Protolith - Chapter 3, Part 1
Charlotte’s Past – June 7th, the 201st Year of the Dove
With her weekdays packed with lectures and her nights alternating between the morgue and the brothel, Charlotte would set aside precious time with Edith at the bathhouse in center city.
Sundays were slow days, since many of their clients would stop by after work. While maintaining hygiene was essential to their upper-class clientele, the bathhouse acted more as a refuge where they could discuss science, politics, or gossip without listening ears. At the center was a fountain that spouted water up and over the bathers while filling the calf-length pool. On this particular Sunday afternoon, the sun reflected against the marble interior of the bathhouse and cast a golden glow across the gentle water. Most importantly, the open-air bathhouse provided an excellent view of the city.
Today, Charlotte sat on the edge of the pool and looked out into the city. Center city Lorenzia was a mix of centuries-old marble and contemporary brick. The cobblestone road was worn by frequent carriages, which brought businessmen in each morning and away each evening. The bathhouse had been constructed more than one hundred years ago into the side of a rocky hill. Though outside of Center City, the height of the bathhouse provided a spectacular view. The west-facing vantage gave bathers a view of roads, banks, and temples with moderate privacy from passersby.
Charlotte stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes in the water. The hot summer air bothered some, but she didn’t mind the warmth that radiated from the marbled floor. Nearby, Edith leaned over to fill a carafe with water, ready to rinse the soap from her shoulder blades. Sinking into the water, Charlotte crossed her arms on the ledge and rested her chin atop them.
“I hear they’re ordering another battalion out today,” Charlotte remarked. Below the bathhouse, she could just see the temple. As the clocks struck 2 o’clock, a squadron of the holy soldiers exited the marble temple and began to run drills in a straw colored yard just outside of center city. Beyond the yard was a grand stadium of golden veined marble. Some days, she enjoyed watching the patterns the young men formed; from this distance, they could just be toys arranged by a curious child. Today, the synchronicity of the soldiers formed a stone at the pit of her stomach. She did not rush to examine the feeling.
“I didn’t know foreign policy was an interest of yours.” Edith raised the carafe above her head so the water could run through her flaxen hair. When wet, Edith’s hair held just a slight wave that disappeared quickly when dry. While she spent hours trying to form ringlets before each social event, Charlotte had the opposite problem. Her hair formed tight, ruby coils when wet. Each night, she’d painstakingly braid her hair so it’d be presentable the following day.
Charlotte ignored the jab. “How many do you suppose pledge their lives out of piety rather than desperation?” A lifetime in the church seemed a large promise for a bed and full belly each night.
Edith shrugged. “Seems like a better trade than marriage. My life and womb, for what? Financial and sexual mediocrity.” She laughed as she sat beside Charlotte.
“Death by musket does seem like a better way to go than death by childbirth,” Charlotte conceded.
“How is your commander?” Edith teased.
Charlotte scowled. The stranger she’d met just weeks ago had become her best client. Still, he perplexed her. Their relationship had reached this strange middle ground: no longer strangers, but still strange to one another.
She’d seen him three nights this week — three nights of firsts. On Monday, he called her to his apartment and warned her that he’d be away, rather than disappearing without a word. On Wednesday, he asked Charlotte to stay a moment, after he’d sent the other woman away, and offered her a drink. And on Thursday, he shared his cigar with her. She didn’t leave the bed when he handed the cigar to her. She’d decided to be boorish and risk the ash on his bed. His bed had morphed to something distressingly familiar; she longed to mar it. The stranger had sat in his armchair, like he had each time. When he watched her, he would lounge, his shoulder slouched and his arms on either armrest. Sometimes, he would lean forward, and the candlelight made his angular face harsh. Her mind’s eye traced his square jaw. Her internal gaze caught on a scar above his right cheek before returning to reality.
“We don’t talk,” Charlotte replied. “Maybe he’s leading that battalion. Or maybe he’s on the moon.”
Edith splashed Charlotte. “What’s the point of keeping political clients if you don’t have gossip?” she asked.
“Not all of us have ulterior motives,” Charlotte replied. “Besides, he’s only gone a few days — he’s asked for me in five days’ time. Not long enough to wage a war.”
“Or go to the cosmos.” Edith’s eyes lit up. “You must know something saucy.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t even touch me, never mind tell me church gossip,” she said. An easy lie to convince herself, though he’d asked her to stay longer than the other hired woman; they barely spoke. They’d spent an hour in each other’s company after the session, enjoying the taste of smoke and liquor. She thought him terribly lonely. Occasionally, he’d punctuate the silence with a strange question or two.
He’d asked that night: “Do you enjoy your work?”
Worse yet, she still didn’t know his name, just his title. He was a commander, one level below general. He vowed not to reveal his name until she hers – and had only revealed his title by mistake, carelessly leaving his military regalia folded by the bed. She recalled how he’d balanced a cigar on his lips while removing his jacket. The way he’d fumbled with his jacket and his cigar felt pedestrian, even intimate. That was the most she’d seen him undress. She’d felt as though she ought to have looked away, even insisted that he return his jacket to his shoulders, lest the top button of his shirt fall loose next.
“That’s good,” Edith said. “Can’t fall for a man you don’t talk to. You have to be careful with handsome men: they think they’re charming.” She laughed.
“Maybe it’s time you gagged Marc,” Charlotte replied.
“I’m already a lost cause.” Edith sat beside Charlotte. “Be careful before this commander ruins your prospects for marriage.” Her pale skin blended in with the marble stairs. She rested the back of her hand against her forehead, as though she’d fainted.
However, marriage was further from Charlotte’s mind than it should have been. Most prostitutes would marry a nice working man after a few years. If not, a few would go on to manage the brothels. But no one would marry a former – even suspected – consort.
“You know all too well being a consort has never been an option. Either way, didn’t you just tell me not to wed?”
“Only if the sex is mediocre.” Edith winked, and they laughed. Charlotte splashed her, kicking her feet in the water. Edith shrieked, raising her hands defensively. After they’d finished throwing soapy water at each other, Edith clung to Charlotte’s wrist.
“Please tell me you’re coming to the festival!” she said. She’d already asked Charlotte a dozen times before.
Charlotte groaned. “It’s going to be ungodly hot. I don’t even like Marc.”
“You don’t know him. I’ve never spent this long with Rose.” Then, sheepishly, Edith admitted. “She intimidates me. She’s just … too pretty, you know?”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “The most intimidating thing she does is sneeze loudly.” But Edith did not relent. She looked up at her with large eyes, whispering, “Please,” until Charlotte finally accepted – if only to stop the groveling.
Read more! Chapter 3, Part 2
