The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [107]
Chloé was in the early stage of the pox when she arrived, but upon inspection Awa saw that half a dozen other wayward spirits also infected the young woman’s nether regions. Breaking them all, as well as running her hands over the girl to kill the inevitable ticks, fleas, and lice, took quite a bit of energy, and by the end Awa was barely remembering to apply the mundane paste she mixed to cover her necromancy. Chloé did not even wait until Awa had finished before making a move, rubbing against the necromancer’s fingers as she shakily smeared the ointment.
“Your boss asked if I’d fuck a blackamoor, and I told her nay,” said Chloé as Awa looked up from her work in surprise. “But I thought she meant blokes. You’re not a bloke, though, so if you got the francs to match that interest I’ll make myself obliging.”
“What makes you think I’d have an interest?” said Awa, unable to meet the woman’s eyes.
“Everyone’s got an interest in something,” said Chloé, “and you’re interested in putting your tongue up there or I’m a blackamoor myself. What say you wash me off and get first taste of the new pottage, eh? Didn’t even let the monger have a go, said I wanted to get clean first.”
A year or two before Awa might have turned away or at least blushed, but instead she met the young woman’s olive eyes and nodded. Upstairs they went, Awa leading her out of the whores’ sleeping chamber and quickly past Monique’s closed door. When they reached the attic Awa lit a candle and pulled up the ladder.
Then they sat facing each other on the pallet, the younger woman suddenly demure, and Awa found herself pinning Chloé down, kissing her hard, more excited than she had been in ages, the dark-haired whore letting out little gasps. It was strange, taking the initiative, and even when Chloé traded places with Awa the younger woman maintained her beguiling modesty, repeatedly leaving Awa shuddering on the edge to adorably ask for guidance that they both knew she did not require. It was unlike any fuck Awa had enjoyed since arriving in Paris, and when they were both exhausted she tightly held the warm little creature. Feeling Chloé’s willowy arms intertwined with hers, Awa drifted off remembering two junipers she had once seen that had somehow merged their trunks and become a single beautiful, twisted tree.
“Who’s Omorose?” Awa started awake, the warmth and darkness suddenly cloying instead of comforting. She rolled away from Chloé, scolding herself for falling asleep.
“Nobody,” said Awa, her eyes not so quick to adjust as they once had been, the girl beside her in the bed still just a pale lump. “How long have I slept?”
“I don’t know. I was asleep, too,” said Chloé. “Do you have anything to smoke?”
“Smoke?”
“Poppy oil? I suppose not.” The girl sighed. “A Moor I knew shared it with me. He said it was not so rare in your land.”
“And where is it you think I come from?” asked Awa, retrieving a bottle.
“I suppose I was being foolish,” said Chloé as Awa took a drink. “You don’t all come from the same place, of course.”
“Of course,” said Awa. “Would you like a drink?”
“Of course.” The girl sat up and took the bottle. “Say, this is a sight better than what they keep down there. What’s your name?”
Awa told her; she had long since given up on keeping it a secret.
“Well, Awa, can I ask you something?”
“Certainly.”
“Can I sleep here? It’s late, I think, and I … I like sleeping against you. You smell nice.” Awa’s eyes had adjusted enough to see that the girl had dropped her head, and Awa felt her throat tighten, her stomach hot and nervous.
“You can stay as long as you like, Chloé,” said Awa, and then the girl looked up, tears shining on her cheeks in the dark