding your mother's intentions. It's not about comfort, it's a sick game of the rich. Find yourself a younger wife in the middle of a funeral, dedicated for your last. You've been through few other candidates for your hand in marriage already, so naturally you've grown to accept that you have to talk with them, and God forbid... meet them again sometimes. You usually manage to make them become distant after one conversation. You plan to do the same. However, just as you swirl to the side, ready to fight the mud through your destination, you feel a hand to your shoulder and you turn back around.

"Don't forget..." - your mother murmurs, the back of her palm slowly tracing your cheek. Her touch is cold and ghostly, foreign and distant, yet it's still there. - "talk in french and smile more, yes?" - she pulls on your skin, forcing your lips to form a thin and fake symbol of affection and good will. - "Like a good girl should, hm?"

Once you get far away to not be able to hear clear, your father quickly turns to Miriam with a sorrowful expression.

"You're pushing her too much." - he shares his worries not loud enough to root out suspicion from nearby curious ears.

"I'm guiding her, there is a difference." - the man observes how a single vein pops out on his wife's forehead, possibly of irritation. The slight squeezing of her left eye confirms it, although it could be because of the sun. Just to be certain nothing external is bothering her, Richard subtly moves in front of her, passing his body weight from leg to leg, while pretending to fix his bowtie.

"Blindly." - he underlines, earning himself a scoff, however it doesn't stop him from adding to his point. - "Into an old man's hands."

"A rich old man." - Miriam's painted lips go thin with dripping impatience, she squeezes her hands into fists, while breathing a bit more heavily through her nose. Her chest, strangely exposed for a funeral, raises up and down, as if the tight corset she's wearing is unexpectedly bothering her, which would normally never happen, because she's used to the pain she has to endure to stay beautiful. Her eyes narrow down at her husband. - "And why are you acting like you didn't just help us out by making him stay a little longer?"

"I can never refuse my wife." - if it weren't for public image Richard would be already kissing down her neck and collarbone, finding it hard to stop himself as usual due to how appealing his wife looked. He's not a man to shy away from the fact that he lives under a woman's boot, he accepts his reality with warm and open arms. Miriam is an intelligent woman, so he listens and obeys. That's why when she asked him to talk with Monsieur Pierre and convince him to stay a bit more in the graveyard, rather than go home and grief alone - he did it with no questions. But of course, this precisely calculated manipulation was never about how that pitiful widower is feeling. - "But you know... Vermilyea is marvelous, don't waste her beauty and youth by marrying her off to someone who's having a chase with death."

"We are in no position to choose her husband freely." - perhaps six years ago they would have been in a better situation, with Vermilyea being younger and more desired. Hundreds of candidates for her pure self in line, hoping to get lucky. However both Miriam and Vermilyea were too proud back then, rejecting little boys with a strong hand, not expecting it to backfire at them. - "We're desperately offering to whoever decides to take."

"Still, it's not right." - Richard believes he can save and protect his daughter through her whole life, it's what he truly wants to happen, but he knows it's impossible.

"It's easy for you, the moment you're short in money you run to your brother for help, but I... know how hard it is to earn." - Miriam's piercing gaze is inescapable, additionally with her strong voice she succeeds in making her husband shift in his place. Her background is of no rich family, she's not a real noble, no matter how much she pretends. Miriam was but a maid, which so happen to catch the attention of Richard while he was visiting his brother, for whom the woman was working for in those distant, but never forgotten times.

"My darling, you're talking like we're poor." - Richard decides to play it safe with a low laugh, a weak attempt for a joke. It's true, 'poor' is not exactly their financial situation, but they are definitely spending more than they are getting. Richard is a skillful salesman here in France, similar to his brother back in Romania, however he could never get on the same level as the grand Apolon Lament.

"We're close to hitting that rock bottom, especially if you continue with your weekly gamble." - those words force the man to lift a hand and scratch the back of his neck with a shaky hand. He's a good person, attending church, devoted to his work and family, yet everyone has a weak spot and his is the thrill of winning more money through gambling games. Even though, Richard is rarely the winner. Miriam tilts a strong and confident chin towards her daughter's direction, her back straight as a ruler. - "The solution is to marry Vermilyea off, so both she and us can spend money without worrying it's not going to be enough." - after all two expensive looking woman are too much for one household, therefore it would be easier if Richard was only occupied with spoiling his wife, while Vermilyea found a nice husband to take care of her.

"Is that man truly your solution, then, Miriam?" - after a short pause, Richard asks softly, but no answer follows.

In the meantime you finally manage to safety arrive at your destination. The man in front of you doesn't move or even try to greet you. You find that rude, however you don't seem to care enough to make a comment. You just remain in a place close to him, holding your already ruined dress in one hand, already imagining how you're going to throw it away in the fireplace this very same night and watch it burn, the unpleasant mud finally leaving your life. You take a deep breath, before opening full lips and letting out words, for which you believe will surely root out attention.

"My mother says grief is a temporary feeling—unpleasant and deep, but short in time." - as expected, Monsieur Pierre turns his head towards you, finally. He's not a beautiful man, if you had no manners you would immediately say ugly. Half of his hair is no longer occupying his scalp, though he has a long and thick mustache. It doesn't suit him, it's unkept and gives a poor look. Nothing like your father's beard, for which he takes care and attention. You don't meet his eyes as you continue. - "It could only ruin you if you allow it."

"Your mother...doesn't really strike me as the one to say that, mademoiselle." - you lift an eyebrow in surprise, not expecting such a man to discover your truth so early one. You're honest with yourself and you understand that you have no idea how to experience grief or empathy for all it matters. But you have observations, about others, about normal people with normal emotions and you write down the right way to express the things you can't feel yourself. You were still a child when you discovered the phrase 'My mother says.." and then adding your own ideas and interpretations. Noone judges a child who repeats what it has heard, if anything people would blame the mother, but never out loud, never in public. So it worked perfectly for you. Until now, of course.

"You'd be surprised by the things my mother says, Monsieur." - you handle the situation calmly, it doesn't matter if you had been discovered in a lie,there is always covering it. The man observes you in a bizarre way and judging by how he talks about Miriam, you can note her and Élise weren't as close as she says. The fact only makes your vision over how funerals are selfish acts even more clear. - "Especially when she thinks no one's really listening."

"And do you listen?" - a direct strike.

"Only when it serves me right." - you shift in your place, fixing your sleeve in the meantime, acting unbothered and cold, indifferent. You don't like how Monsieur Pierre has taken a closer observation towards your eyes. No one can blame him, there are surely an attraction. You were unfortunate enough to be born with one ocean colored and one as green as the grass eye. Your mother says it's a curse from the devil. You're no believer, but you hate how much unwanted attention your eyes are capable of summoning. After a second or two—the man laughs.

"Vermilyea was it?" - his whole facial expression is now changed, lips turned upside in a smile, while he moves a little closer. - "a beautiful name for a beautiful lady, but tell me, dear, why are you approaching me in such language?" - that's right, you were supposed to communicate in French, not English. Most people in France are pretty distant with foreigners, yet your family has always been an exception, possibly because of your father's position. - "Can't you speak proper French?" - a short mocking pause. - "Don't disappoint me by saying you're one those people...who sound like spanish cows with bad accents?"

"I take lessons, Monsieur Pierre, however I should excuse myself — my French isn't truly the best." - a lie. Well, not entirely. Your pronunciation is not too bad and you understand when others talk to you, in audition you're very good in grammar and vocabulary, but your problem comes from having absolutely no respect for the language. You despite it. While on the topic — you also hate English, however you were forced to talk in it your whole life, especially while growing up because you were simply in an English home, where Romanian, your mother's tongue, was forbidden. Of course, when you moved to France and you were forced to study another foreign language, you tried your best to fail on purpose, however your mother continued to send you to those expensive lessons. You've come to a decent level, in theory, but in reality you can't form a proper sentence if you don't memories if first. Faking and more faking, always and forever.

The man doesn't say much after that. He goes silent, looking in the distance, eyes locked onto his wife's grave. You find it strange to why he's not right next to it, however it's not interesting enough for you to ask. You don't even know why you decide to continue the conversation, knowing very well you can come back to your mother at the very second and say that Monsieur Pierre wasn't really interested in another woman. But for the sake of trying.

"How old was she?"

"Forty-seven..." - he answers, his lower lip slightly bending in a sorrowful arch, yet he's quick to cover it with a smile. - "after twelve years of marriage she left me alone at my own very age of fragile fifty-nine."

Old pig. Does your mother even know? You're not going to try and romance someone as old as a dying tree in the woods. You're not against your future partner being older, in fact the one you carnally desire is indeed not close to your own age, by how much you're not certain, however, it's definitely not more than thirty years, certainly not a lifetime.

"Do you miss her?" - you ask, softly, tilting your head like a curious child. But the question drips with something less innocent. Your strong perfume seems to have reached his nose because he wrinkles it. Good, you've spent a great amount of time of rubbing that perfumed water around your collarbone and chest this morning.

"Of course I do." - Monsieur Pierre sounds certain, as if your question is somewhere between being useless, confusing or simply — stupid.

"That’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?" - you're not exactly sure where you're going with your point, but you need to make it clear you're not the easy and obedient woman he's searching for, you will not be a replacement for his wife. - "To miss someone. To ache like that. I wonder..." - you pause, lips parting slightly, as if uncertain whether you should continue, however that line is already crossed. - "I wonder if she would’ve missed you, had it been the other way around?" - with Madame Élise, covered IN black from head to toe, crying over her late husband's grave. The poor widow, all alone in the world now, with no freedom to marry again, because she's no man.

"Why wouldn't she?" - he turns to look at you sharply, the air stiffening around him. Monsieur Pierre is looking uneasy. He knows you're onto something, he senses it, yet he's uncertain where the conversation will take him.

You smile faintly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to sting before you drop it, light as a feather, cruel as a blade. - "Only because... I once saw her. With another man. It was quite late. They seemed... familiar. Too familiar for grief." - you purposely lift a hand to cover your face, as if you're embarrassed to even mention such thing.

Monsieur Pierre changes in a matter of seconds. His expression drops down, possibly along with his heart. His lips switch in a grimace while he furrows his eyebrows and squeezes his hands into fists. You wonder if Élise was alive, would he hit here now? Knowing the truth of how she ran after pleasure and not love? You can't help but crack a hidden smile, the reaction thrilling you more than you would admit. The little huff he lets out is a beautiful note of violin for your ears.

"That—whore!" - he screams, earning himself a few surprised looks, however noone comes closer to acknowledge what exactly is going on. He taps him leg strong on the ground, ruining his boot and splashing more mud over your dress. You suppress the 'tch' sound, urging to come out of your throat. - "I've given her everything! Money, clothes, jewellery, whatever she asked for!" - he angrily splashes more mud, his eyes full of fury. - "She doesn't even deserve this funeral!"

"Please, Monsieur Pierre, we shouldn't judge the dead for their sins." - if you actually felt someone towards the man, you would have tried to comfort him with a hand over his trembling back. But you're not the person to do it. If anything, you move aside, not wanting more mess on your already ruined dress. - "You've punished her enough." - by shoving her deep into the earth, you desire to add, yet you stop yourself. The man doesn't add anything else either.

You think of saying something more, just to see how it would feel. But the thought dies, smothered by your own boredom. Soon you leave the scene in silence, not looking back.

*****

You don't exactly expect to find yourself returning in that unpleasant graveyard the very same night. But a decision was taken on the spot and unfortunately time cannot be reversed. It's not like you're regretting anything, except maybe ruining yet another dress. This time a lighter fabric, an invitingly good looking caramel colour, hugging your body with care, under a rough coat you grabbed without thinking much before leaving your room. It was supposed to be a quick trip to the woods, just to check if the bird trap you had placed a few days ago has been of any use. The results were... disappointing, but to cover that you spotted an owl on a closely branch, being too curious for its own good. It was still young, you observed by lifting up the gas lamp you had in hand. You've never killed an owl before. Your main victims are always small singing birds or the dark crows that love to fly around the houses in Veret. You weren't exactly sure if the simple slingshot you had in your pocket would be of any real use, as your arms were strong, but not enough to kill, just hope for an injury. And you made it, you twisted the owl's wing, slowing it down. Bleeding, and wheezing, the animal led you here, back to the rot and stone, as if something was waiting.

You're no stranger to the exhausting game of hide and seek different birds can put up, while trying their best to escape death. That's why you usually aim for the wings, because once fallen down they can't do anything but crawl helplessly through dirt. You like watching them as they form a line of blood on the ground, it truly shows the reality you live in. You've always hated the feathered creatures and their ability to fly over the world as if all the suffering beneath them doesn't exist. You are no God, but it feels like you're playing one when your blade finally releases them from misery. But of course no God, even a hateful one, would keep the corpse after the kill.

Your eyes are tracing down every small movement between the hanging over graves branches, in search for the pathetic bird, still pretty young as it's not too big in size. Your ears are sharp and ready to catch every different sound from the usual cricket and slight breeze, compensating for your bad night vision. The lamp is placed close to your legs, but the flame is smaller now, less intimidating. You're completely still, waiting in silence. Yet...after a few minutes you begin to realise you might have miscalculated the direction of the owl. For the sake of the hunt, you stay a little longer, moving long and steady legs through different in size and shape stones, with carved names on them, the names of the dead.

You stop in front of a rather unkept grave, covered in dried grass, the left for honour food on the side is barely recognisable, rotten and full of maggots. Upon looking at the date written on it you acknowledge that this miserable attempt for eternal peace belongs to a child, who didn't make it past the age of ten. Your eyes are unblinking as you read the name a few times in your mind, your tongue silently pronouncing it, savouring the taste. Just staring at it is quite boring. So you decide to do something you usually practice in front of a mirror, and have never done over a grave, but you find no-one around, including yourself, who dares stop you.

An image of a woman appears in your head, unknown to you, without a name to roll on your tongue. But she's not made up from imagination, you saw her today at the funeral, you just never bothered to get to know her. However you did observe her face, carefully, with precision and the desire to mold her twisted visage in your memory so you can use it when the time comes. Until then you decide to practice. You rub the inner corner of your eyes, getting red and slightly puffy. You hope for fake tears to come out, yet your cheeks remain dry, skin exposed to the night air. With now furrowed from pretended sadness brows and curved, thin lips you allow yourself to let out a throaty whimper — something close to a cough, with the intention of resembling a weak cry. That sound doesn't suit you, way too untrue for your own judgment, let alone the people you always try to convince about how natural you are with your emotions. They don't know about your secret practices in order to fit in, they don't know how many different masks you wear everyday so you're not pointed out as weird or unfeeling, a menace to society that is so very keen on empathy and the usage of it.

You change a grimace after grimace, closing your eyes to more clearly see the faces from today, but still that deep well of emptiness remains open in your chest. You know it's never going to fill and to be honest with yourself you don't want it to fill. It's crystal clear to you, while you bend down to imitate unbearable sorrow you can only think of that wounded owl, which wings you want to twist with bare hands just because it had the nerve to escape you. At some point your visage takes a natural emotional state for your persona— anger.

You've been empty for years. And the only person who can fill up the void has been reported dead before you could even begin to understand yourself and how much you needed her.

Just then, in the cold unmoving distance you manage to see a flickery light, levitating through darkness, as it has wings. But it's not angelic feathers guiding the lamp you soon acknowledge to be presenting itself upon you. Rather it's another dark shadow in the night, lurking in lonely hours, unbothered. And slowly making its way to the that very same graveyard you stand in, however not from the usual way, through the city. The person approaching is coming out slowly from the thick forest right behind the old, rusty metal fence on the back. A foreigner. You quickly kick the gas lamp besides you so the flame can disappear, before this stranger manage to see you. A safe place behind the grave is taken and you wait, curious to see who's coming here in the middle of the night as well.

The figure limpers. This is the first thing you notice. The second is the weird, dark clothing, almost resembling that of a priest, but much larger, layered and from what the light illuminates — dirty. The head of the person is also covered, limiting you the freedom of seeing a face, let alone remembering it. The lamp is placed next to a grave and then you see the outline of a shovel, gripped firmly in the stranger's right hand. Digging for fresh corpses is not something uncommon, a lot of doctors pay to poor people to do this dirty work for them so they can understand anatomy better. So that's why you're not exactly surprised to comprehend the chosen grave is the one that was the center of attention in today's funeral. Élise is to be a victim, even in her death, just how poetic. As the metal part of the instrument hits the still wet dirt for the first time, you move slightly to a side to get a better view, your breath stuck in your throat. But the figure turns towards you almost immediately.

"Is someone there?" - a sweet voice. Hoarse and giving the expression that the person is struggling to let out a cough, but still sweet. And definitely feminine. You stay low, hiding yourself, too interested to flew now. The scene too consuming, especially after the strange woman snaps her head to a side, tone changing.

"I know, my dear, I just thought I heard someone." - your lips part. Is there another person helping her? You lift yourself just enough to be able to observe better, yet you don't find an indicator for a partner. The unknown woman presses her forehead to the handle of the shovel. - "I told you I didn't want to do this today."

Oh. She's talking to herself. Intriguing.

"She's not even fresh, not like I want her." - a pile of dirt begins to form next to Elise's grave, due to the heavy and constant digging the woman is continuing to do, heavy gardening instrument in her hands, almost panting, and a voice that continues to talk, noone else listening except you. Suddenly metal hits metal and you become a witness of how the shovel has finally reached its destination, the coffin. The amount of time it took her to dig out the dirt is incredible. Minutes. She must be devoted, or desperate. The casket is soon opened and the woman sighs. - "The lipstick corpse, the faithful liar. She's bathed in perfume and covered in colours like a jester." - the shovel is kicked to a side, making you shift in your place. - "She's not... she's not perfect, I won't —" - a pause, the woman is unmoving and silent, as if listening. - "Fine. Just the legs."

You watching with unblinking eyes as the stranger before you grabs the dead body of Élise from the comfort of her coffin and slowly, almost struggling, pulls her out until she hits the ground. Your breath hitches, knees pressing together. It's thrilling to observe and try to guess the moral comprehension of this person. Devil to society for digging out what has already been blessed by the followers of God. A saviour for those who think being buried in the ground is a selfish act. The woman lifts Elise's dress and rips out her stockings without a care in the world. You narrow your head, heart beating faster. You know about men taking advantage of cadavers, but a woman doing it has never crossed your path...or imagination. But then she stops, her hands trembling. From anger, you soon understand.

"She's bruised." - an interesting observation, you almost begin to wonder why. It could be many things, but you need to see the said bruises to take judgment, if they are on her knees then the reason is more than clear, but over her entire length of legs it could be a difficult case, from a sickness to abuse. Monsieur Pierre didn't strike you as the one to hit his wife, yet given how he reacted when you told him the truth it's not completely unimaginable. After all he's an aristocrat, if he's going to let out his anger on Élise it's going to be on a place no-one else will see. - "It was all for nothing, she won't do..." - she woman lifts a hand, fingers trembling, and you guess she's biting on her nails. A lot of people do when stressed. - "It's ruined, it's dead and ruined and—"

Out of nowhere, she screams.

"Shut up already!" - she gets down on her knees, trembling, definitely not because of the cold air. - "I'm not loosing control, I never loose control. I won't fail, stop! Just—" - her voice is completely different now, rough and angry, but also trembling from something with the taste of fear. Perhaps she's talking to someone else inside her head? - "Shut up, shut up, shut up..." - she repeats like a mantra.

What a pathetic human being. You can't lie that you're not excited, however. If that's even the word you'd like to choose for describing your fast beating hard and heavy breathing. Unfortunately, this state of yours turns out to not be in your favour. The woman suddenly turns to your direction, the light from the lamp is finally revealing her face, but only partly. Her eyes are still covered from the hood she wears, but you can see the lower part of her visage, the end of her nose, her lips...forming out a smirk. And then...

"I can hear you breathing." - you freeze, jaw tightening. Her voice has switched sonority again. It's not angry, sad or even mad, but rather tired. At least that's how you hear it. You don't wait for explanation. Instead you take a step back, as quietly as you can. You understand you're not supposed to be here, no matter how thrilled you feel at the moment. The woman doesn't move, doesn't get closer. She just continues to stare towards your direction. Observing the darkness as if it's going to talk back to her.

"I didn't come here for company." - she says, her shoulders dropping low. - "Unless you're just another voice as well." - a pause, enough for a skip of the heart. - "And if you are... don't start talking, please."

With that you finally take your leave, not turning back to check if she has saw you or not. On your way home you walk past the unsuccessful bird trap from today, now finding it actually doing it's purpose. There is a black as the night sky crow inside, trying to bite through the prison it filed into on its own. You don't kill it, you don't free it. As if influenced by tonight events - you just leave the already doomed animal alone and caged.

*****

"Monsieur Pierre has informed me about being interested in meeting you again, Vera." - the small usage of your name has long been transformed into a manipulative weapon. If it was a symbol of affection during your early childhood days, then now it's just a method of your mother trying to intertwine in your personal life. You have choice, most of the time, but it's rarely considered reasonable. Unless you're talking with your father, that is. He has always been soft towards you.

"Is that so?" - you raise your voice, along with your head and soon you meet your mother's eyes just for a second, before they return to the papers in her hands. Miriam is the one who deals with money within the house, ever since you moved in Veret. Everything that is earned or spent must pass through her observation and clever hands. Yet, despite her planning and organisations, money has been not enough for a year or two now. Your parents often argue if it's because Richard's addiction to cards or Miriam's desire for more, it doesn't matter what, just more - clothes, jewellery, food, furniture...even the long cigarette, casually placed between her fingers, which fills up the air with that awful smell you can't normally stand, but always endure. It's your mother preferred poison, even if doctors have told her it's slowly killing her, even if she herself has noticed the way she always coughs after smoking. Nothing, however, stops the woman from still consuming it while worried over her money slowly fading away from her iron grip.

"Indeed, he has sent a letter, telling me about your small conversation during Elise's funeral and how you managed to...win his interest." - your mother talks a lot. It's a strategy, of course. She could have stopped at the letter, it would have been considered enough of an information, but she likes to extend and just had to mention the funeral and how you supposedly fascinated the old man. - "I can't help but wonder what you told him." - Miriam is not asking, rather she's demanding. You notice it too quickly for own taste.

"The truth." - your answer is simple, almost forced out of you, yet incredibly correct.

Silence falls between the two of you, mother and daughter that successfully managed to grow apart during the years. Every dialogue between you now feels like a forced monologue from Miriam's part. But you don't mind it, knowing well your mother would never understand you, let alone try. And you don't expect her to, after all you sometimes don't even understand yourself. Your mother's heavy with golden rings hand makes and attempt to slide on the table you're both sitting on, in order to reach yours. However, halfway there she stops, then curls her fingers towards herself, in decision not to touch you. Her eyes nervously look up to you, searching for a reaction, which they don't find. At last, you both ignore the gesture, in silent agreement.

"The truth..." - she repeats dryly. - "is not something a lot of people are ready to hear, especially men." - you cross your legs, a new dress - this time beige, wrinkles because of the movement. Your eyes lift up with a dangerous glare, piercing through the table. On it there are various dishes placed for feasting, way too many for a family of three. And it's only morning. You find it amusing how your mother desires to marry you off in order to save money, yet still gives them freely everyday. Waste. Is that what you are in her head? A few quiet steps echo through the air - a familiar figure entering the room. You treat your father's appearance as a good sign not to open your mouth about this topic yet. - "So remember my advice and do not share it with the man, you're trying to win the love of."

Richard sighs with irritation before he could even be wished good morning.

"Always marriage and love with you women, nothing else." - his voice is rough from sleep, beard ready for shaping as it's getting too big, so Miriam makes a grimace when he leans in to steal a kiss, the outgrown hairs annoying her soft skin. Yet she smiles, she welcomes him like a good wife, almost as if she's giving out examples to you. But it's very doubtful if you're ever going to be this welcoming towards a man, any man. As your father takes a seat next to you, on a slightly larger chair than the rest around the table, another plate of piled up eatables is placed in front of him, by the only working maid inside your home, the last of six more, which Miriam had to dismiss out of lacking coin for their monthly payments. Your mother often feels guilty about those poor women who practically begging her to let them stay, as they don't see where else they can work, but you don't even remember their faces, let alone names.

"Well, it's only natural for Vermilyea to enter this phase of her life." - your mother's hand roams through the table, successfully grabbing a glass of clear, french win - perfect for her nerves, and guides it to her lips, tasting it with precision. - "If anything, she's rather late." - the woman can't seem to stop herself from giving out a commentary. Your father gives you a quick look, his gentle eyes proposing safety and softness per usual. You don't blink in response, instead you look down at your own plate, which is empty, because you already ate your breakfast and can say you're full. Still, you reach out for another piece of tarte, trying to taste their hypocrisy.

"And who's her candidate?" - Richard questions, adjusting his tight collar so the food he consumed can go easily down his throat, as he's a quick eater and doesn't always chew like he should be.

"Monsieur Pierre Bernard" - your father doesn't seem twice surprised to hear the name of the man, which wife's funeral he attended just the day before. His eyes narrow at Miriam, who gentle twists her head, almost provocatively and flashes him a smirk, already tasting his disappointment. - "He's a banker, my darling - filthy rich."

"I don't like him." - an argument Richard has to desire to defend, simply because it's final. Besides, Vermilyea Bernard doesn't sound right.

"You don't like any man for Vermilyea." - a white handkerchief is lifted to the woman's lips, gathering the remains of the wine, which is now gone and the cup stays empty on the table. Right next to it, Miriam slams the dirtied fabric. - "We could've married her almost ten years ago."

Another truth, spoken from such a fake woman, forces the room to go silent. When you were fifteen, nine years apart from your current twenty-four, a young boy came to ask your hand in marriage. After a few days in forced dates you understood that he had been your neighbour all along, you just weren't very interested in socialising. To be fair, the boy was nice, he was clearly educated and had looks, under all that he wasn't much older than you, barely a year or two, and had a decent family name, to which you could have been tied up and die, covered in gold after a while. Of course there were many problems with the situation - your father didn't want to give you up so soon, despite you being in the legal age for marriage, your own disinterested, and the final factor, which was that you weren't bleeding yet, therefore any desires for children were impossible. In the end, said boy found himself another girl for a wife and you stayed with a pleased father, who has only been your legal step father for barely five years and wanted to live out his dream of having a child, and an angry mother, who believed a great opportunity was ruined. That day you began to wonder if the story behind your biological father dying right before marrying Miriam was real, and not the possibility of you being an unwanted daughter, made with consent or not.

After that many men tried to win you over, but it never worked. In current days you were either considered too old, too mean or - the new one - too broke to marry. Slowly the variety of choice Miriam was clinging to disappeared and now she had no other choice, but to offer to whoever is ready to take you.

"Vermilyea is not meant to be a wife, nevertheless." - Richard announces after the brief, awkward pause, forcing Miriam to grab her forehead in a slightly trembling palm. This is your father finest argument against your mother. Your simple inability to bear children. The absence of a normal menses cycle in your womanhood.

At age sixteen, right after the marriage disappointment, Miriam Lament began to worry for her daughter. Not because you were ill or anything close to it, but because you were broken, at least in her eyes. You hadn't bled yet. Your nightgowns were still white as snow and your mattress was clean. But your mother knew it wasn't normal at your age, given the fact that she had bled for the first time at thirteen. Upon calling a doctor, who touched you with more interest than usual in his eyes, it was confirmed that you weren't going to be able to carry children, or get pregnant at all. You didn't know where that information came from, but facts are facts and no blood came your way since that day. When you were little your mother told you that the feminine cycle was a curse from God for the original sin, which she refused to talk about, as it has nothing to do with just an apple. Yet years after she spoke the Devil's name when they told her about your condition. It didn't make sense to be cursed by both of them.

In some regards you were thankful for not having to beat the unnecessary pain in audition to it and also - never go into labour. Not like you have anything against pain, you welcome it, because you don't normally feel it. Your tolerance built too high. You remember breaking your smallest finger of the left hand when you were still small and careless. There was no crying or screaming from your part, as the pain wasn't much of a trigger. You didn't tell Miriam, or Richard, or anyone at all. You just wrapped the finger to the one next to it with a bandage and hid it for months under gloves, which you said were a fashionable choice when your mother asked about them. Eventually your finger healed, but in a wrong way - crooked like the metal hooks for fishing your father owns, yet never uses. Nowadays it stands out, however noone asks about it.

Besides your unnatural looking finger, curious different in colour eyes, your strange inability to pronounce 'r' and maybe too sharp attitude, you try to stay presentable all the time. You take care of your skin so it's softer than silk and you feel good when denying people, especially men, from touching it. Your hair is always neatly done, matching the clothes you've chosen for the day. And you smell of delicious perfumes, the best from the market. As a noble lady you're expected to be this perfect all day, everyday. You, of course, have another selfish reason for doing it. In fact, you're to say it out loud the moment the small argument between your parents dies and you hear Richard's voice asking you something with irradiation.

"Tell her, Vermilyea, tell her you don't want to marry that old man, convince her you can do better with your future husband." - he's almost begging you. It's not often that your father has an opinion, different from that of Miriam. However he's the only person, who dares to consider your own opinion for reasonable. You don't express gratitude, if anything you look up to the man with narrow, unblinking eyes, almost making him regret what he has spoke, because he quickly realises what's coming.

"The only one I want..." - you make a pause, in which your mother sighs and your father swallows dryly. - "...is Mirdin."

"For God's sake, Vermilyea, your Mirdin doesn't exist!" - Miriam is angry now, her hands falling on the table with no mercy, expression her natural reaction. It's not the first time you've mentioned that name, this topic is almost as old as you, yet both of your parents don't really know who exactly you're talking about. They think, key word think, that Mirdin is the perfect man in your eyes. You give them credit for being almost correct. However they get the gender wrong and on top of that, they believe that Mirdin is a fiction, a character you created in your head, but that is far away from the truth your mother is so keen on not sharing. - "You made him up when you were little, it's time to forget him."

"I don't mean to sound rude, Vermilyea, but didn't you say Mirdin was dead?" - you hum, finally blinking after what feels like all morning. The topic makes you so soft, too vulnerable for your own taste. Your father's comment makes you rethink your answer. Mirdin is dead, or at least that is what they told you when you were around ten years old. But a body was never found and you were determined to meet your woman saviour again. No matter what, even if it means not correcting your parents when they call her a man, when you know she wouldn't go this low. Mirdin is gentle, Mirdin is not a protector, Mirdin is yours. And Mirdin was never a man. - "Why still think about him—"

"Because I will be with my Mirdin and noone else. I wouldn't be happy with another." - you cut him off, the obsession finally leaving your body. One might say it's love, but you know better - such an emotion has ever crossed your path, not even for Mirdin. - "Even if it means waiting for him to be reborn again... until the day I die."

Silence. Utterly disgusting silence. And then Miriam shifts in her seat.

"I will send a letter to Monsieur Pierre to tell him you're also interested in meeting him again." - your mother quickly calls the maid and shakes her fingers to the table - a silent request for her to clean it. The middle aged woman bods and begins to gather empty plates with precision. Miriam continues to talk, now standing. - "Despite your... everything, you're still pure, Vermilyea, and that has come kind of prize to your name." - you feel a strong squeeze on your shoulder and you're probably expected to let out a yelp of pain, but that never happens. Your mother's grip is way too weak. You don't even look her in the eyes when her final words strike down. - "You have enough time to fix yourself, or at least what good is left in you." - she's relentless, you're unbothered, your father is silent.

At that moment you decide to take the last thing that Miriam believes is 'good' in you. She says you're pure, you don't exactly agree. Naturally if it's the kind of pureness a doctor checks you from time to time, then yes - you've never had a man, or anyone in your bed, let alone touching you. But you've spent countless nights with your own hands between your legs, the image of your Mirdin guiding your fingers and mind. And if the only way to push that old pig - Monsieur Pierre - away is to ruin yourself, then you shall do exactly that.

*****

There are many different brothels in Veret, all filled to the brim with cheap women, who sell themselves to starved for sex men. Perhaps the most famous and preferred pleasure house in the town is a place, called The gilded veil. Despite its name there is nothing golden in it, except the dirtied yellow metal on the sign outside and the heavy from coins pockets of the lady, whoever she is, running the business. But you know well where the name comes from. In such brothels privacy is an expensive pleasure, yet in The gilded veil every serving woman wears a mask, from fake gold of course, but it's convenient enough to fool a man, or a whole group of them. It's also appealing.

Upon entering the front chamber of the building, you find yourself in a place, trying its best to resemble a small parlor. Here people still believe they are entering a proper environment. Although the chairs are old and there is an unpleasant scent in the air, it's welcoming enough to trick the mind. You, of course, come prepared. A woman doesn't find herself in such places unless she's seeking an unwell paid, yet some kind of job, attending sick fantasies and cruel intentions, or simply - walking in by mistake. A man sat on a green, slightly ripped canapé immediately spots you, but any word dies deep in his throat once you toss him a small bag of coins and he points to a closed door on the left, while nodding his head.

Stepping inside you're immediately greeted by a symphony of lustful sounds. Most of the moans are fake, rooted out from sore throats of women, who don't even enjoy whatever it happening to them, but do it for the money they are going to receive. Your eyes move around the room, taking in the reddish decor, the many chaise lounges, carved details on all of them. Between all the furniture you spot stretched and hooked to the ceiling large fabrics, which aim to separate the different areas for pleasure within the grand room. According to your private studies with a personally found for you teacher, sex is considered something sacred, so the small amount of lighting - consisting of oil lamps and heavy candelabras, is reasonable. Although it's in complete contrast with the performed acts under that warm, amber light. The working women, or as many would call them ladies of the night or more likely whores, are barely clothed. A loose corset here and an open shirt there. You've never seen such various amount of genitals - both male and female. Some of the women even get you questioning how they can stay almost perfectly shaved and smooth without giving themselves a rash. Everything for looking clean for men, who probably carry more diseases than a sick goat.

You're not given much attention, since the people are busy with their own matters of consumption, but step after step you begin to notice tension in eyes, which happen to flick at you for more than just a second. It's only normal for you to stand out, after all people know eachother in places like this. And so, while passing a circled by a soft sofa table, you quickly snatch a fake golden maks from it, as the woman owner seems too busy bobbing her head up and down on a customer's twitching cock, her eyelashes wet from tears.

After another quick look around the room, with now secured mask on your face, you make a mental note to yourself that you do not wish to share your body with more men than needed. You only need a singular bastard to call lucky enough to pierce through you and ruin you once and for all, so you can escape the claws of another one. So naturally, you take a turn to where you believe the private rooms should be, as every good brothel has them for richly paying customers. And since you're currently pretending to be a lady on the job, you needn't spend more coin on unnecessary things. The place you're headed to is not hard to find - a long corridor behind the main room, devoid of any doors and the only sense of privacy you can feel around here are the thin fabrics in front of each entrance.

The moans are more desperate here. The shift is instant, even the men are vocal with their needs and pleasure. A few naked women, your false colleagues, walk right past through you, whispering you luck as the gentleman in room four is rather passionate in his work. By the time you reach that point of the corridor, the sounds you begin to hear change as well. Whimpers. You've always found them alluring, because you can never tell, even now, if the person making them is genuinely in insane level of pleasure or just pain. As if withdrawn by the sonority, you find yourself peeking inside that very fourth chamber. Inside you spot a shaking female body, rutting on top of the lap of the mentioned gentleman, a small bed rocking beneath them. He spots you immediately, almost like he was expecting you.

"Viens ici, chérie." - he commands in a low, fluent French and you're reminded again of why you despite the language. Come here, darling. He says it with hunger in his eyes, grabbing the hips of the fragile woman on top of him, to the point of bruising. You compose a smile of amusement. Soon, he lifts her off enough for his large cock to escape free from inside her, the tip so red it's practically begging for release. - "Tu veux regarder? Ou tu veux goûter?” - Do you want to watch, or to taste? His question stays unanswered, as you walk away, now devoid of curiosity. He waits for a few seconds and then your ears are rewarded again with that pleasant whimpering, which attracted you in the first place.

The next few private rooms are nothing you haven't already seen, so you pass by them without giving much attention to what's happening inside. One scene of particular, however, shows the outcome of unsafe practice of the profession. A woman is using her hand to satisfy a bulging man's need, her belly round with a child, who's father shall probably never get revealed and if it happens to be a girl, it will most likely become like her mother. The woman looks at you with pleasing eyes to which you don't show pity, if anything you just walk away, only the thought of finding an empty chamber for yourself wandering inside your head. By the end of the corridor you do succeed to fulfill your wishes, yet you're missing a man to share the small, used many times by others bed. With a quick turn, you begin walking back to the large commun chamber.

Few minutes away from the filth doesn't necessarily mean something significant changed, yet in your case - it did. You feel, or rather hear it the moment you return. The moans are not as loud and the people are severely more composed, although still naked. Such behaviour calls for a reason, it's not difficult to guess why. Sometimes even the the noblest of the noble come seeking sinful attendance through the dark hours of the night. You don't immediately spot someone you know from that class, which is unusual, because you've memorized all of their chubby with fatness faces, from the times your mother used to invite them all in the house, in hope for a new friendship. None of them clicked right for Miriam, just like you disappoint yourself with not finding a familiar face. In the middle of the room, however, you see the reason for the sudden distress.

Not a noble figure, not even a local one. But undoubtedly a person of value, the picture reveals a masked customer among long forgotten themselves ladies of the night, with the privilege of privacy. The man, as he surely stands and acts like one, has taken a central seat in the middle of the large room, clean and smoothed suit resting on velvet fabrics of the sofa, polished shoes almost looking scared to touch the covered in whatever body fluids there floor. Arms crossed in his lap, as if immune to the two charming women sitting on his sides, both with breast revealed to the public, nipples perked enough to catch attention. There is a very obvious presence of consent between them - the mysterious man doesn't touch them, nor do they play with him. Only flirting eyes, smirks and low, dirty whispers. It's very rare for a man, enjoying his time in a brothel, to be just talking with the workers, as they are not merely companions, but women ready to sell themselves for living. But coin is coin and they are going to take it, despite not having to take a man up them. A normal person would say that's better for them, but you can only think of a way to stealing their polite customer, seeing him as perfect for your plans. Knowing your own charms, you remove the stolen mask, tossing it somewhere on the floor, before walking towards the masked man.

Once your boots line up with his pointy shoes, you give him a quick, but calculated glare, with the idea of comprehending the need of the golden mask over his visage. There are no signs of some kind of injury, so you take the freedom to think it has something to do with privacy, again. Upon a second look, it is revealed that the metal shines under the lighting like dripping, fresh honey. You've seen enough of your mother's necklaces to know you're eye to eye with someone rich enough to allow themselves such large, truly golden mask. An expensive accessory, no denying it. The design is also appealing. The top is lined with the beginning of his forehead, after a sea of blonde hairs, unusually long and even braided for man, yet with the new coming fashion, especially in Paris, you don't pay it much attention. The man's face is entirely covered with thick gold down to his nose, where the mask is cut according to his head shape, hugging features with care. Under that final line are hooked many small in size golden chains, free to move around down to his jawline, beneath which you spot a greyish thin fabric, adding another layer of protection, although almost see through, to his already hidden face. The mask is secured by an additional shiny frame around his head, which goes behind his ears and drips down to his neck like a necklace, turned backwards.

"Yes?" - a slightly confused tone pulls you out from your hideous staring without usually blinking trance. - "Anything you need, my lady?" - his voice is raspy, low, yet melancholy pleasant for listening. He talks slowly, without rushing the just started conversation, as if trying to drown in it. The mysterious man sounds like he needs to cough any moment, or rather - he's been smoking something strong until now. Yet it's clear how hard he works to cover that and you can't help just notice some kind of familiarity.

"Not exactly, I'm here to give my... services." - only after replying to him, you acknowledge you both serve yourselves with the English language, without thinking why French is not present. Perhaps he has guessed you're not fluent, or perhaps he himself can't speak it. That question, however, is not important.

"But I already have two lovely companions with me." - your previous thoughts and observations turn out to be correct. He doesn't see these women as the whores they are, but a human company to spend the night with. You don't understand it, you've paid for something then you should do your best to devour it. Besides you've never liked being around others. Speaking of the ladies, they do not talk, but they sharp, ruined with dark makeup, eyes do look you up and down from head to toe. The man spreads out a palm, as if to show them, his hand smaller the usual size for a grown up. - "It would be greedy to ask for a third...besides I don't remember ordering you."

"I'm exclusive and...private." - in hope to get him as soon as possible in those private rooms and get it over with, you insist on him hearing the last word from your mouth. He only hums, blinking slowly, therefore giving you enough time to manage a look under his mask and note out that he, as well, possesses blue eyes, one slightly lighter in colour than the other, however. You think of lifting up your skirts for show, but a nod from the man in front of you tells you he's starting to think about what you're proposing.

"And how much will that cost me?" - his voice drips with curiosity and a hint of suspicion.

"Free of charge." - you announce, forcing a gasp, quickly followed by another, from the half naked women on both sides of the man. The small coin bags, tied to their underwear, speaks more than you should know - they would never do a service for free, even if it's just sitting next to a customer. Soon, he lets out a quiet laugh, the sound muffed from the mask.

"Oh, certainly interesting..." - his hand moves to the right, where his long, slender finger connect with a metal handle, connected to a long walking cane. He moves it from side to side, almost like trying to decide if he should get up or not. However, this action has effect on the two women - without saying anything, they slowly raise from their seats and begin to walk off, whispers wandering after them like insects. - "Tell me your name then, exclusive lady of the night." - what a mocking voice he roots out from his throat.

"Vermilyea." - you answer quickly, then adding - "Vermilyea Lament."

His hand freezes on the spot, knuckles going white from the intense grip he holds upon the handle of his metal cane. His legs, slightly spread, now cross with the speed of a scared little boy. He takes in a breath, which probably has been intented to be silent, but his tight collar betrays him. His body language expresses fear, or at least - panic. Surprisingly he covers it like nothing, reminding you somehow of yourself. Soon, the man leans forward, curving his head to look up to you. And he laughs.

"Vermilyea Lament..." - he repeats, rolling your name on his tongue, savouring it like it's sacred, or rather cursed. The endless dilemma of your existence, that no philosophy book has ever held the answer to.

"Is there a problem, Monsieur...?" - you lift up your eyebrows, mimicking interesting. If you have to be honest with yourself, a few minutes ago you were interested in what story this weird man has to offer, but he's slowly starting to fit the aesthetic of those who often calm their nerves down with intoxicating additives. Your mother does it sometimes, and you wouldn't be half bothered by it if those people weren't so insufferable when high.

"I doubt my name is of much importance for you, my dear." - he stops for just a second, as if awaiting reaction. You're used to formalities, however, such verbal address doesn't affect you the way he desires. Because it's easy - to charm up a woman with cheap pet names and then take advantage. It seems like you both understand that this is not your case. Another thing you notice is how the man has quickly catch on your little performance as a worker. For now, you decide to ignore it. - "But shall it please your tongue — Danamir Corneille."

Your response is limited to a simple nod. You've got a name to the man. Just a quiet, fake moan of it would be enough for his sanity to disappear. You are no stranger to the allure a woman's body can hold, especially your body, you've been way too... admired through the years. Of course noone actually got something from you, as you didn't want anything as well. Your shoulder roll backwards, and you allow the petit jacket you have over them, mostly for the idea of a full fit of clothes, to fall them, revealing bare skin. That's how you wish to start, after all you don't plan on getting completely naked. The job would be done with a poke or two, skirts needn't even be fully lifted. Monsieur Danamir Corneille's eyes narrow and suddenly he stands up, perhaps head and a two taller, but for some reason - thinner.

"Private, you said?" - his head tilts and you refuse to look look up to him, by your own judgment he's not worthy of it. - "Very well then, Vermy." - Vermy? - "Lead the way, my darling. Let's see what a Lament offers when coin isn't a part of the bargain."

The tip of his cane hits the ground with a tud. Despite how composed and mighty he looks, tall and with a straight back, brushing invisible strings off his purple suit here and there, you can't miss the fact that Danamir Corneille limpers. That's why he needs his cane. With slow steps, you both make your way to that empty private room.

.

"Sex is... only given out of love or for money." - by the merely ten minutes with this strange man alone in a room you've come to the understanding he has no intention of jumping on you like a feral beast. Instead, he has been speaking with the polished arrogance of a man who thinks intelligence is foreplay. You rarely get angry, but can't help the twitching of your fingers as he leans back on the bed, still not making any kind of move or even a gesture, which would suggest a start to the topic he's currently discussing. You're not used to really listening to other people's opinions either, so you need a second to process once he calls out your name. - "Vermilyea, we both understand that there is no love between us and since you don't want any money, I just don't see a reason to—"

"There's no love, but there is need." - you cut him off, offering words that you believe would suit his taste. Sat on a smaller chair two steps to the left of him, you can't do much, but lift up your skirts to knee level, teasing, while your tongue lies with precision. - "I want you, Monsieur Corneille."

"You don't know me, Vermy." - that awful nickname again.

"I don't have to know you." - although cold with the tone, you try your best to sound convincing.

"You just want me to use you then?" - a loud moan echoes through the room next to you, for some reason making Danamir flinch. Perhaps, his ears are sensitive. Or he's rather allured by the sound. His head turns to you, golden braid yanked over one shoulder - reaching the beginning of his chest. You've never seen a man with such long hair. Neatly cared for as well. At that moment, looking at his crossed legs, a new thought passes through your mind - the possibility of Monsieur Corneille being interested in men, rather than women. But it wouldn't make sense to sit in their company, although you never saw him touching those ladies from earlier. Stranger. - "Or do you want to use me, Vermy?"

"Would that...offend you?" - you slow down your speech, trying to convince this man you haven't been practicing dialogues in your head from the moment you stepped into the brothel. Although you're good in convincing, you need preparation to make perfection. This is a rule you live by, otherwise your desires and the things you do for them would feel like failure. However, you've never tasted that and you're no near planning to.

"No." - the man is completely honest, proud with his answer. He stops and waits for a wave of whimpers from the girl next door to pass on, quickly followed by filthy cursing and unpleasant wet slapping sound. Then he adds to his one worded reply. - "But it would bore me."

"Then I'll pretend I want to be loved." - you lie again, not even having a hint of how love feels like. By the time you finish your sentence, the fabric of your skirts is already lifted high enough for your thighs to be exposed, covered in stockings, which seems to have caught Monsieur Corneille's attention. - "A young virgin girl, yearning for love. Would you like that, Monsieur Corneille?"

He stays silent for at least a minute, lost in his own head and the bridge between yes and no, and possibly another thing you don't really understand - morals. Then a scoff is released through warm air inside the room you're in, making it smaller and more irritating than it already is.

"Every other man in my place would demand to see the cunt he's paying for." - his argument is confirmed by the grunts from the neighbour next door, who loudly announces his release. At the same moment Monsieur Corneille takes out a pocket watch and focuses on the numbers, counting seven minutes from the other man's last spending. A click of his tongue passes as critique. - "But since there is no coin in our business - I won't force you to show anything you don't want to." - he turns to look at his cane, bending slightly forward, as if he's uneasy just sitting in one place. Truly there is something wrong with the man, you just can't figure out what, yet. - "What you need from me" - he murmurs, eyes not quite meeting you. - "...does include you getting naked, Vermy."

You decide to stay silent. Your body, however, is already moving. The small chair falls down behind you as stand up, boots dragging over the floor until you reach the open entrance to your borrowed room and you seal the exit with the presented thin fabrics, imitating a door. The naked human body is but a cage to the soul, which you sometimes wonder if you still have - if it was there in the first place. So naturally, you're not ashamed to show it, yet it would be more fitting if only one pair of eyes are observing. The man is correct - there is no coin, but there is usage. And that needs to be repayed as well.

Retuning to the centre of the rather small room, you make sure Monsieur Corneille is looking closely and attentively. Regardless, his cane is now in his hand and he holds to it for dear life. You almost fell like something for sale on the market, but you're too deep in to stop now. With your jacket already gone, which the man was kind enough to pick up and place next to him on the bed, you can easily start with the removal of your walking skirt, fitted perfectly around your waist. The floor-length piece of clothing is flared just enough to allow movement, while the fabric itself it's from a cheap material, as you didn't want to waste something expensive in a dirty place like this brothel. In fact, once you remove your skirts, you carefully place them over the fallen chair, without fixing its position so they stay over the vertically inverted seat.

Your blouse is devoid of sleeves, but with a high neckline and ruffled edges. White at colour and light in weight the clothing is feminine and elegant, despite the intention to show more skin than it should. The buttons on it are small and curved like olives. And soon they are opened free, the blouse removed fully and placed over your skirt. You glance around to seek Monsieur Corneille, who seems invested in watching you undress. He even clears his throat as another moan interrupts your private time. A simple roll of his hand suggest that you should continue.

Your pastel lace-trimmed corset cover is perhaps the easiest to remove, given how thin and again - sleeveless, it is. With it out of the way your layers of clothing are limited to the last few pieces, which are your actual corset, split-crotch drawers - perfect for the occasion, because of the easy access. And of course a simple, modest chemise, almost glued to your skin. You reach behind yourself to get working on loosing the corset, but an idea quickly forms inside your head. If you allowed the unable to move eyes from you Monsieur Corneille to remove it, would he immediately jump you and get this scene over it? In your own humble opinion a man would pretty much accept and given their lack of self control, what will happened wouldn't be surprising. So you walk into another helpless role.

"Monsieur Corneille, would be so kind to help me with my corset?" - your voice is tender, almost awkward as you're never the one to ask for aide.

"Tell me, ma chérie, how many maids helped you out this morning when you were putting it on?" - part of you now understands why he has approached you in English. His French, despite the usage of only a nickname, sounds just as forced and bad as your own. You don't bite around that corner of his sentence, however. Because you're not interested in his speech, rather his audacity to suggest you need other women to help you dress.

"None." - you say through clenched teeth. - "I did it myself."

A quiet scoffs tells you everything you need to know in that moment. The man has tricked you.

"Then I'm certain you don't need my help now."

As mentioned earlier - you don't get angry that easily. Most of the time, the triggers, which irritate other people are too indifferent for you. But it's one thing to endure endless void of useless words, escaping even more useless mouths, but it's a whole other thing when someone manages to see through you, as clearly as Danamir Corneille just did. You stare at his unmoving mask, the uncanny image of this precious metal shell, and you decide on the spot that this man is nothing ordinary. He's similar to you, but you're not sure yet if you're from the same kind of almost human creatures.

The room goes silent for a few minutes and soon enough you find yourself completely naked before the man's eyes.

The raw feeling of being exposed to someone else rather than the mirror is more overwhelming than you originally thought, but you're certain it's because you're still a bit uneasy from your previous exchange of words. Despite your position, the bare body, and the way Monsieur Corneille is shifting in his seat - he hasn't made a single move towards you yet. Only making a circular motion with his hand, so you can turn around and show all of yourself. Your hair sticks to your back, befriending your spine while the warm lighting within the room dances over your smooth skin. Your beauty is unmatched, almost flawless, and he is now aware of it too. Perhaps, too aware.

"You are not a whore, Vermilyea Lament." - his tongue is sharp as a blade, which can only wish to cut through you, as you stop, but don't allow yourself to be caught off guard again. Your body is unmoving, eyes unblinking, you try to make yourself look bigger. But he's unbothered. - "You dress like a noble lady, you talk like a person with education, which most of your...colleagues don't have." - he mocks the working women with sarcastic precision. - "You're too...too perfect for that title." - then he looks up directly to you. - "You're perfect for me, my pet." - your eyebrows twist for the first time upon hearing one of his nicknames, this one too familiar and unlikable for your taste. The man notices and scoffs with coldness. - "Finally, a child of great Britain, aren't you?" - now you acknowledge another thing you have missed - Danamir Corneille has been testing you with those ridiculous nicknames till now, seeking your origin. You don't like how much information you have given him, without even doing anything in particular. Yet, you refuse to show him your genuine amusement.

"You're very observant." - your voice is dripping poison, any role of an innocent girl thrown out of this dirty place. You don't tell him the truth. You're not British, your adoptive father is, but he doesn't need to know that, not now.

"I've learnt to be." - you can physically feel the smile underneath his mask, it makes you sick. He soon adds.-"I had to.You can't trust anybody those days, especially strangers who...are so eager to be alone with you."

"Do you believe I can harm you in any way, Monsieur Corneille?" - just the idea of it is comical. You - naked and vulnerable, a woman versus a fully dressed man, too calm to be thinking anything good. And even if you believe in your verbal manipulations, you are aware that you can't fight a man, despite the fact that the one in front of you is visible weak, because of the can he uses and how thin he is, compared to the other individuals, which you saw tonight.

"No." - a firm answer, followed by an argument, which most people are afraid to speak out loud, especially directly in front of you. - "But you have no light in your eyes, Vermilyea. Everyone strays from a person such as you." - there is no nicknames from his part anymore, not even his favourite Vermy. He's completely serious, determined for a real conversation, without a clear ending, however. You like to play games with people like him, and how he has proposed a competition before you, for which you're excited.

"My mother always says my eyes are a curse from the devil." - the man tilts his head to a side, taking in the two different colours, possessing your irises. You're used to be observed like a deformed creature, so you allow him to do so. In the meantime you speak your thoughts out loud for him. - "They are an imperfection, a defect. And I suppose she's right — they are driving people away from me."

"Your mother sounds like an interesting woman, but I'm afraid I do not agree with her." - Monsieur Corneille shakes his head as if offended, then he taps the floor a few times with his cane, perhaps to calm down before announcing something important. - "Everything out of the ordinary is considered the devil's work...but aren't his creations marvellous?" - his hand spreads out to you for am example. And after that he makes almost a whole speech in practically one breath. - "He's a mad genius. A painter, underrated by others. Each of his 'artworks' have a hint of mischief in them, no? He twists the beautiful with the ill-favoured and creates something out of nothing - born from both violence and tranquility. Of course, his designs come with a price but above everything they are masked as perfection, because not a single human can consider what exactly is completely devoid of flaws."

The words are deep and most certainly - his, entirely. You can guess by the way he speaks with passion, while his hand follow like obedient slaves to the speech. A smirk lurks around your lips.

"Are you a poet, Monsieur Corneille?" - you ask, voice almost innocent, if that is even possible for you.

"No." - a determined answer, follow by few seconds long silence. Enough for you to prepare your next question.

"A philosopher?" - you hum, still smiling at him, in hope to root out information. - "I rather like philosophers."

"Unfortunately not." - the man takes a deep breath, as if his actual profession is a burden. But you don't see it as such, once he reveals it. - "My occupation is that of a simple traveling doctor, who likes to loose himself in pleasure," - he uses a French manner to say the word, focusing on the satisfying 'z' sound. - "...between working hours."

"Will you help me then, doctor?" - his formal working title rolls down on your tongue, as you try to use it against him. - "Will you ruin me the way I want?" - a doctor would treat you with precision. Or at least they say so.

"I'm afraid I'm not able to." - his head drops down and he places his arms in his lap, looking somewhere between disappointed and guilty.

"May I ask what do you mean by that?" - your eyebrows furrow in confusion, while you fight the urge to take a step closer and finally use your naked body for good and make him take you.

Then Monsieur Corneille does something unexpected. His back straightens and he gets up, the small bed squeaking from the lifted up weight. You're reminded of the fact that he's taller than you and possibly more skinny, as he soon takes off his jacket - revealing a plain white shirt, which exposes his small figure. Perhaps he's sick? Or simply doesn't eat much? Any questions die in your throat the moment he wraps the jacket over your shoulders, covering most of your upper body. - "I believe you've already figured I can't help you with your needs, but I suppose it's time for me to get undress as well."

The man is quick to remove his shirt, the linen fabric is crisp and white, you guess it feels smoothing over skin. Instead of disposing it on the ground, he folds it quickly in his arms before placing it on the bed. The view under his clothes leaves you confused. Over his chest a large, thick looking line of something resembling medicine bandage, runs over the skin, tightened to redness and if you had to guess - pain. But why? Is he wounded? You wish to ask him, but soon enough he starts to take off the flattering undergarment with clever, fast working fingers.

You blink once, then twice, trying to comprehend what has been revealed to you. The man...rather the person, as you're not exactly sure anymore, clearly has a feminine chest. Your eyes are met with a pair of breasts, slightly crushed from the bandage over them, but definitely round and big like those of a woman, with even erected nipples, like yours, because of the coldness in the room. Trying to not look too much at them, you move your attention downwards to the newly exposed ribs, which are almost see through the skin, completely devoid of any fat. But what is most interesting about Monsieur or rather Madame Corneille is the large, darker in shade than the rest of the flesh, scar over the stomach - horizontally and just below the navel. It's not straight, though, it's flawed with rough edges, which suggests the wound didn't heal as it was expected. It's rather...familiar. Before she can pull down her pants as well, to fully confirm her female anatomy, you speak out, already have guessed you're not going to see a cock there. In fact, you're reminded of the way Monsieur Corneille often stays with his legs crossed, completely unnatural for most men. Which she is not.

"You're a woman..." - you try to shape your point of view. - "dressed as a man...why?" - you can't seem to find a good reason at the moment.

"Oh, that's too much of a long story, I'll leave it for another time." - listening to her voice now, you can clearly hear how forced it is to sound more masculine. It's not because the poor Monsieur Corneille couldn't cough properly. Yet noone can achieve such change with just abuse over vocal cords. There's something else involved, some kind of chemical, perhaps?

"Then..." - you murmur, part of you getting excited to see the truth behind this person's story. You knew Monsieur Corneille was too composed to be a real man. But now you're truly invested - "at least let me see your face. You owe me wasted time." - after all a woman can't ruin another woman. Not in the way you desire, that is.

After a moment of hesitation, she nods her head, arms reaching up for the golden mask. - "As you wish, my lady."

Fifteen years worth of yearning and constant thinking about a forgotten ghost reveal themselves upon you within seconds. With the mask now gone, you see a painfully familiar visage, carved into your mind for eternity. She looks like you, with just a few slight differences - her cheeks are more pronounced, her jaw shaper, her nose is not straight like yours, but rather chippy, her lips are full and soft looking and her skin tone is just a bit lighter than yours. But her eyes, oh her eyes are practically made to match yours. One of them is blue as a furious ocean, while the other silver as bullet. You've never seen anything like that, except that you had. When you were around eight. When you first met this woman. Your obsession, your possession, your....

"Mirdin..." - a whisper among ghosts, filled with emotion a normal person wouldn't understand.

"Excuse me?" - she is lost, confused beyond reason, as to why this woman in from of her is looking like she's ready to devour or... worship. And that sudden nickname. - "Who is—?"

"What is your name?" - you cut her off, blood floating through your veins with fury, making you shake from excitement. Because you know, there is no Danamir Corneille. He's not real, only she is. - "Your real one?"

"Miranda." - she announces the sound of your victory. Oh how you wish to scream at the whole wide world your Mirdin is not dead, she has never been. And you knew it. You waited, all those years of despair. The only person you actually care about is standing right in front of you and you...wish to run away. The meeting being too overwhelming.

"I want to leave." - you breath in, almost forgetting you have to do this to stay alive. Your eyes move away, now searching for your clothes on that small chair. - "I want to go home."

Miranda can't do much to stop you. She tries, once. With leads to you slapping her hand away. And she doesn't go near you for a second time. She watches as you dress yourself, although ripping the fabric from rushing. The moment you get ready, you dash towards the door, turning around only for a second to stare at the confused woman.

"Goodnight." - you blurt out, wanting to say something completely different, but in the moment of unusual panic, you forget yourself. A fool, that's what she turns you in. - "No— goodbye, Mirdin."

With that you leave, not hearing Miranda's last words towards you.

"I—goodbye then, Vermy. Let us meet again sometimes."

*****

The inside Monsieur Corneille's mind, or rather Miranda's, is pure chaos. But in the centre of it, there is only one person.

She's perfect. Oh, so perfect. Sweet Vermilyea with the awful last name Lament. Perfect. Perfect for me.

She can't get you out of her thoughts, even by force, or the alcohol she consumed after you left. She's sure even the morphine she often takes won't be able to help her. Because finally, finally she has found the perfect woman for her project, for her rebirth. Her doll will have your face, which is way too similar to hers and that makes it perfect. Not only that, but you're also able to match her way of thinking, although she managed to beat you in your games, simply because she uses those same techniques when she wants something. And Miranda might not always get what she desires, but Danamir Corneille does and only that matters.

Even now, she's walking down the dark alleys of Veret, unafraid, because she's beneath the costume of her public persona. The golden mask being her protector. She's respected and praised for being a man. All things that never reached her when she was a woman. All she knew was pain, blood and violence. But now the world is hers so will be Vermilyea Lament.

She takes a sharp turn to another street, eager to get to the tavern she has decided to sleep in, as her home is not here, no, her mansion awaits her in Montverre, therefore almost a whole day worth of travelling. Despite her pleasant meeting with you, she also was between many other people, most of them unwashed and dirty. And she couldn't stand it. The purple suit she wears will be washed over and over until her hands bleed and she's going to soak in her bath for at least an hour. All to feel clean again, something she hasn't really felt since being seventeen. After that man ruined her completely. The same man that now hunts her own mind.

Suddenly, Miranda stops all movements, her cane, which she uses for her limping, hits the ground and she turns around. Endless void of darkness following her tightly behind.

"Is someone there?" - her voice is shaking, the effect of the special herbs she uses to make it more like a man's already wearing off. But she's sure she heard someone behind her. She is unmoving, eye perfectly good and one unseeing eye staring at the night covered buildings around here. Only then she hears another voice and calms down, taking in a deep breath before resuming her hurried walking. - "I know, my dear, I just thought I heard someone."

In reality, Monsieur Corneille is completely alone.

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