“Never been in a whorehouse before,” Peter said. All his fire seemed to have fled as soon as Yves opened the door.
“You have former courtesans working on the farm, Peter.”
“Yeah, milking the goats.” He eyed the wallpaper behind Yves warily, as though a naked courtesan may be hiding behind it to leap out and ravish him.
“Well, we milk things here too. Come on, Peter, no one’s gonna—” He stopped himself before the familiar country accent could creep into his voice. “No one will proposition you. They’ll just ask for gossip.”
“Tony said there was screaming when he visited,” Peter said softly, slinking through the doorway, “in one of the other rooms.”
“Yeah, that was probably Nanette. She likes to show off.” Tony—which was short for Devotion—had visited a few weeks before, and he’d spent the whole time in the same state as Peter.
Peter goggled when Yves opened the door to his bedroom. The walls glittered with jewelry, paintings, and fine tapestries, all gifts from Yves’ clients. The open closet was swollen with silk and fine fabric, and Yves’ desk had so much jewelry dripping off stands and hooks that it seemed on the verge of collapse. Yves flopped onto the bed, but Peter stood in the middle of the floor, clutching the invitation in his hands.
“Were you gonna tell us?” he asked.
Yves patted the bed. “Sit down, Peter.”
“Who is it?” Peter didn’t move. “One of your visitors?”
“Clients,” Yves said. “Maybe.”
Peter swallowed heavily. “This is because of Tony, ain’t it?”
Yves suppressed a groan. Tony had come to Duciel on the back of a milk cart with his best suit on and a cap over his curlyblond hair, and he’d done a passable impression of their mother in the House of Onyx sitting room.
The family had collectively decided: Yves had spent enough time frittering his life away in Duciel as a high-end whore, and it was time to come home and make something of himself. His parents had found a number of dominants willing to accept Yves’ hand in marriage—no one too upstanding, not with his reputation, but he’d have to take what he could get.
He should have expected it. Yves’ parents were painfully old-fashioned, and believed that a submissive was helpless without a dominant to sort out their lives. There was no room for anything else—no fellow submissives, no chance of going without, and certainly no sleeping around for the fun of it. His parents had been a love match, so how hard could it be for Yves to follow their example?
Yves didn’t know if he wanted what his parents had. Their love was almost frightening in its intensity—his father had come home from the navy with a limp that never went away and waking nightmares that came without warning, but Yves’ mother had taken it all in stride. He could still remember watching his mother run across the farm as though they were so bound that she could sense her husband’s fits before they struck. Yves wasn’t sure he could ever have that kind of connection with someone. It seemed unfair to assume anyone else should try.
“Tony was just trying to help you,” Peter said. “What do you think a stunt like this’ll do?”
Something creaked in the room next door, and Yves grit his teeth. “I simply feel like it’s time to find a nice, wealthy husband who can shower me in so many jewels that I can’t breathe. Isn’t that what everyone wants? Isn't that what you all want for me?”
“Then why dothis?” Peter asked, shoving the invitation at Yves.
The card was made of thick stock, with gold paint on the edges and big, looping letters that shrank as the calligrapher realized they only had so much space to write. It read:
You Are Formally Invited to the Wedding
Of Yves, Favored Courtesan of Staria
And His Yet-to-be-Chosen Husband of High Esteem
On the First Day of Summer
White Rose Park, Duciel
(Potential Husbands Must Apply to the House of Onyx for Inquiries)
Yves handed Peter the slightly crumpled card. “I’ve turned it into a game. We like those here.”
“A game,” Peter repeated, incredulously.
“Yes. Anyone who makes inquiries gets a clue to the first test. The first person to pass all of them gets the prize.” Yves gestured at himself.
“They get a whore, you mean.”
