Chapter 5. Author's note: yes, the title's long. Yes, I'm keeping it. Yes, they are all significant titles thus far.

"Nightingale, you brilliant little slut," said Bobby, bursting into the room. Nightingale tossed Cyrano de Bergerac under the bed. She'd been teaching Rose to read French as a distraction from the events of the past evening. The two women stared up at him.

"Thanks, Bobby," purred Nightingale, stretching like a cat.

"She's a good example for you," he snapped at Rose. "Her client last night must have been really happy. There's already another man requesting her."

"What?" said Nightingale. That was unheard of. Never had she had a client request her so early in the morning.

"You heard me, you sexy thing," said Bobby, grinning. "And his deposit was even heftier than Mr. Castleman's."

Nightingale felt worry knot itself in her stomach. "What?" she gasped. "Not...Mr. Castleman?"

"His down payment just wasn't good enough the calibre of my Nightingale," laughed Bobby. "So I went with this new guy instead. Apparently he's never been to the bordello, but he's already requesting you." He flopped on the bed and looked at Nightingale proudly.

Nightingale turned her face away so that he wouldn't see her disgust at his pride. It wasn't a doting, affectionate pride, but one of smug self-satisfaction. However, the worry continued to twist upon itself, knotting and unknotting as she thought about Michael.

"Did you tell Mr. Castleman that he wouldn't be seeing me tonight?" she asked, looking back at Bobby.

"No. He'll just have to content himself with another girl when he comes, though," said Bobby.

"Could I tell him myself, then, Bobby?" asked Nightingale in her most winsome voice.

"You will the fuck not, you dumb slut!" he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. "If you weren't such a hit you'd pay for a stupid question like that! If you cancel, he won't come. And besides, Mr. Beckett has already requested that you meet him alone in the Red Room."

"Not the Club?" asked Nightingale. Her heart began to flutter with nervousness as she realized what would happen. Michael would show up, expecting to see her, and be told that she'd already been taken. Sparkle's story came back to her as she shuddered.

"No. He wants to see you alone," said Bobby.

Rose's eyes darted between Bobby and Nightingale nervously as Nightingale tried to smooth her expression into one of nonchalance.

"Well, get ready," said Bobby. He glanced as his watch, an antique timepiece from the early twenty-first century. "It's only a few hours until we open." He jumped up off the bed, pausing at the door. "Oh, and find someone to teach Rose."

Nightingale nodded as he departed, a bounce in his step as he whistled his way down the hallway.

"Oh, Gale, Sparkle told me about Mr. Castleman. What are you going to do?" asked Rose.

Nightingale smiled suddenly. She'd had an idea. "That's what you're for, Rosie," she said.

Rose gave her a blank look. "What?" she asked.

Nightingale smiled again, pleased at her own cleverness. "You delivered Michael a drink last night. A Belladonna. You remember him, right?"

Rose nodded, her wide blue eyes serious. "Yes. He was polite," she said, smiling slightly. "He was very nice, I thought."

"You'd be able to recognize him again tonight, wouldn't you?" said Nightingale.

Rose nodded, her eyes lighting up. She seemed to suddenly understand what Nightingale was getting at.

"Then take him a message from me. Tell him this: 'the Thane of Fife had a wife, where is she now?'" Nightingale gripped Rose's forearm very hard in her hand, staring intently into her face. "It's crucial that you tell him exactly those words. If he asks you what it means, tell him a little bird told you to say that, okay?"

Rose nodded. "Okay. But what do you mean by it? What does it mean?"

"He'll understand," Nightingale assured her, patting her arm. "Now, what do you tell him?"

"'The Thane of Fife had a wife, where is she now?' repeated Rose dutifully. Nightingale had to smile at how her deliberate voice made the verse into pure poetry.

"And who told you to say that?" asked Nightingale slowly.

"A little bird," said Rose. Recognition dawned on her face as she said it. "Oh. You're the little bird, aren't you, Nightingale?"

Nightingale had to laugh. "You've got it," she commended, smiling warmly. "And if you get it, Michael's sure to. Now off you go, Rosie. Go see Sparkle. Explain the situation to her and she'll tutor you tonight."

Rose moaned softly, closing her eyes. She covered her face, shuddering. Nightingale leaned forward and rubbed Rose's shoulder comfortingly.

"Rose, you'll be fine. Just do exactly what you did last night, and you'll be fine," said Nightingale, trying to make her voice as soothing as she could. She hoped she was a good enough actress to cover up the bald-faced lie she was telling Rose. Rose wouldn't be fine. No Inamorata ever was.

Rose nodded and stood with trembling legs. She took a deep breath that seemed to reach all the way to the tips of her toes before she turned to leave.

"Nightingale?" she asked, hesitating, her body twisting with anxiousness.

"Yes?" said Nightingale. She'd gotten up, too, and was seating herself at her vanity, ready to tidy herself to see this Mr. Beckett. His situation was rather curious - she'd never heard his name in the bordello before, and yet he was requesting her in a way even her regulars never did.

"Nightingale, how do you manage?" asked Rose.

"What do you mean?" asked Nightingale. She'd busied herself with her hair and was putting it up with multitudes of sparkly clips. She could see Rose's worried face in the mirror.

"How do you cope? How do you cope with this whole thing?" asked Rose. Nightingale didn't turn, bowing her head. Rather than hearing Rose's voice become tearful, as she expected it to, she heard it fill with anger. "How do you cope with having to parade yourself shamelessly? How do you allow men to do whatever they want to you? How to you take the beatings, Nightingale?" Rose's voice had risen and she was very near shouting.

"Rose," she started, getting up and going to comfort her.

"No! Answer me! How do you cope, Gale? Tell me!" she yelled, pushing Nightingale away. With her red hair swinging about her face and her eyes wide with hysteria, she looked quite mad. "You're always so calm, it's like it doesn't even affect you! How do you do it?"

"Rose," she said quietly. Nightingale tried to embrace her, but Rose pushed her away again, starting to sob. "Rose."

Eventually, Rose crept into Nightingale's arms and began to weep bitterly onto her shoulder. Nightingale tried her best to soothe her, making sympathetic sounds and rubbing her back, but Rose continued to howl.

"Don't make me go out there alone," Rose pleaded, her voice catching with panic. "Please, Nightingale, come with me!"

Nightingale realized with a flash why Rose was so upset. She'd seen this happen many times before. Rose had only been alive a few days - she was practically still an infant. And every infant needed a mother. Inamoratas, out of sheer human instinct, often bonded to their mentor as a child would bond to its parent.

She heaved a sigh and forced Rose away, holding her at arm's length. "Rose, I'm not your mother," she said, enunciating her words carefully, trying to make Rose understand.

"I've never had a mother," said Rose, hiccoughing.

"Exactly. It's only instinctual that you would cling to me - I'm only person who's helped you in your short life. But I'm not your mother, Rosie. I'd like to be, but I'm not," said Nightingale sadly.

Rose gasped softly and began to cry again. Nightingale glanced at the digital clock on the wall. It was getting close to opening time.

"Listen, Rose, you have to go and get ready," she said, trying to push Rose towards the door.

"I can't," said Rose. "Don't make me."

Nightingale gave another sigh. "You wanted to know how I cope, Rose?" she asked, her voice ancient in its weariness.

Rose immediately stopped crying, her eyes wide, evidently eager to learn Nightingale's great secret.

Nightingale wondered how a person could sigh so much as another one racked her, charged with sorrow. "I don't," she said simply. Rose began to whimper but Nightingale cut her off. "I don't cope. I'm a wreck, Rose. I might look like I'm not, but I am. But do you know what keeps me going?"

"What?" asked Rose. Her eyes were wide with hope. Nightingale hated to shatter it, but she had to. Rose had to understand what an Inamorata could expect from life - nothing.

"The idea that I have to keep going. I have to do what Bobby tells me. I have no choice. I have to fuck whoever he wants me to, I have no choice. I have to go out into the Club night after night, and sell myself to the clients, I have no choice," said Nightingale. "And nothing's going to change that. So do it because you have to, Rose."

Rose nodded. "Are you ever happy, Nightingale?" she asked after a pause. Her voice was timid, as though she were afraid of the answer. Nightingale couldn't really blame her - she'd only gotten harsh words from Nightingale so far.

Nightingale smiled. "Occasionally," she said.

"Really?" said Rose. Her eyes lit up with hope. "When?"

Nightingale's smile grew. "I was happy when I was teaching you French, Rose. I was happy."

Rose smiled brilliantly. "Good," she said, and her voice had some light in it.

"Now go!" said Nightingale, shooing her out the door. "Or you'll make us both late!"

 As she dressed, Nightingale's mind drifted back to her conversation with Rose. She gave yet another heavy sigh. She hated to think what would happen when Rose had to take that red ribbon off for the first time...

She shuddered violently and the stocking that she was slipping over one leg ripped in her hand. She closed her eyes and shook her head. It was no good to think of her first clients. It was behind her. Her past.

When Nightingale finally made it out her room, dressed and ready, she found Bobby in the hall waiting for her. Mystified that he had not simply barged in, given her a taste of the back of his hand, and told her to hurry, she looked at him curiously.

"Thanks for waiting," she teased.

He smiled. "Mr. Beckett's new. So I'm going to deliver you in person."

Nightingale sneered at the word "deliver". But she supposed that was how Bobby saw her - as an object, not a person.

"He's new?" she asked carefully, trying not to push her luck with Bobby. Sometimes he would answer any question she asked, out of magnanimous cheerfulness, and sometimes he'd give her a good kick and ask her why she was so goddamned mouthy.

But he seemed to be in a good mood because he answered. "Yep. He's never been here before. But he knew exactly which girl to request," he said, winking at Nightingale.

She felt disgusted as she realized it was meant to be a compliment. So she smiled and pecked Bobby's mouth quickly and tantalizingly. "You're too nice to me," she whispered, batting her eyelashes.

Her own behaviour nearly made her sick, but it had the opposite effect on Bobby. He moaned and grabbed her by the waist, dragging her hips against. "God, Nightingale, why do you always have to do that when you have to see a client?" he groaned. By the way he stiffened against her, she could tell he was aroused.

"Perhaps I use you to see what will make my client happy," suggested Nightingale, wishing the could punch the nasty little thing that was pushing impatiently against her.

Bobby laughed. By this time they'd arrived at the Red Room and he waited by the door.

"Ready, Nightingale?" he asked.

"What a stupid question," she mocked, careful to make sure that he knew she wasn't actually insulting him. "Isn't it obvious that I'm ready?"

Bobby laughed and the door opened. "Here she is, all for your enjoyment, Mr. Beckett," he announced.

Nightingale stepped in and was immediately shocked into silence by the man she saw lounging at the small table in the Red Room. Likely in his late forties, he was nevertheless attractive. His high cheekbones and fine bone structure lent him a haughty, aristocratic air, something that was only accentuated by the way he was perched in his chair, looking lazy.

But it was not this that made her words twist and die in her throat. It was the coldness in his eyes. They were sharp and frigid, like ice. But when he fixed his gaze upon her, she saw warmth suddenly spring up in them.

He raised one eyebrow at Nightingale's muteness. "Well," he said. "You can go," he added to Bobby.

Nightingale had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from smiling with pure, vicious joy at hearing Bobby spoken to like that. She'd never heard anyone be rude to him before, not even the clients. Just how rich was this Mr. Beckett, that he could afford to speak to Bobby like that?

Bobby withdrew and Nightingale approached Mr. Beckett.

"Hello-" she began in a purring, seductive tone, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"Does he have cameras in here? Microphones?" he asked.

Nightingale jerked back, surprised. "What? No," she said, feeling flustered. "Bobby has a strict confidentiality policy. Unlike many bordello owners, he won't keep any evidence of your visit."

"So no one can hear us?" pressed Mr. Beckett.

"No. The doors and walls are soundproof," said Nightingale. Tentatively, she sat down across from him. He regarded her with his cold eyes.

"Then you ought to know that I'm not interested in having sex with you," he said bluntly.

Now Nightingale jumped like someone had shocked her. She was confused. What did he mean? That was the only reason men came to the bordello!

Her confusion must have shown on her face because he smiled slightly and said:

"I'm Detective David Beckett, and I'm investigating the legality and morality of the Inamorata business," he said. As he said it, he removed a badge from his pocket.

Nightingale's jaw nearly dropped off its hinges. She could not remember any other time in her life when something had disarmed her so absolutely. She reeled back in disbelief, astounded at what she'd heard.

"What?" she whispered, clutching at the badge. He wasn't lying.

He sighed and leaned forward. "You see, Nightingale - that is your name, isn't it?" he asked. When she nodded, he continued. "The government of the Continent has, for some time, been concerned that the Inamorata business was far more ethically dubious than it once seemed. It was only allowed in the beginning for one reason: that Inamoratas have no emotions, and so are nothing more than animals."

Nightingale opened her mouth to give a cry of outrage but Detective Beckett silenced her with a swipe of his hand.

"When there came the suspicion that Inamoratas were more human than anyone had anticipated, the Government kept quiet. Do you want to know why?" asked Beckett. He'd leaned even closer.

Nightingale raised her eyebrows, sure of the reason. "Because taxation of the bordellos is so infinitely profitable?" she guessed, her voice scornful.

Beckett cracked a smile. "You're very clever," he said. "But yes, that's true. You've no idea how much the Government makes from each Inamorata."

"From each Inamorata's slavery, you mean," retorted Nightingale.

Beckett nodded, seemingly unaffected by her bitterness. "Even the most moral of all people could ignore the suffering of a few, seeing how much good we could do with the tax money. Build hospitals. Cure starvation. Save lives. All on the backs of a few thousand artificially-created, sub-humans who may or may not have feelings," he said. He seemed to anticipate her outrage, this time, and once again waved his hand to quiet her. "But it became obvious quickly that Inamoratas are, arguably, people. With feelings. Emotions. And that's why I'm here."

Nightingale was silent for a moment, barely able to process the wave of paradigm-shifting information that had just flooded over her. When she was able to speak, she asked:

"So, I'm to be the determining factor? You'll see if I have emotions? And what if I do?"

Beckett gave a sigh not unlike the many that Nightingale had earlier. "I'll spend some time with you, Nightingale. Do some investigating. See how you think and how you feel. I'll also need to see how you live - what your daily routine is."

"I could tell you what my daily routine is right now," said Nightingale scornfully. "But I think it would offend your delicate ears."

Beckett sighed again. "Can I take it that you'll cooperate?" he asked.

Nightingale paused. "Well I don't really have a choice, do I?"

Beckett smiled. "Ah, but that's the joy of it, Nightingale. You do have a choice. You can choose to send me away, send me to another Inamorata. But I chose you for a reason - you're human. The best and brightest example of what is human in this place, I'm told."

"And who told you that?" sneered Nightingale.

"My source asked to remain anonymous. Will you help me, Nightingale?" asked Beckett.

Nightingale nodded. "I will."

They stared at each other for a moment, Nightingale appraising Beckett as he appeared to be giving the once-over. Then, in a careful voice, staring directly at her, he said:

"And when the stars threw down their spears, and watered heaven with their tears, did He smile, his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?"

Nightingale gave him a look of veiled doubtfulness. He laughed softly.

"I am told you like books?" he said. When she continued to eye him warily, he lifted something onto the table that had been sitting on his lap. "Read this. You'll understand what I meant by it. Also, think of it as a little present. A goodwill offering, to show my pure intentions."

"Who told you that?" she asked, taking the book from the table. She didn't want to show Beckett how thrilled she was by his present. She looked over it, first examining its cover, where it proclaimed that it was Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake, and then flicking through it to see that it was an anthology of poems.

"I'm sorry, I really can't say," he said. "Now, may we begin?"

"Yes," she said, nodding gravely. She felt her stomach twist with nervousness - something she hadn't felt in a long time.