The next morning, we find ourselves waiting for the skiff that would return the three of us to the Distribution Dock. Joane has offered me to borrow some of her clothing whilst Farah is donned in a Cavanagh servant attire. I tug at the loose shirt that is tucked into a narrow skirt as the skiff approaches the jetty.

Joane's sadness of the previous day has changed into a decisiveness that could break dams. We haven't heard anything of Cecily Boudrot ever since our departure from the library. 

The old man that has managed to arrange the meeting with Joane and Cecily now offers the three of us guidance as we ascend the small bayou boat.

Without looking back, Joane keeps her gaze fixed on the small stream in front of us as the swamp around us awakes. A pelican peers at us in curiosity before his attention gets drawn by a passing fish.

Joane is looking fierce as ever as she descends the skiff and sets foot on the Distribution Dock. Surrounded by all the working men in dark and practical clothing, she seems to illuminate every step she takes. Her pale pink presence doesn't go by unnoticed and a few men even dare to cock her a confused grin.

Without doubt have they heard of the news that Ernest Boudrot had passed away and are wondering how it could be that his only child is now tredding the Dock as if life just goes on.

Farah and I follow silently, aware of the curious stares, and meet up with Joane at the ticket booth. Without even glancing back at the money she throws on the counter, her soft fingers curl around the three simple tickets and she darts away without once looking around.

It is clear that Joane is a leader and it comforts me somewhat that the weight of my shoulders is now shared with two strong women. However, it doesn't ease the fact that I alone am responsible for the ending of this ridiculous search.

Even on the turbulent tram ride back to New Paris, Joane remains stoic. She is almost regally silent. So much, most of the male passengers don't even dare to look in our direction.

"Joane, are you alright?" I care to ask, afraid of the wellbeing of my newest ally. It is getting uncomfortable to be the subject of her cold stare although I doubt she actually sees something with those grim blue eyes.

"Couldn't be better." She manages to let out from between gritted teeth. I frown upon her revelation but don't know what to reply. After all, she has just lost her father and is already on track to find whoever was responsible for it. I am not the one to judge her feelings and musings.

We ride in silence and pass through the thick brick wall that indicates we are approaching the city. Instead of waiting until we reach the Inner City, Joane surprises both Farah and I by standing up as we near that one abandoned tram stop in Quarell Quarter. Not even considering our lack of knowledge, she moves away from our seats as the metal monstrosity is still decreasing speed before it halts completely.

I stumble behind her. Farah follows dutifully behind me.

Once outside, it appears as if we are the only passengers leaving the tram at Quarell Quarter. When I look around, it's not hard to fathom why. The buildings in front of us are on the verge of breaking down, though they aren't as high levelled as the ones in New Paris. They're more shacks than actual houses. Their corrugated iron roofs are dimly reflecting the morning sun. The streets are deserted.

As we continue our way in silence, the inhabitants of Quarell Quarter keep a close eye on us as they peak from behind ramshackled shutters. Some houses aren't even provided with those, so we can easily watch inside the empty rooms with nothing more but dirty cloths hanging on nails and nearly rotten rails. Unease creeps over me.

I want to leave this dreary place behind me as fast as I can. Seeing this poverty, this misery, I can't help but fathom how I can return to my normal life knowing that a rather big part of the city is housed in things that are barely more comfortable than a cardboard box. In Eauville, I never witnessed anything like it.

As we march further into the deserted streets, it gets harder to believe someone actually lives here as we do not encounter another living soul. Surrounded by the depressing grays and browns, Joane's pastel pink outfit seems so out of place. To the people carefully watching us from inside their homes, we must look like royalty.

Sensing my unease, Joane slows down a little so that I can catch up with her. When I quickly glance at Farah, I see that her gaze is focused on our heels as she avoids looking up at the misery of others.

"Don't worry, at this time of day, they don't dare to be seen." Joane explains, seemingly unaware of Farah's struggled attempts not to focus too much on Quarell Quarter.

A door opens on the other side of the dusty street and at least six children tumble down in laughter as they start playing a game of sorts. "Well, at least the adults don't." Joane corrects herself.

"We are safe." She continues, obliviant to the shocked expression on my face. Not for minute since we crossed these streets, did I fear for my own safity. Instead I wondered about these people who refused to show themselves in the early morning light. Joane's remark makes me reconsider the slums we just walked through. It wasn't safe at all to cross it so credulously. People who have nothing, won't stop to take anything.

Before I can give further thought to Quarell Quarter, the buildings around the corner are already rising higher. Their solid brown bricks somehow make a sigh break away. New Paris people are roaming the street, merchants are constructing their stalls and children are running up and down the street, unaware of the fate of the other children a few streets further, in a different zone of the city.

The change in behavior happens so fast, the eery atmosphere of Quarell Quarter almost seems like a blink in an alternate universe.

Although the buildings in front of me are much more grant than the shacks we left behind, they are nothing compared to the Inner City. On a sign, it simply reads:"Welcome to Waterside." to indicate we are neither in Quarell Quarter, neither in the Inner City.

We turn in a street which is visibly smaller than the others. The balconies above our heads nearly touch. The ground floor accommodations house questionable businesses as we pass by vibrant colored velvet curtains more than once. On numerous windows, words and catchphrases are painted in delicate lettering. Next to the door of some of the establishments a row of photographs hangs up next to the doorframe, picturing women in several states of undress.

Joane doesn't hesitate as her eyes are scanning each frame for a certain name that indicates we are one step closer to leaving New Paris' red-light district behind us.

Looking back to see if someone sees us, I nearly crash into Joane as she has stopped in the middle of the road. I turn around to follow her gaze. Garden of Eden, it reads in bright golden lettering.

We are standing in front of one of the bigger buildings in the street. A deep purple door with gold painted doorknobs separates us from whoever we are trying to meet. Vines are climbing up the bricks, twirling around drainpipes and around the curled iron of four simple balconies on both sides of the door. The purple shutters are closed and it seems as if no one is home.

Joane frowns, looking for something to announce her presence with. Finding no means to do so, she raises her fist and quickly knocks on the hard surface of the door. When no one comes to answer our call, Joane repeats the gesture until the door creaks open to reveal a sturdy woman.

"We're closed." The grumpy woman snarls but Joane is quick and places her foot between the door. Although the woman tries to firmly shut it, and the gesture must hurt Joane, Joane is unmoveable. Her face is stern as she reaches for the simple purse she's carrying with her. "We'll pay."

The woman still eyes us angrily, but at least she stops forcing the heavy wood on Joane's heeled foot. Refusing to limp even the slightest, Joane drops her full weight onto the door and nearly barges into the brothel.

Once inside, we can have a proper look at the interior of the Garden of Eden and its matrone.

A hall, painted in a rich purple, similar to the door and shutters, and framed with wooden panels, gives the visitors a warm welcome. Golden details shimmer in the different gadgets displayed on a number of low tables where simple, but comfortable, couches provide a tranquil waiting area as the guests are waiting for their companion. And in the midst of this soft and tender room, stands the matrone. 

She's a sturdy woman. Her bust is barely covered enough to keep it from being displayed. Her arms crossed in front of her bossom, might be its only savior. She's still wearing hair curlers and the remainder of a thick layer of make up is still lingering on her olive toned skin. The flower pattern of her skirt does nothing to hide the robust calves that come together, as if the woman has no ancles, in delicate, fur mules.

Farah and I remain on the background as Joane, unbaffled by the scenery, dugs into her purse and retrieves a staple of bound notes. "This must suffice for one hour of Cilia's time." Joane says as she pushes the money towards the matrone.

The woman licks her finger before she expertly counts the notes. Then she raises her dark outlined eyes towards the three of us. "If the three of you want to enjoy her services, you must pay three times the price." She remarks without hesitating.

Farah immediately steps back. "I will wait here. I do not think it is necessary if I accompany you inside the chambers of the ..." she hesitates for the first time since I've known her. She's clearly thrown off guard by our sudden visit to a brothel. "Miss." She finally, respectfully decides.

The woman throws her an annoyed glare but then returns her attention back to us. Before Joane can say anything, I already reach for the money in the small bag Farah and I brought. Grabbing a similar amount Joane had, I push it into the matrone's warm embrace. 

"I am not leaving you alone with what might be the only clue towards my husband." I whisper to Joane who's about to complain. Instead, she swallows her words and rolls her eyes before we both follow the sturdy woman upstairs.

We walk through a dimly lit corridor. Pictures of a beautiful garden follow us as we go, showing off different parts of paradise. On the bottom of the paintings, a snake follows us until we reach the purple painted door at the end. The matrone rapidly knocks and goes inside, leaving the two of us all by ourselves in the hallway of the Garden of Eden.

I stretch my neck as I observe Joane's stoic posture. She's clutching her purse with both hands but not a single sign of nerves is showing. "You didn't have to come." She breaks the silence as we're both waiting.

"We are looking for my husband, aren't we?" I reasoned, refocusing on the wood in front of us. From behind the surface the mumbling voice of the matrone and another woman can be vaguely heard.

"We're avenging my father, aren't we?" Joane objected right before the door swung open.

The matrone casts one look back inside the room before she turns towards us, "She's ready for your company." The woman says with a suggestive grin that pulls at the corner of her full pout.

Almost immediately, Joane dashes inside the room, leaving me to quickly follow her. We first enter a private hallway with two bows illuminating the obscured parts of the hall. We make our way through them and are met by the private chambers of one of the more professional brothels in Waterside. Its warm golden wallpaper contrasts with the deep red bedding. A balcony overlooks the street we just abandoned but my attention is pulled towards the figure sitting perched up onto the chair longue in front of it.

With her straight posture, she nearly looks like an actress except for the lack of appropriate clothing. A luxurious piece of lace is draped around her curves, hugging the woman tightly as if it is a second skin. She crosses her legs, daringly observing the two women entering her chambers. Surprise crosses her face as the woman vaguely remembers Joane.

"Well, if that isn't Joane Boudrot gracing my chambers." The woman says. Her vibrant red lips pull the attention away from her dark brown eyes that linger over our appearances. She stands up and sways her way towards us.

Even Joane, who's always the image of calmth and silence, stops in the middle of the room and watches the red haired seductress walk towards us. In those little five steps, the woman shows more grace and desire than I have ever witnessed.

Joane observes her with her blue eyes turned to slits. "Leave the act, Cilia, we're not here for your services." She suddenly states, her rough words shaking the three of us back to reality.

To this remark, Cilia casually shrugs and struts further to sit down on her perfectly made bed. "I wouldn't have been surprised to offer you..." she looks from underneath her thick lashes to Joane "my services. One can never suspect the desires and wishes of her costumers."

Almost immediately after that statement, the room seems nothing more but a room and not a secret hideaway to live a night filled with passion. "But enlighten me, Joane, then why do you come to visit me here?" She cocks an eyebrow towards the Boudrot daughter.

Instead of answering directly to her question, Joane wraps her fingers around my wrist and shoves me almost immediately in front of Cilia. With rised eyebrows, she observes me. Joane continues to talk next to me.

"This is Annabelle Whitacre." She starts. Cilia throws her a knowing look but doesn't react any more. "Reed is kidnapped and my father is killed." Joane continues matter of factly, not a single sign of emotion hidden underneath her words.

"My condolences, I hadn't heard the news yet." Cilia manages to get in between the stream of facts Joane is throwing at her, catching the Boudrot daughter off guard.

After a silent stare, Joane speaks up again "We have reason to believe that your parents are involved. We need a way to confront them, make them confess at least who they are working with because the Guards are of no help. Reed's fate is depending on us. We don't want any more deaths because of your family." Joane says.

I hold my breath at the vengeful tone she carries. Accussing ones family of such foul things, with no possible mistake of intent, could blew our entire advantage that the Drysdales are still unaware of our knowledge about their corporation in two murders and a kidnapping.

Surprise strikes me when Cilia lifts a delicate fingers to her lips and can't help but break out into a vibrant red smile.

"It will be my pleasure."