Chapter 4. Author's note: So, I include these, though this story has little popularity, as a method of communicating with any readers out there. Anyway, I've been experimenting with different titles for the chapters and this is the latest. Vote/comment for the Macbeth reference!
Nightingale awoke with a good deal of fluttering of eyelashes and realized with a jolt that the surface upon which she was sleeping was too soft, too warm. Opening her eyes, she found herself swaddled in blankets in bed.
Then, looking up, she smiled. Michael was seated on the small chair at the vanity, smiling at her.
"Were you watching me sleep?" she asked, pleased with how at ease she felt in the bed.
He grinned. "I was."
"Anything interesting happen while I was in the depths of slumber?" she asked, sitting up and yawning. She stretched, rolling her shoulders and hearing the satisfying snap of joints and tendons.
"You speak in your sleep," he said.
"No, I don't," said Nightingale. She felt a little thrill of pleasure at allowing herself to engage in back talk with a client.
"Really? None of your clients has ever told you?" laughed Michael.
Nightingale eyed him curiously. "No," she said warily. "They never have. Tell me, what did I say?"
"Something to the effect of 'the Thane of Fife had a wife, where is she now?' I don't particularly remember," he said. He stood and then very hesitantly, like a husband approaching his reluctant and timid new bride on her wedding night, sat down on the edge of the bed.
Nightingale leaned over and nuzzled her face against his. Much to her chagrin, he recoiled from her mouth and pushed her back onto the pillows.
"Something wrong, Michael?" she asked.
"No. It's just - will you sing for me, Nightingale?" he suddenly jumped up and went to stand by the door, as though nervous that she would snap at him for the suggestion.
Nightingale smiled gently at him. "Come back tonight and you'll see me sing," she said. "And dance too, to boot. I'm fairly talented at both."
"No. I don't want to hear you sing whatever you sing to entice the scum who come to this place...what do you call it?" asked Michael.
"The York Bordello," she said, using the name Bobby had coined for his whorehouse.
"Well, Gale, I don't want you to sing something like that. I would like to hear a pleasant song," said Michael, dimpling like mad as he smiled bashfully.
Nightingale sighed as she realized that Michael wanted to feel as though he were special. It wasn't that uncommon among her clients. She did her best to accommodate that illusion - it was very good for business. But a nagging thought reminded her that for Michael, his uniqueness wasn't an illusion.
"What would you like to hear?" she asked, reaching for her bathrobe before getting up.
"A folk song or something," he said.
Nightingale nodded. Climbing out of bed, she began to sing a soft, sweet voice. She watched as he became motionless, listening to her raptly as though hypnotized. Nightingale smiled as she continued to sing. She knew the effect her voice had on men. It was one of the many reasons why she was so popular - her singing entranced and enraptured every person for whom she performed. Even her fellow Inamoratas adored the sound, often asking her to sing gentle rounds to distract them from the daily strife of their lives.
When Nightingale finished singing, Michael snapped out of his trance and gaped at her.
"Where did you learn to sing like that?" he said, his jaw nearly dropping off its hinges.
Nightingale smiled. "Natural talent," she said. Then she stared off into space for a moment before musing, "I suppose you could call it unnatural talent. Nothing's natural about me."
Michael laughed ruefully, tousling his hair with a free hand. "You've very clever, Nightingale."
"I'll take that as a compliment. Though I don't see why it's flattering to commend someone for something they were born - or created - with," said Nightingale, winding herself down onto the floor.
"What do you mean?" asked Michael curiously. His eyes were alight with bright verve as he sat down across from her, folding himself into an awkward-looking position on the rug.
"One shouldn't commend someone for their beauty, or their intelligence, or their singing voice," she said, pointing to herself. Michael nodded. "It's idiotic to commend someone on something they can't control. You might just as well congratulate me for having ten fingers."
Michael head continued to bob. Then he paused. "Then what should I commend you for?" he asked.
Nightingale smiled. "Something I can control. Something that I've worked hard to accomplish."
"You've worked to accomplish things?" blurted Michael, his lip curling a little in disdain.
Nightingale shied away, hurt. Michael instantly lurched towards her with his hands out, looking as though he was seeking to pacify her. She leaned back, eyeing him with irritation.
"No, I didn't mean it like that!" he cried, surging forward once again. This time he was able to take her hand and began to wring it fervently. "I can see I've upset you. I just didn't think that Inamoratas had anything to accomplish."
"Not wringing the neck of every single one of my clients is an accomplishment," snapped Nightingale. She took the hand that was grasping hers and enclosed it in both of hers. "I could do it, you know. You scientists must know what I'm capable of - you created me, didn't you?"
Michael's face went white as she clenched his hand, exerting only a fraction of her surprising strength on his fingers. When he looked pained, she released him.
"I'm sorry, Nightingale," he said.
Nightingale immediately felt tears spring into her eyes at those three little words. With a quivering chin and trembling all over, she looked up at Michael, stunned speechless by her gratitude. It was the first time in her memory that she'd ever been apologized to by a client.
He interpreted her grief differently, however.
"I didn't mean to insult you!" he half-shouted, wild-eyed with distress. "I'm truly very sorry!"
Nightingale leaned forward and kissed him. He went still with surprise. When Nightingale pulled back, she saw his eyelids flutter as he opened his eyes, looking dazed.
"Oh," he said.
"Oh," mocked Nightingale gently. She kissed the tip of his nose, watching as he blushed. "Oh."
He shook his head like a dog with water in its ears, his countenance delightfully confused. Then, seeming to regain a little wherewithal, he stood up.
"I should go," he said.
Nightingale, relaxed back onto the floor, lying with her arms spread wide. "Will you be back?"
"Tonight," said Michael quickly. Then he blushed and mumbled the next words. "But only if that's fine with you." He backed away as he said it, and the doors opened automatically at his presence.
Nightingale closed her eyes, spread-eagle on the rug, completely at ease. "Fine," she said, her voice lazy and comfortable.
"Fine?" she heard Michael ask. She opened her eyes to see him hesitating on the threshold, looking worried. Behind him, in the hall, she saw Magenta pausing mid-stride - obviously eavesdropping on their conversation.
"More than fine," she assured him, her voice teasing. "I would like you to come back. Do remember to pay Bobby on your way out, though."
Michael smiled in his sunny way and departed, even grinning at Magenta as he passed her. Nightingale smiled, too, as she reclined on the rug. Feeling a presence hovering above her, she opened her eyes to see not only Magenta but also Sparkle leaning over her.
"How the hell did you get here?" she snapped at Sparkle.
"Never mind that," said Sparkle. Nightingale sat up, glaring at them waspishly. They looked taken aback, but Sparkle continued. "Gale, you're in a bizarre mood today. And he looked very happy. What exactly happened?"
Nightingale rolled her eyes. "I brought him back here, and the two of us had tea and discussed the weather before he politely offered me the bed and slept on the floor like a gentleman," she volleyed back sarcastically. "What the hell do you think happened, Sparkle? I fucked him. He left. That's it." She was loath to reveal anything else about Michael - oddly, it felt as though she was betraying his trust.
"But he'll be back tonight," said Magenta, looking wary.
"That's not uncommon, especially for me," said Nightingale.
Sparkle began to chew on her lip. "Oh, I'm worried," she said. Nightingale eyed her with concern.
"I really don't like that tone, Sparkle. What are you worried about?" she pressed.
"He seemed like a nice man. Or at least that's what Rose said. Is he?" asked Sparkle. Nightingale felt butterflies begin to ram themselves up against the wall of her stomach as she heard the hesitant concern in Sparkle's voice.
"Yes," said Nightingale flatly. "He's a very nice man. What has that got to do with it?"
"What would a nice man be doing in a place like this?" said Magenta, jumping into the conversation. She gestured around her, but Nightingale took her meaning to be the bordello, not Nightingale's room, which was pleasant enough. "If he's so great, then why is he here? You know we only deal in married, filthy-rich scumbags here."
Nightingale paused. "That's a good question," she said, though she was fairly sure of the answer. Michael had seemed to be telling her the truth when he said he'd wanted to talk to her. As it turned out, he had not been averse to do more than talking with her.
"Perhaps he isn't as nice as you think he is," said Magenta, her lip curling.
Nightingale glared at her, surprised by the ferocity of her anger.
"No," interjected Sparkle, shaking her head. Her curls bounced as her head moved from side to side, doubling the certainty of her words. "Nightingale's an excellent judge of character. And considering that she's never taken a liking to a client before, it's significant that she likes him. He must be a nice man."
"Thanks, Sparkle," said Nightingale, poking her in the ribs with a gentle finger.
"Anytime. But seriously," she said, the quick smile that had leaped onto her face quickly sliding off. "It's worrying, Nightingale. Do you remember what happened to that Inamorata in the Kensington Bordello?"
Magenta and Nightingale blanched in unison. They were locked in stony silence as Sparkle continued. Nightingale remembered the story, but needed to hear what it had to do with Michael.
"She was just an ordinary Inamorata, same as us. Worked the same as we do. She was fairly successful, didn't get beaten too often, had a small base of regular clients. Of course, that all changed with one client," said Sparkle. Her tone was ominous. She sounded like parent telling a scary story to her children.
Nightingale shivered, but not from cold. Magenta tugged the blanket down from the bed and wrapped the two of them up in it.
"He was different," said Sparkle. "He became obsessed with her. Glitter says he actually fell in love with her-"
"That's ridiculous," scoffed Magenta angrily. "No man could ever fall in love with an Inamorata. We're not people to them. It would be like a man falling in love with a chair, or a sock, or a b-"
"Shut up for a minute, Maggie," said Nightingale. "I want to hear this."
Magenta fell silent, nodding apologetically at Nightingale with some anger still lurking in her eyes.
"Anyway," said Sparkle, shooting Magenta a glare for her disruption. "He fell in love with her, supposedly. He visited her every night, prevented her from seeing other clients, and forced her to pretend that she loved him, too. That, in itself, wasn't particularly troubling. But one night when he was late, she took on another client instead of him. He charged up to her room, broke in, and-"
"Killed her," finished Nightingale in a hollow voice.
They all stared at each other for a moment, completely silent.
"That's why I'm worried about you," said Sparkle, breaking the uneasy silence with an even uneasier tone.
Nightingale turned her head. "You think Michael will kill me, Sparkle?" she said. "That's crazy. Nice guy, remember? He could barely bring himself to see a whore, and you think he'll murder me?"
"It wouldn't be murder," Magenta reminded them in a hostile tone. "We're not people, remember? The man who killed that girl only had to pay her owner for the lost revenue. It was pretty hefty, but it's not like he went to prison."
"I'm not worried that he'll kill you, Gale. This was just a warning. Michael doesn't seem like the type who would be here ordinarily - you said yourself that he could barely bring himself to visit an Inamorata. So the only reason he's here is because of you. And I just think you should be careful, that's all," said Sparkle, leaning forward to pat Nightingale's head.
"I will," vowed Nightingale, smiling as brilliantly as she could at Sparkle and Magenta. The pair of them grinned back. "Now off you trot. I've got a book to read, and it's calling my name."
The pair of them stood, laughing in unison.
"We all know what Nightingale with a book to read is like," said Magenta. "Don't get too close to her - she may snap if you disturb her."
Nightingale stuck out her tongue and reached under the bed to remove Cyrano de Bergerac.
"Why, it's not in any language I can read!" cried Sparkle. She'd sat down on the bed at Nightingale's shoulder and was peeping over her to read the text. "Are you sure you can read it, Gale?"
"It's in French, Sparkle," said Magenta patiently. She picked up the book and turned it so that Sparkle could see the text better. Nightingale eyed her balefully, ready to snatch the book back at the slightest hint that Magenta would want to take it.
"French," grumbled Sparkle. "I can't tell the difference between it and any other language. Don't make fun of me, Magenta."
"It's not her fault, Maggie," said Nightingale, reaching forward and removing Cyrano from Magenta's grasp. Magenta relinquished the book easily - she didn't share Nightingale's rabid love of literature. "We're just freaks. Bobby went through a little phase where he wanted all his Inamoratas to be multi-lingual. He paid an arm and a leg for it, apparently."
"Yeah, and a lot of use it's been," muttered Magenta. "I don't find myself connecting with my clients any easier in Cantonese or Mandarin."
"Still, I wish I spoke more languages," said Sparkle wistfully. "We could communicate secretly. Like a code."
"Don't waste your energy pining over that," said Nightingale, rolling her eyes. "I speak and read five languages fluently and have never been able to speak them with any other girls."
"Five languages? I thought you only spoke three," said Magenta. "Which others do you speak, Gale?"
"French, English, German, Italian, Spanish," said Nightingale, her eyes rolling back even further in their sockets. "And really the only one that's come in handy is French. Some of my clients like me to affect a French accent."
The three women shuddered, their lips curling in unison in distaste. Then Magenta grinned mockingly. "Ooh, monsieur, you are so veery 'andsome," she said sarcastically in a terrible imitation of the accent.
Sparkle and Nightingale laughed. "You 'ave such good looks, monsieur," said Sparkle, her accent even worse than Magenta's. "Zat must be veery distracting for ze poor ladiees."
"Shut up, you two," said Nightingale, pushing them away playfully. "Take your awful mockery of such a beautiful language elsewhere."
The two of them laughed and departed. Before the doors closed, Nightingale could hear them arguing in their ridiculous accents as their voices got further and further away in the hall. She smiled, rolled her eyes yet again, and buried herself in the book.
She was a few pages in when there was a tentative knock on the door. Stowing Cyrano beneath the bed, she called for whoever it was to come in.
Rose sprang into the room and shut the door.
"Hello, Rose," said Nightingale tiredly, patting the bed beside her. Rose joined her, looking exhausted and unhappy.