[Draft] the Perks of Being a Courtesan, pt. 2

Durante Androsciani was irritated.  He hated attending events hosted by Emilio Mazini.  The man was an insufferable prig who only invited Adrosciani when he wanted to brag over his latest acquisition--whether it was a new horse, or a rare piece of fine artwork, or a fresh faced courtesan.  And now he was wandering Mazini's overdone halls looking for Theus knew what.  At least when Androsciani invited people over to show off, always put his newest toy out in the open for everyone to see.  None of this scavenger hunt bullshit.

He didn't even know what he was looking for.  A statue, a painting, a woman, it could even be a book for all he knew.  Though it probably wasn't a book, he wasn't sure Mazini knew how to read, let alone know the value of old texts (Androsciani didn't either, but he had people working for him who did).  And it wasn't a woman.  Mazini had a new one, gorgeous, sensual, sultry.  Lust personified, wrapped up in an obscene amount of red.  But she wasn't for sharing--Mazini had made that quite clear by the way that he kept her close and watched her like a hawk whenever she was anymore than three steps away.  He was probably enjoying her right now, the bastard.  He'd probably set up this whole wild goose chase just to get his guests out of the way.

Androsciani ducked into Mazini's study.  It was, he reasoned, one of the last places anyone would think to look.  Who would think that Mazini would display anything in this place, full of dry, dusty books no one read, and chairs that no one sat in, in a room that hardly anyone...

He stopped at the door of the study, his search forgotten.  Because there she was.  Mazini's vision of desire.  She was facing away from the door, examining the books.  He watched her fingers run lightly along the rows of books, and he couldn't help but imagine those nimble fingers running along his skin.  He could see bare flesh, from the nape of her neck where her dress tied in back, all the way down to just above the curve of her buttocks, where the train of her gown cascaded nearly to the floor.  If he closed his eyes, he could see the clinging, shimering confection of lace and silk concealing her body from her neck, over the swell of her breasts, descending from her hips to her feet.  It was covering enough to be modest and yet suggestive enough for him to imagine the fabric sliding silently to the floor.

She was looking him, he realized.  Watching him over her shoulder, that damned teasing smile on her face. 

"I think I came to the wrong room," he ground out through clenched teeth.  He wanted to go over there and wipe that smirk off her face.  To show her what a real man, not that poseur Mazini, was like.

"I think you know you didn't," she smiled, turning around and stretching her arms above her head.  Androsciani swallowed as he watched her back arch, pressing her ripe curves against the taut fabric of the dress.  And then she was sauntering towards him, with that mesmerizing sway of her hips--each step revealing a silky smooth length of leg, from her ankle to her calf, up her thigh...

"...what?" He asked, taking a step back.  She was saying something and he had missed it.  Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes away from the bare flesh of her leg, up across the expanse of taut fabric clinging to her skin, up to those perfect lips.  They were upturned, smiling wickedly, with just a hint of smug condescension.  He swallowed, feeling the solid oak of the wall against his back.  He wondered if she looked at Mazini with that same smile when she let him have her--the man certainly wasn't forceful enough to take a woman like this.

"Well, I was asking if you liked my dress," she purred, running the tip of her tongue along her lips as if in anticipation while her eyes traced his body, "but I can see that you do."

He coughed, a blush rising to his cheecks.  This is silly, he thought.  Here he was, pinned up against a wall by a woman half his size while she made him blush like a girl with her first crush.  He bet Mazini put her up to this, looking for a way to embarrass him.  Well, I'll show him, he sneered mentally as he groped for the door, I'm nobody's fool.

Still, he was unable to tear his eyes away from her sensuously approaching form. 

"Emilio didn't want me to wear this tonight," she pouted, so close now that he could reach out and touch her--almost did reach out and touch her, "something about being too much for his guests to handle.  I'm not too much for you, am I?"

"N-no," he stammered, as she reached out a finger and ran it along his jawline.  If this wasn't part of Mazini's plan, then he was in big trouble.  The man might be an ass, but he could have Androsciani killed without too much trouble.  There!  He'd found the door knob!  Still the thought of tasting this bit of forbidden fruit sent a thrill down his spine.

"Hmmm, then why are you reaching for the door?" she breathed, so close that he could smell the heady scent of her perfume.  He tugged once at the door, but it didn't move. 

He glanced down and discovered that perfect leg, left bare by the slit along the side of the dress, ending is a delicate slipper holding the door shut.

"You didn't answer my question," she said as her hand left his face and traveled down his arm, "why are you reaching for the door," she asked, taking his hand and guiding it to her bare flesh, "instead of for me?"

Androsciani swallowed, trying to think of what would happen if Mazini ever found out...but it was impossible with her pressed up against him, her silky soft skin under his hand...

She leaned her head in closer.  Part of him tried to shy away, but there was no more room to retreat.  He thought she was going to kiss him, but instead she moved her lips to his ear, and ever so softly whispered, "This will be our little secret..."

It was too much.  Androsciani growled, sliding his hand up her leg to pull her tight against him.  His free hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head to one side as he buried his face in her neck.  Her body shuddered as he held her and she let out a quiet moan.  "Hmmmm, where have you been?" she sighed excitedly. 

He was about to turn, to pin her against the wall, like he'd been pinned, trapped by his own desire.  But the sound of someone just on the otherside of the wall, yelling, "Eureka!  I found it!" made him freeze for just a second.

And far faster than she had entered into his embrace, she broke free of Androsciani's grasp and leapt clear of his fumbling grasp.

"Time's up, " she chirped, though he thought he could detect a lingering trace of huskiness.

"I think not," he growled, unwilling to let this little tease get away without showing her exactly what she had awakened.

"Oh, I think it is," she laughed, skipping back further out of reach.  Androsciani lunged for her, but came up short.  Looking back, he saw that his doublet had been pinned to the wall by an exquisite hairpin.

"Perhaps you will be better prepared next time," she laughed as she slipped out a side door in a swirl of red silk and pale skin.

With a grunt of effort Androsciani, freed himself.  Next time, he swore, she wouldn't get off so easily.

[Draft] The Perks of Being a Courtesan

"What in the unholy name of Legion were you thinking?!" Francesco Belini shouted as he burst into Violetta's bedchamber, surprising her and the footman, Sergio, to full wakefulness.  Sergio, clearly not used to such antics first thing in the morning, stuttered an apology to his employer as he gathered up his scattered clothes and shuffled out the door while Violetta looked on in disgust.  Well, at least he had a good reason to be spineless.

Violetta Silvestri, illegitimate child and courtesan of the Belini, on the other hand, was used to angry men bursting into her bedchambers.  It was why she had several sets of hairpins scattered on every available flat surface--not just because she couldn't be bothered to pick up after the men who tore them out of her hair in the throes of passion.  Still, she supposed it would be bad form to pin the man who had adopted her and paid for her education to the wall of his own home.  But it was a close thing.

"Here dear, let me speak to her," Giulia Belini said, placing a calming hand on her husband's shoulder, “you should go have a drink to calm your nerves."

Still sputtering, Francesco followed his wife's advice and left before Violetta threw any hairpins at him.  The danger gone, Allegra flopped back onto the bed, fully intending to go back to sleep.  She'd been getting a little tired of Sergio anyway.  Perhaps that nice valet Luigi would be interested, now that his messenger lady was getting married.  Or there was the new maid Vanessa, she'd definitely had a look in her eye.

"...but really dear, what were you thinking?"

Oh, Giulia was still there.  And still talking.  Violetta sighed as she opened her eyes and sat up.  There wasn't really any point in trying to sleep.  Giulia wasn't quite as excitable as Francesco, but she was implacable.

"You mean with Sergio?" Violetta asked, swinging her legs out of bed, "he was just a bit of fun."

Maybe Giulia would help her with her hair.  Not that Violetta needed any help, but Giulia's updos were always just a little bit crisper--and she managed to fit in two or three more hairpins than Violetta could manage by herself.

"You know what I mean," Giulia said as Violetta flounced over to her closet, "I know it runs in the family, but you're too concerned about fun.  Do you know how difficult it was getting an invitation to Durante Androsciani's showing without giving away that it was our family that arranged it?"

"No, but you didn't ask me either," Violetta sighed, flipping through the gowns in her closet.  Not that one, too full, she wanted something she could move in.  Or that one, too skimpy, she didn't want to look desperate.  "I would have told you not to bother."

"Not that one dear, it makes you look like a cucumber," Giulia commented before returning to the subject at hand, "would you care to explain why you just decided to throw away months of work just to go to yet another party?  And not even one that Androsciani is going to be attending?"

"Because it doesn't matter how well you think you've covered your tracks," Violetta explained.  Not that one, the lace made her itch in unfortunate places.  "There will always be someone who remembers something he shouldn't.  You taught me that.  My way can't be traced back to you because there's nothing to trace.  How about this one?"

"Not that one, you can't get out of it without looking awkward," Giulia answered, "and what, pray tell, is your way?  Mazini doesn't belong to the Borsato.  He and Androsciani don't even like each other.  Oh, not that one either, it still hasn't been mended since that wedding where you got frisky with the groomsman."

"It was him or the bride," Violetta shrugged, "and I didn't want cousin Arturo mad at me because his new spouse tried to corner me in changing rooms."  Actually, it had been the groomsman and the bride--Marienne had caught Violetta exiting the changing rooms, and it was her day.  Why shouldn't the bride be allowed to have a little harmless fun too?  Besides, what Giulia didn't know, wouldn't get Violetta in trouble.

"They may not like each other, but they're always inviting the other over to show off their latest acquisition," Violetta explained.  No, not that one either, it needed accessories and she didn't want to be carrying anything except for her hairpins.  "They're rivals.  That's the point.  Durante Androsciani didn't become governor by being stupid.  He knows that any woman offered to him must be working for somebody."

"But if he takes someone from his rival, then she is a conquest," Giulia said admiringly.  Violetta knew she'd get the point while Francesco was still sputtering over their overturned plans.

"Whyyyyyy do I have nothing to wear!"

Revisions and Moving On

I've discovered that I don't like doing revisions.  I'm not talking about editing as I'm writing--those changes to the text that come to you when you're in the writing groove.  I like those, to me it's a sign that I'm doing something right.  No, I'm talking about going back and fixing all the things that didn't work in the first draft or the second draft or even the third draft.

It's not that I think that every word that I write is golden (actually, I'd say that most of what I write should never be seen by anyone else).  It's that sometimes I don't even know where to go with what I need to change.  That's actually the problem with all the snippets that I've posted on this blog so far.  I know, for example, that the Claire Epistolary needs a lot of work to make it more readable (though some of that is the character's style, so I'm not entirely certain how much will actually change).  Also, the Fairy Tale is a complete mess--it needs a longer introduction and somewhere in the middle it bogs down into incoherency.  To be honest, there's so much work that needs to be done on it, I don't even know where to begin.

That being said, sometimes you have to move on.  I know that the vignette I posted last week wasn't perfect, but sometimes you have to accept that something is as good as it's going to get so that you can move on to the next project.

Hopefully, the next time I post, I'll have a revision or maybe just a new bit of writing.

National Novel Writing Month! and [Draft] Untitled

In honor of National Novel Writing Month I'm restarting my blog!  I have been writing, but I haven't actually finished very many things.  So my new resolution, in honor of NaNoWriMo, is to try to post at least once per week.

Also, here's a little vignette that I actually managed to finish.  ^_^

She sits and stares at the paper.  It is empty, blank, devoid of feeling.  Like her, the man who claims her as his wife would say.  He is wrong.  She knows this, or thinks she knows this.  But sometimes she wonders if he is not.  The quill is in her hand, poised, as if prepared to write.  But she does not know how.  She does not know what she would say even if she did--perhaps he is right (That is a lie, her heart is so full of things to say that she does not know where to begin.).

Her world is this:  this one room, with its uncomfortable chairs, overdone tables, and shelves and shelves of books that she cannot read.  The man whose wife she is says that she is mistaken.  That she has rooms of riches and servants and dresses.  That everything that is his is hers.  But it is not true.  Nothing here is truly hers.  Not the endless rows of black dresses.  Not the rooms in which she sleeps and he comes to break her in slow degrees (that is not how he sees the imposition of his conjugal rights, but it is the truth).  Even this room is not, though it is more hers than anything else (because she had been here before.  She wonders if he remembers.  Either one.).

She used to wonder if this is like other rooms with books that she (they, her heart demands, but there are some things that cannot be said, even in her thoughts, without weeping and she dares not start because she does not know if she could stop) had explored--with books filled with blank pages, empty spaces where the words should be--but the man who says that he is her husband is too pretentious to accept hollow imitations of books that he does not have the native intelligence to comprehend.  She is unsure if this is a virtue that she should admire or simply another indication of his lack of understanding.

She has stared too long and the ink drips from her quill like blood from a blade.  She turns away from that thought.  (She remembers the blood, the sword, the hand that holds it.)  She avoids memories when she can.  Not because they are painful or frightening (though sometimes they are), but because they lead, inevitably, to this moment when she is hurting and alone.  She is always hurting and alone, but sometimes she fails to notice.  It is like bathing in too cold water.  Eventually, you stop feeling anything at all.

She crumples the ink-stained sheet and casts it aside as she begins to weep.  She did not know what she was thinking, pretending that she could write.  Believing that she would know what to say, even if she did.  It is ruined now, marked, worthless.  Like her.

The servants enter, their faces carefully blank.  She is never quite sure, in moments like these, whether they pity her or are relieved that it is not them.  Perhaps it is a little of both.  She had thought that she had given orders that she was not to be disturbed, but the servants do not always hear her orders (it is a matter of survival.  She understands, though it is difficult not to resent them).  She remembers that there is to be a party, and the servants are there to clean the rooms for the guests.

One of the servants reaches for the crumpled wad of ruined paper and she cries out, snatching it from the ground before he can touch it.  She sits there on the floor for a while, a small sobbing puddle of black silk and lace, clutching the paper as if it is all that remains of her hopes and dreams.  The servants shuffle out, closing the door behind them, leaving her alone to compose herself (they will pay for forgetting to clean the room or she will pay for their oversight or both, but for now she only feels gratitude that they are gone).

Slowly, carefully, she stands and smooths the crumpled sheet of paper out as best she can.  Ruined, damaged, useless for its original purpose, she will not just see it cast aside.  So instead she folds it and slides it into her sleeve.  It is a reminder that not all things that are ruined should be thrown away.