Damon Snow and the Nocturnal Lessons (2 page)

“But then the boy lived for fifty years and died a happy old man surrounded by grandchildren,” Byrne finished.

“How many years do you think I have?” I asked. “He did outlive the prognosis, though. He made it a whole week before they called the coffin-maker.”

Byrne laughed again, as if he couldn’t help but laugh instead of cry. Tears ran from the corner of his eyes. He pressed his hand into his side again. “Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”

“Better,” I said. “If he can live seven times longer, it should be easy for you. You can do a lot in seven years.”

“Not like this,” Byrne said. His hands trembled in his lap.

“It’s a lot of books to read,” I said. I glanced at the god forsaken book on the ground. “Not that one.”

Byrne laughed again. When his coughing fit rescinded, he whispered, “You must endeavour not to make me laugh, or I won’t have a year. It would be worth it, though.”

“Well, then what do you want to do?” I asked. The few people I had known with wasting sicknesses had not been afforded the luxury for such a question, except for something really simple. Apologising to their mother for the life they had lived, for one.

“I want to read something… hopeful,” Byrne said.

“Then the newspaper is out,” I said. “Everyone’s saying the French wars will ruin us.”

“Oh, let the French have Perceval,” Byrne said. “I’ve had three ships go down off the coast of Africa, thanks to his moral idiocy.”

“Yes, terrible that,” I said. “Can you believe him? Actually thinking that men shouldn’t be owned by another? Where is the profit? Well, besides with the former slaves, who would then get a fair wage for their work instead of the whip.”

Byrne sniffed. He looked to the fireplace on the other side of his bedroom. Small flames licked the blackened logs. Perhaps he had realised just how silly it was to complain to a molly about the loss of slave ships. Or perhaps he was just imagining keeping me in a collar, chained to his bed to do whatever he desired. Without pay.

“May I ask you something?” Byrne asked. I shrugged. I hoped it had nothing to do with politics. I cared little for what happened at Westminster, unless it involved a gift of coin and me on my knees. “Are you happy?”

I mouth opened and I almost laughed. “Halfway to the grave,” I said, “and you still find time to mock me.”

“How does that question mock you?” Byrne asked. His forehead furrowed, as if he actually had to think hard on my response.

“No, I am not happy,” I said. “I expect no one really is, not at the bottom of the barrel. Although, I’m not actually at the bottom. That place is reserved for those poor halfwits stuck in St Giles.”

“Damon’s Circles of Hell,” Byrne muttered. “How clever.”

“You think so?” I asked. “It’s only the truth. I suppose I’m less unhappy when I get paid. And I do get paid. There’s nothing slave-like about me. Oh, and I do enjoy myself after I’ve downed a bottle of blue ruin, but still, I would not call it happiness. Whatever happiness is.”

“There is no one you care about?” Byrne asked. “No one who really cares about you?”

This time, I really did laugh. I collapsed against the wall as laughter ripped through me. Byrne enquired after my health, but I held up my hand to stop him from speaking and making it worse. Eventually, I calmed myself. “You have never been more hilarious in your life,” I said. “Good show, sir.”

Byrne didn’t say anything. I looked up and he didn’t seem to be self-congratulatory over his success. His face lacked expression of any kind, which brought out the dark shadows around his eyes, the yellow tinge of his skin. Haunted, I supposed the word was. Or perhaps even sad.

Well what had Byrne expected me to say? Oh, was he trying to pretend again? Was I supposed to have replied,
“Of course, when I’m with you?”
I snickered again. Of course not. I wouldn’t be here if Byrne hadn’t been paying me. I didn’t do anything unless I was compensated for it.

“I want you to write something for me,” Byrne said.

“Me?” I asked. “I’m not capitalising every silly word.”

“You don’t have to,” Byrne said.

“I’m not a writer,” I said.

“You’ve read a lot.”

“Only for you,” I said. “So you should be the one writing it.”

What did I know about hope? The only thing I could ever really hope was to put off my hunger for one more day, but it was only a small respite at that. Or I could hope that I had pence at the end of the night to buy a bottle of gin, or that one of the other mollies at Mother Dover’s had a good night and was willing to share.

“Let us make a business deal,” Byrne said.

I eyed him. “Save it for the reaper.”

“I’d rather spend it now,” Byrne said. “If you do this for me, I’ll leave you my entire fortune.”

My jaw slackened. It wasn’t the most sensual move, and my previous abbot would have beaten me for it, but I couldn’t help it.

“Is this disease rotting your brain?” I asked. “You can’t leave me your fortune. What about entails?”

Whenever I had attended one of Byrne’s gatherings, at least one of his friends had bemoaned the entails on his inherited estate. Dibs out of tune, and couldn’t even sell any of their property to try to bolster their coffers.

“What about entails?” Byrne asked. “My assets are not inherited land. Some land yes, but with no stipulations upon whom may receive it. Assets like money, easily granted, and my business… well, I do have partners, but you would own my share.”

“You can’t make me your heir,” I said. “You must have someone to leave it all to. Someone better than a molly.”

“To whom?” Byrne asked. “My cousin who refuses to so much as write to me? To my former investor? To my so-called friends who cannot bear to look at me anymore? I would rather throw every last pence into the sea than see them get it.”

“Oh, well, if I rate just above the sea.”

“I would rather see it put to good use,” Byrne said. “Give it to someone who’s clever enough to use it, instead of moaning about having to dabble in trade while living off their debts or not having the wherewithal to suss out a terrible deal. You have the cleverness, although you’re not showing it right this moment, and I can give you the money.”

“But what about—”

“I have one stipulation, however,” Byrne said. “I wish for you to write a memoir, of sorts. Perhaps diary would be a better word.”

“A diary?” I had read all kinds of published diaries and letters to him. I didn’t believe for a second any of them were actually real and not fabrications intended to spread gossip.

“Yes,” he said. “Each diary entry will feature a… well, I can explain that later. For the first entry, I would like you write about one of your other patrons.”

“I’m not a writer,” I said, for only writers, and painters and musicians, had patrons. Oh, he meant my other culls. “Why?” I had never taken Byrne to be voyeuristic.

“Uncover who he really is, outside the bedroom,” Byrne said. “Why is he there? What sort of man is he? That sort of thing.”

“Why?”

Byrne lifted a corner of his mouth. It was supposed to be a smile, but maybe he was just too tired. “You could escape, then.”

An essay on one of my flats in exchange for Byrne’s entire fortune. I shook my head. All the money in the exchequer’s coffers couldn’t buy me out of this life. I wouldn’t need to rely on Mother Dover, but I had another reason for my trade.

But with that money, I could hire a molly of my own. I wouldn’t be everyone’s meat, too desperate to feed myself to be able to say no. I could feed my terrible hunger on my own terms.

Oh, as if Byrne would ever actually make me his heir. Especially for such a small price. All I had to do was write about a cull? Well, to write what Byrne wanted to hear.

“Fine,” I said. “I agree to your terms.”

“In business, we shake hands to seal a deal,” Byrne said. He tried to raise his hand, but it trembled too much. I had worn him out. I picked up his hand, the skin around his nails yellow, held it in mine and gave it a jerk. That seemed to suffice, for Byrne smiled and fell asleep.

Chapter Two

The next night was Sunday. Sundays were the busiest days to work at a bawdy house. The rest of the week, I may only see one or two flats a night and Mother Dover gave me nights off on occasion, especially since Byrne started requesting me during the day. Her son was good at his vocation — she had enough boys to fill demand the rest of the days.

But Sundays, when all good girls and boys were supposed to be in church, were the busiest days, whether molly or green girl. Something about reflecting on the Lord’s blessed works just seemed to inspire lust in a man.

Sundays meant that we mollies lounged around, talking and flirting with the flats, until two past midnight, when Mother Dover and her son would dampen the rush torches. In the dark, when no man could see the hand in front of their face, and there was only one rule — if someone touched you, you were theirs. Molly, flat, it didn’t matter. One never knew and one couldn’t refuse.

Byrne might like to act so much more civilised, gifting his poor molly with lessons in diction and fashion, but he had used to drop by for the Sunday night exertions. I knew he had had me then, more than once. I knew the shape of his body, the feel of him on top of me, slamming me into the cold wood floor.

I liked Byrne better when he was ill in bed.

On a Sunday night, there was no way to know who took me, and I didn’t like to arrive until just before the torches went out, when Mother Dover noticed me and I still got paid. I didn’t want to speak with them beforehand. What was there to speak about? They would get what they wanted out of my body, and I needn’t do anything more.

So I couldn’t begin my assignment from Byrne until the night after, properly sated by the carnality on Sunday, and healed of all bruises.

Mother Dover kept a parlour on the ground floor, out of sight of the front entrance. Clever woman that she was, Mother Dover kept her bible by the door, in case any bow street runner came calling. In that case, she was the God-fearing old lady who rented her rooms to us boys in the hopes of keeping us on the straight and narrow. Nothing untoward happening within.

The parlour was, of course, the nicest room of the entire house, with luxurious carpet, sofas and chairs, and even a painting over the fireplace. It couldn’t compare with Byrne’s drawing room, but it didn’t shame Mother Dover, that was for sure.

The house rules kept the parlour tame, because we all knew that a runner or an agent provocateur could make it that far, and then we’d all be in trouble.

As long as I remained in the parlour, I knew nothing untoward would happen. Except another molly by the name of Justin Rogers had sat down next to me. Justin Rogers, who had less years on me at nineteen and even less experience, but was handsome enough with his blond hair and exuberant enough to attract a lot of patrons. He made one fine lady on dress-up nights.

So why, with a stable of patrons keeping him at beck and call, did he feel the need to trouble me every night? I glared at him from the corner of my eye, because I just knew what he itched to do.

When his hand started to move, I elbowed him in the ribs. “Ow, what was that for?” Rogers had the temerity to ask.

The room was empty for the moment, Mother Dover in the back fixing something to eat and the other mollies already at work in various rooms in the house. I heard their grunts, their groans. I felt the lust building in their flat’s loans.

I jerked myself away from them. “You know the house rules,” I said.

“I wasn’t doing nothing,” he said.

“No?” I asked. “This was the one time you were going to keep your hands to yourself?”

“You’re more frigid than the Thames in December,” Rogers said. “I was just going to… fluff you.”

“Fluff me,” I repeated.

“You know, get you stiff…” I knew what he meant. I had been working as a molly far longer than he.

“Mother Dover won’t pay you for that,” I said.

“I know.”

“Mother Dover won’t pay me for that,” I said.

“Is that all you think about?” Rogers asked.

“Of course,” I said, giving him an odd look. What else would I be interested in? He didn’t even know about my nature.

“I want to touch it. It’s huge!” He sighed at me, as if I were the incomprehensible one. “What’s it like fucking a cripple?”

I narrowed my eyes at his sudden change. What cripple?

“What?” Rogers asked. “I ain’t never had one before.”

“What exactly are you expecting to happen tonight?” I turned from him, back to the door leading into the parlour. I almost wished for a man to walk through, if only so I could end this conversation with Rogers.

“Just curious,” he said. “You seem to come back peaceful, is all.”

I glanced back at him. He lay back against the couch, as if the answer didn’t bother him, but he seemed confused. As confused as I was. Did he mean Byrne?

The back door to the parlour opened and I jumped. Rogers laughed. “You’re just starting, Kendall?” Rogers asked.