Chapter 18 - Author's note: Hello, my lovelies, thank you for the huge, incredible support - and thanks for sticking around! Did you know I have a Patreon and a Ko-Fi account? By supporting me on Patreon or Ko-Fi, you're allowing me to turn a passion into a career!

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A few days passed in a fairly normal way. Things were a bit better around the bordello, as Bobby was much happier. Nightingale learned she had become something of a legend in the bordello business, and, based on how cheerful Bobby was, her fame had spread. She had new clients competing with her old ones for her attention.

Also, the masquerade had been a success, so much that Bobby was considering doing it again.

But it was not all happiness in the bordello. There were the usual beatings, shockings, and kickings. Though Rose's bruise went away, she managed to earn herself another one - this one to the inner thigh - which Nightingale and Caramel worked hard to cover up.

When Rose had started crying about it, Caramel immediately hushed her.

"I'm a failure," Rose had moaned, sounding so piteous that it took Nightingale back to her first days of fucking clients. "They're going to kill me."

"Shush," Caramel had snapped. She was a callous but well-meaning creature, one of Magenta's school of thought; that was to say, mouth off as much at Bobby as possible without being killed, but enough to get shocked at least once a day. "Give it a rest. Everyone's first days are like that. Even Nightingale got the shit kicked out of her for the first little while."

Nightingale had nodded, her hands curling into fists and her eyes narrowing viciously. "I did."

Caramel had nodded, too, her head bobbing like a bird's. "I remember Nightingale showing me one of her bruises, back when I was new and she was a few months old. It was nastiest one I've ever seen," she said. "Made this bruise look like a scratch."

Nightingale flinched at the memory. "One of those bastards kicked me in the ribs," she said to Rose, as she stroked the girl's tear-stained face. "I was marked for weeks. I covered it up after a few days, but not before Bobby saw it."

"What did he do?" asked Rose in a hushed voice.

Nightingale did not respond, partly out of a desire not to frighten Rose, but also because she thought that reliving it might make her angry beyond the point at which recitation could help her.

Caramel must have sensed this, for she quickly changed the subject.

And so a few days passed. Nightingale's clients, now the highest-paying men possibly on the Western Continent, were nothing out of the ordinary. Life in the bordello went on as usual - cruel, nasty, brutish, but with a tinge of sisterhood that made it barely bearable.

Besides, being outside the bordello had given Nightingale hope. And so in her spare time she sat daydreaming like a fool, hating herself for being so idiotic when she knew she was more sensible.

She dreamed of the outside, dreamed of the tall buildings, dreamed of Clarence and Robin and David and even Michael, whom she had not seen and whom she was worried hated her for her abandonment of him.

As her dreaming had occupied so much of her time, it was not until Thursday afternoon, after a long day of comforting both Rose and Emerald, who'd both been fucked rather nastily the night before, that she opened Pride and Prejudice for the first time since she'd been outside.

And so she was surprised when a small, folded sheet of paper fell out from between the pages.

Curiously, she unfolded it.

My dearest Miss Larkin, she read, and she immediately knew who it was from. Only one man would ever call her that.

"Robin," she said, with a smile, and began to read.

My dearest Miss Larkin,

I thought I ought to write you a quick letter, and I hope that David did indeed slip it into the book I gave you, as he promised to when I came around while you were asleep. I wanted to wake you, but David wouldn't let me.

I wanted to explain better why I refused to sleep with you. It is certainly not because you are not beautiful (you are the prettiest young thing I have yet seen), nor is it because I do not like you (if you knew how many fathom deep I am in love (a quotation from a play I will give to you the next time I see you) you would know that liking you is an understatement of my affection).

Instead, I could not sleep with you for three reasons: the first is a lack of professionalism, as I cannot sleep with you due to the fact that it would compromise the integrity of my case against the bordellos. The second is that I feel as though I could not possibly take advantage of you in that way. The third is that I am sure you deserve someone far more lovely than me in order to match your beauty.

So, now that I have my apology properly, I most humbly beg that you should send me a letter by David should he see you again.

Robin Brightley 

Nightingale smiled. Robin's letter was more bombastic, with more superfluously impressive language and stuffy diction woven into its sentences, than he was in person. Not only that, she could almost hear his lovely voice in his light sarcasm - in the observation that he loved her, as she knew that could not be the case, Robin was teasing, surely - as she read.

So Nightingale crawled under her bed to where she kept a pen and a bit of paper, things she'd stolen over the years from her clients. She chewed on her pen for a little while before beginning to write. Mimicking his ridiculously lofty tone, she penned with an elegant but slightly messy hand:

My darling Robin,

I understand your reasons, though they make me unhappy. I assure you, I will not try to seduce you again until the unlikely event that I am freed, as I am sure my seductive powers and my beauty would be far too much for you to resist.

That being said, I hope I have your sincerest promise that you will indeed fuck me if I am freed. If you choose not to, I shall be forced to sleep with Clarence, or Michael, or even David, if he would ever have me, and I know how that would infuriate you.

Hoping to see you soon,

Your Nightingale

P.S. I am quite enjoying Pride and Prejudice. You were right when you said David was like Mr. Darcy. He is indeed.

Nightingale had to laugh at the absurd pomposity of the letter she had written. However, pleased with the result of her efforts, she folded the letter up and slipped it into the back of Pride and Prejudice. 

Then, seeing that she had a few hours before she needed to be dressed to please, she opened the book and began to read.

Time slipped away quickly as she devoured the book. Even when she put it aside to get ready, she was still immersed in the world of Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth. When she was waiting behind the Club, she had such a dreamy, ridiculously besotted expression that Sparkle began to laugh at her.

"Who are you and what have you done with cold, sarcastic Nightingale I know and love?" she asked, shaking Nightingale's arm.

Nightingale scowled at her and gave a shove, hard enough to send her skittering back a few steps. 

"Shut up, Sparkle," she growled.

"Ooh," jeered Magenta good-naturedly. "There's the Nightingale we know!"

Nightingale glared at all of them as she made a big show of adjusting her garters. She was trying to act as reserved and cool and cynical as the Nightingale she knew herself to be that when she waltzed out into the Club, she barely noticed the cry that went up from a table at the back.

"Nightingale, Nightingale!" cried a voice.

Recognizing that voice, her head snapped around, and something more sinister than simple little butterflies rammed themselves up against the walls of her stomach.

"Michael," she whispered. Then, a warm smile growing over her face, she made her way over to him, ignoring Mr. Foster, Mr. Kavanagh, and Mr. Delaney, all of whom reached for her and then jeered when she paid them no mind.

"Nightingale," he breathed, as she came to stand before him. He reached out and touched her waist tentatively.

Michael looked no different. His childlike eyes were still wide with pleasure at her presence, his face still full of an innocent, youthful glow. Rationally, Nightingale knew that he ought to look the same. After all, it had only been six days since she'd last seen him. However, it felt like a lifetime, as so much had happened in that span.

"Michael," she said, and immediately dropped onto his lap. She kissed him hard, pushing her mouth against his hungrily. He'd once made her feel bubbly when they'd touched. She needed to know if he could still do that.

She drew back, slightly disappointed. All she got from Michael was a lightly pleasant feeling.

However, he looked blissful. When his eyes finally opened, they were glazed over with pleasure.

Nightingale laughed to see how besotted he was. "Hello, Mr. Castleman," she said, her voice mockingly affectionate. "Happy to see me?"

"Yes," he replied simply, and hugged her tightly. "Where have you been these past few days?"

"With other clients. Though I haven't seen you around here much lately, either," she pointed out, a well-placed pout from her eliciting a very sweet smile from Michael.

"Sorry, Gale. I was busy," he said.

Nightingale slid off his lap and onto the seat next to him. She kept her legs draped over him, however. "And what could be more important than seeing me?" she asked, affecting an air of ridiculous hauteur.

"Nothing, according to me. According to Dr. Stone, a good deal," laughed Michael.

Nightingale's hands clenched at the name, and her eyes flashed. Dr. Stone. That was the head scientist, the man who'd planned and been present at the extraction of every Inamorata in the York Bordello. That was one of the men most responsible for their slavery...

"You work for Dr. Stone?" she asked. Her tone was remarkably light when she said it, a testament to her skills as an actress.

"I do," he said, eyeing her warily. Perhaps her tone had not been as light as she had thought. "Is something the matter, Nightingale?"

She smiled as dazzlingly as she could, and, based on the way Michael smiled gormlessly back, she could tell her smile had indeed been brilliant.

"Nothing at all. I'm very happy you're here," she said, and it was not even a lie. She was happy to see him, not only because she knew he'd be gentle with her body, but also because she knew he was a nice man.

He grinned bashfully, almost a little stupidly. After a moment, he asked, "Did you miss me, Nightingale?"

She smiled and kissed him. Once again, there was a pleasant sensation. When she withdrew, she put one hand on the side of his face and stroked his cheek.

"Yes, I did," she said fervently, nudging her face up against his. "I did, more than you think."

He did not smile, but simply hugged her tightly. As he did, Nightingale felt a stirring of worry but quickly pushed it aside.

"Now, Mr. Castleman," she purred, taking him by the shoulders and holding him at arm's length. "It has been ages since we've seen each other, let's not waste time."

"Do you mean..." he began, seeming too shy to continue the sentence.

She laughed and sprang up. As she had done the first time he'd visited her in the bordello, she took him by the tie. "I mean that we should go back to my room now, Mr. Castleman," she purred, and then led him away.

The moment they got into the room, Nightingale fell upon him, kissing and stroking him. He seemed a little surprised from the way he moved a little stiffly at first, but then he settled in and joined her in her passion.

As he was undressing her, Nightingale fought to keep her focus. As Robin had not let her experiment with him, she needed to test her hypothesis with Michael. And so she needed to focus to try and enjoy herself.

But as Michael kissed her, kissed her belly and her thighs and her mouth and her face, she felt nothing other than gentle warmth. It was nothing like the sensations she got from David or Robin or Clarence.

The feeling of Michael's body was pleasant, was warm and quite nice, but it was nothing like the shocking, fiery feeling Clarence had given her.

"Michael," she moaned, as she knew she was supposed to, though she was not thinking of him.

"Gale," she heard him groan, and she looked up into his face. He was staring down at her, so much affection in his eyes that it made Nightingale a little pained.

When they were done, Michael collapsed back on the bed. Nightingale snuggled up to him, as she knew he wanted her to. Also, she did enjoy his proximity. It was soothing.

"I like you a lot," said Michael bashfully, and kissed the top of her head.

 "I like you, too," she said, and it was not even a lie.

 He sighed and gathered her close into his body. He sighed softly and Nightingale, laying her head on his chest, listened with contentment to the hammering of his heart. As she listened, she grew curious. She knew so little about Michael, and was curious to find out.

And so, with the most winsome of tones, she began.

"Tell me about yourself, Michael," she said, brushing her eyelashes against his skin.

"Why?" he laughed.

"Well, I'm curious. You know everything about me. Tell me something about you," she said, and lifted her head to kiss his sternum.

As it turned out, Michael seemed very happy to share his life story. Nightingale heard about his job, about a few of his friends and about-

"My half-brother, Pierce," said Michael, and he grimaced a little.

Nightingale's ears immediately perked up. "You have a brother?" she enquired gently, bringing to mind her memories of Pierce, who looked a shocking amount like Michael.

"I do. We've got the same father, but different mothers. He was the child of our father and our father's wife. I'm the son of my father's mistress, as archaic as keeping a mistress is," admitted Michael. "Pierce always resented me for that. He's a decent enough man, but he's always resented the fact that I was the product of our father cheating on his mother."

"And do you two not get along?" she asked, swirling a pattern on Michael's chest, causing him to breathe in sharply.

"We get along all right. I don't see him much. He disapproves of my work, I know that. He works for the government in some way, I know, though I've never met his colleagues. He doesn't talk much about his work," said Michael.

Nightingale laughed. Having decided it would be unwise to press Michael anymore, she sat up, straddled him, and kissed him.

As they "went again" - Nightingale could not bring herself to use the word "fuck" for what she and Michael did, it was too genteel - Nightingale was deep in thought. As she moaned along with Michael, she considered him, considered Pierce and, unwittingly, her thoughts drifted to Clarence.

She gave a small smile. If her experiment with Michael wasn't working, and Robin would still refuse her, she'd have to try it with the very man himself.

And though a nagging thought told her sleeping with Clarence was a foolhardy idea, she pushed it away. Even if she never did it, at least she could dream.

After all, dreaming was what had kept her alive all these years.

So with that thought, she laughed, and went about making Michael feel wonderful. With him, after all, it wasn't so bad.