For a week, Virgil doesn't leave his chamber. He drifts in and out of sleep, waking to eat the steaming food that the maid serves him and to allow her to change his bandages.
Sometimes Roman drops in, hands adorned with leather gloves and expression filled with slight amusement, but no one besides him and the maid visit. Virgil receives no more information about the Crown Society, or about what they plan to do with him.
The days pass slowly. Prosperiday. Aevaday. Moraday. Amareday. Sapienday. He wonders what Remy is doing right now, if he's safe or not. If maybe he's worried about Virgil too.
When Prosperiday rolls around again, Virgil is well enough to go without bandages. The harsh, red welts on his wrists have faded to faint bruises, and his scalp is less sensitive to touch. His hair is tangled and knotted from days without brushing it, and that night, he carefully combs his fingers through the purple and silver strands. He studies himself in front of mirror by candlelight, observing the way the orange light illuminates the scar over his right eye. Frightening thoughts float in the back of his mind, clawing at his attention, and he's afraid to listen.
He looks the same.
He looks like a stranger.
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Low voices draw him from sleep, alerting him to the presence of the warm morning sun. He remains in bed, though, ears straining to catch the conversation outside the door.
He knows the speakers. Roman, and his maid.
"-to attend to. How is Master Amouteru?"
"Better." A pause. "What shall I do with him today, Your Highness? He seems to be growing restless. Shall I take him around the court?"
Virgil can imagine Roman's disinterested expression, the way he tugs his gloves even tighter, eyes turned away from the maid. "Bring him to Logan."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Footsteps echo down the hallway, then fade away completely. Virgil is slightly disappointed that Roman won't be around. He'd intended on asking more questions. The maid had said court, but what kind? A royal estate? And who is Logan?
Virgil stays in bed until the maid comes in, nestled into the comfortable blankets. She eventually bustles in with an armful of silks and a bowl of warm water. "Good morning, Master. Look at the pink in your cheeks! Lovely."
It's odd, to have someone complimenting him and catering to his every whim, but Virgil smiles his thanks anyway. The maid scrubs him clean and dresses him in the red and white silks. He carefully combs his silver bangs over his scar, and winces as she brushes over his injured scalp. Finally, they're finished. She guides him to the door, and Virgil inhales deeply as he steps out of his chamber for the first time.
They walk down a narrow hallway that branches off into two. He studies the walls curiously. Paintings of the gods adorn them, tales of beautiful Pulchritas emerging from the ocean, and young Laetes falling from the heavens, the colors as vivid as if they had been created only a week ago. Virgil lingers in the hall, staring in wonder, for so long that he begins to fall behind, and only when the maid calls for him to hurry does he tear his gaze away and quicken his steps. As they walk, he attempts to think of something to say - but every time he opens his mouth to speak, the maid offers a polite smile and looks away disinterestedly. Virgil finally decides to remain silent. They take another turn, and then abruptly halt in front of what seems to be a solid wall and a row of marble pillars.
The maid runs her hand along one side of a pillar, then abruptly pushes the wall. He watches, shocked, as the wall swings open with a groan to reveal another hall behind it. "Come, young master," the maid says over her shoulder. Stunned, he follows her. The wall slides shut behind them, as if nothing had ever existed beyond it.
The further they progress, the more intrigued Virgil becomes. The hidden layout makes perfect sense; if this is where the Young Elites hide -assassins worth millions in gold talents by the Inquisition- then of course, they wouldn't have a door easily accessible by the general public. The Elites are one of the secrets these walls house. But what is this court?
The maid finally halts before a set of tall doors at the end of the hall. The double doors are elaborately engraved with an depiction of Amare and Fortuna, god of Love and goddess of Prosperity, locked in an intimate embrace. Virgil sucks in a breath. He knows where he is.
This place is a brothel.
The maid tugs the double doors open. They enter a richly decorated sitting room with a single door along one wall that probably leads into a bedchamber. The thought makes Vigil blush. A section of the room opens to a lush courtyard, gleaming in the sunlight. Rippling lengths of silk hang low from the ceiling, stirring slightly, and trails of glittering silver chimes hum in the breeze. The air is scented heavily with jasmine.
The door makes a hollow sound as the maid knocks lightly on it.
"Yes?" a voice answers. Even muffled through the doorway, Virgil raises an eyebrow how unusually smooth the voice is.
The maid tilts her head, despite the fact there's no one but Virgil to witness it. "Master Amouteru has arrived."
Quiet. Then Virgil hears the soft shuffle of feet, and a beat later, the door swings open. Virgil finds himself gazing up at a boy who renders him speechless.
A famous poet from Sanderia once described a beautiful face as "one kissed by moon and water", a reference to their three moons and the loveliness of their light reflected in the ocean. She gifted only two people this compliment: her mother, and the final queen of the Feishen Empire. If she were alive to see who Virgil now gawked at, she would add him as the third. Moon and water must desperately love this boy.
His shiny black hair is combed back expertly, the very top tied into a tiny tail. His pale skin is flawless, glowing. A veil of night lily scent envelopes him, intoxicating. Virgil is so distracted by his appearance that he takes a moment to notice his marking; under sweeping, dark lashes, one of his eyes is colored sunlight on honey, while the other is the icy winter blue of a diamond.
A hurried farewell takes the form of a nod in the maid, addressed to them both, then she vanishes down the hall, leaving them alone. The boy smiles at him. "It's lovely to meet you, Virgil." He grasps Virgil's hands and leans down, pressing a quick kiss to each cheek. Virgil shivers violently at the softness of his lips. His hands are cool and smooth. Gold rings glint on his slender fingers, nails gleaming. The lyrical tone of his voice is much more prominent than through the door. "My name is Logan."
Movement behind him distracts Virgil. Despite the dim lighting in the chamber, he can see the outline of a person rolling over in bed. Virgil glances back at Logan. It is a brothel. Logan must be a client.
Logan notes his hesitation, then blushes deeply. His lashes sweep down in a delicate arc. Never in Virgil's life has he ever seen such a graceful gesture. "Apologies. My work frequently continues until morning."
"Oh," Virgil forces out. He is a fool. Logan isn't a client at all. The man inside is the client, and Logan is the consort. With an appearance like his, Virgil should have realized immediately; but in his experience, consort means street prostitute. Poor, desperate people selling themselves on the sides of roads. Not artistic masterpieces.
Logan looks back at his bedchamber, and when it appears his client has slipped into a deep slumber once more, he slips the door shut without a sound. "Merchant princes tend to sleep late," he says with a smile. Then he gestures for Virgil to follow him. Virgil can't help but marvel at the easy elegance of his movements, tuned perfection in a way he supposes a high-class consort should be. Does this whole sitting room and courtyard belong solely to him?
"Sensing your energy this close is a bit overwhelming," he says, grimacing slightly. The expression seems wrong on his chiseled features.
"You can sense me?"
"I was the one who first discovered you."
Virgil frowns. "What do you mean?"
Logan guides him out of the sitting room and into the hall, walking until they halt at a huge courtyard of fountains. The warm breeze whistles through his hair, shifting aside the black to reveal shiny strands of deep blue, jeweled lines against a night canvas. A second marking. "The night you ran away," he says as they walk, "you stopped in Estenzia's market."
Virgil winces at the memory. His father's rain-streaked face, curved into a menacing grin, flashes in his mind's eye. "Yes," he whispers.
"Roman sent me to southern Kenettra for a few months to find others like you. I could sense you the moment I arrived in Estenzia. Your tug was faint, something that came and went, and it took me several weeks to narrow my search to your district." Logan pauses before the largest fountain in the courtyard. "But the first time I saw you was in that market. I watched you ride into the rain. Naturally, I sent word back to His Highness right away."
Someone had, indeed, been watching him that night. A boy who can sense those like him; like them. That must be his ability, just like Roman to fire, himself to illusion. "Do you recruit Young Elites for the Crown Society, then?"
"Yes. They call me the Messenger, and the search is always an adventure. Out of every thousand malfettos, there's always one who's special. After a potential recruit falls into the Inquisition's hands, though, it's terribly difficult to save them in time. In fact, you're the first one that we've saved directly from their grasp." Logan winks with one brilliant sapphire eye. "Congratulations."
The Reaper. The Messenger. A society filled with double names and hidden meanings. Virgil sucks in a deep breath, wondering about the other names he's caught wind of.
"No one told me this place was a... a brothel," Virgil says hesitantly.
"A pleasure court," Logan clarifies. "Brothels are for the poor and tasteless."
"A pleasure court," Virgil echoes.
"Clients come to us for music and conversation, laughter and wit and beauty. They drink and dine with us. Quite easy to forget your worries." He smiles. "Sometimes outside the bedchamber. Sometimes within."
Virgil sends him a wary look. "I hope I don't have to become a consort to join the Crown Society. No offense intended, of course," he adds quickly.
A gentle laugh from Logan serves as his answer. Like everything else about him, his laughter is perfectly tuned, a sharp sound that's as lovely as summer bells. "Your identity is not where you sleep. You are not of age, Virgil. Unless such work interests you, no one at the Fortunata Court shall force you to service clients."
Virgil's cheeks burn at the suggestion.
Logan leads him around the side of the courtyard. The sweet scent of spring sweeps by on the wind. Virgil can now see that the brothel- pleasure court -is built on the curves of a large hill, and when they reach a good outlook, he glimpses the city below. He sucks in a breath.
Dalia.
Wide, clean streets and red bricked domes. Sweeping spires, curving archways. Colorful flowers and vines spilling from narrow, overgrown side streets. Gleaming monuments that tower over the city, stretching into the sun. Horses pulling carts filled to the brim with crates and casks, people bustling in and out of buildings. Lining the main squares are looming statues of 12 gods and angels, flowers draped over their stone feet. The harbor hosts hundreds of traveling ships, loaded with round, gold and silver talents, their white and brown sails contrasting against the deep blue sea, their rainbow array of flags representing kingdoms from all over the world. Fireflies among giants, gondolas float between the ships, lanterns not yet lit during the day. Off in the distance, a bell chimes merrily. The misty outlines of a chain of islets on the horizon is visible, bulging from the flat expanse of the Sun Sea. And up in the sky-
Gasping in delight, Virgil watches as an enormous creature resembling an ocean ray glides over the harbor, its massive wings lazily flapping up and down, smooth and translucent in the light. Its tail stretches out behind it in a long line, waving in the wind. On its back rides someone, who's so small they're nearly lost from sight. A haunting cry echoes across the city from the gigantic animal.
"It's a balira!" Virgil exclaims.
Logan glances over his shoulder at Virgil, such a smooth and regal gesture that one could mistake him for royalty. He smiles at Virgil's excitement. "Given Estenzia's location to the waterfall arc, I would think you'd see them more often."
"Never this close."
"Ah. They gather here in the summer to give birth, due to our warm and shallow waters. Trust me, you shall see your fill."
Virgil continues to take in the scene, shaking his head in disbelief. "The city is beautiful."
"Only to a newcomer." Logan's smile fades. "We are not like the Skyland nations, where the blood fever was mild and their few marked people are celebrated. Dalia was devastated by the fever, and ever since, she has suffered. Trade is down and pirates plague our normal routes. Ever poorer grows the city, and the people are hungry. Malfettos are the scapegoats. In the streets just yesterday, a malfetto girl was killed. Stabbed to death. The Inquisition always turns a blind eye."
Virgil's joy diminishes. When he looks back down at the city, only then does he notice the frequent white cloaks, the beggars, the boarded up shops. Uncomfortable, he turns away. "In Estenzia, the story is not much different," he mutters. There's a brief silence. "Where are the other Elites?"
The two of them come upon a blank stone wall near the edge of the courtyard, situated in such a way that one wouldn't stop here unless they knew what they were looking for. Logan carefully runs one hand down the side, then pushes against it, and to Virgil's surprise once more, it swings open silently. Peering inside, Virgil shivers at the gust of cold air from within. Weathered stone stairs wind into the darkness.
"Don't think of them," Logan says, gazing down at the chilly passageway. His next words send a pleasant tingle down Virgil's spine. "Today, it will only be you and me."
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