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She's quickly drawing closed the already-short gap dividing us and there-- nestled in the bosom of an expensive doorway-- she kisses me.

It's quick. It involves minimal contact. It is natural and sensual and it doesn't involve pain... and it wasn't initiated by me.

"Oh." It is half-sigh-of-pleasure and half-spoken-with-surprise. The wind is knocked out of my lungs and the wit is knocked out of my tongue.

The word is softer and more indecisive than I like, so I heel-turn out of the expensive doorway quicker than most satisfied men leave me house.

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The swirling thoughts of his almost womanly-soft fingers clutching my wrist begin to dissipate into nothingness the longer I look into her sparkling eyes.

I consider that, where there is ice in my brother, there is firey passion in the harlot.

And, oh, how she was so victorious and honorable!

I respect and admire her rose-hued lips, constantly twitching from smile to frown, processing a deep well of emotions I imagine to include sadness, fear, disgust, love, hurt, amusement, and victory.

It's suddenly as if I'm being propelled forward towards Nance by an invisble gust of wind at my back.

She registers my approach but does not move to stop me.

Suddenly we're connecting in a way that I never thought I deserved before Charlotte; a way that I never thought I would again experience.

It's brief. I'm just as startled as she. I pull back as she begins to bow away, but not before she murmurs, "Oh."

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It's times like this I wish I were even smaller in stature than I am, so that I can slink away like the hurt pup I've become.

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It's times like this I wish I were bolder than I am. How I wish the moment lasted longer, so as not to be mistaken for a simple friendly kiss as thanks for a heroic effort.

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I enjoy the brisk walk home, regretting that swine like Blayne instead ride in carriages toted by men whose sullen, sunken faces contrast madly with the royalty they haul.

How I wish I could encounter him once more-- this time in a darkened, filthy, stinking alleyway. Wouldn't want to have offended the lady by decimating her brother in the expensive doorway.

I showed restraint.

But I'm energized by the slap.

The need to THINK more about Maggie's massive cock-up this past fortnight makes my belly twist for a cull in a way I'd resolved to end.

I keep thinking back to that moment; the first time I bared my soul to Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam. In her drawing room, moments after Charlotte's death, when I categorised harlots as indecent people.

I said it to separate the likes of Fitzwilliam and myself, but the lady's purest reaction of wanting a proper burial service for her lover further solidified her belonging in the fragile, sinewy web that holds my people together.

---

I retire to my bedroom where I can perch at the edge of a fine duvet unsullied by memories of anyone's body but Charlotte's pressing against mine.

For the first time in a fortnight, the name that once brought me joy but had since brought me sadness again brings a smile to my face.

It's a smile not entirely devoid of hurt and sadness, but there is a reconciliation that has not yet existed until this contended moment.

Nancy Birch never mastered the game of loving men-- by choice or circumstance, she is resolved to a life on the outside of the male-driven universe.

But oh, her ways with the fairer, more delicate hearts among her!

She's strong in a way dear Charlotte merely feigned.

She's loyal and brave in a way Margaret Wells merely desired.

Her longing glances at the elder Wells woman were not lost on me. But did I catch a glimpse of that same longing in those blue eyes earlier?

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I was fourteen years old when my brother violated me for the first time. What a cursed honor it is to be his sister.

Many girls encounter Blayne for a brief period of hellish nights. Few girls encounter him for a brief period, and then their existence ceases. He cannot, however, sacrifice the lamb in whose veins his blood courses.

So I live.

Forever destined to be the first and last experimentation in the horrors that can be bestowed upon women.

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I was twelve years old when Lydia Quigley plucked me from the workhouse and began scrubbing away at my pride like a deranged washerwoman.

Many girls were ruined by Quigley, but few had the honor of being stand-in molly boy or a target at which to aim man's cruellest, basest carnal desires.

While I will never again lie with a man by my own will, I am forever trapped in a web woven by a cursed woman so many years ago. I've done what I can with it, though, and I've mostly moved past it.

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Nance is a curious creature; simultaneously elusive and ever-present. Always useful and always used in a time of crisis by those lucky few comprising her inner circle. Yet always unaccepting of offers of similar aid.

When our eyes lock for just a beat longer than they should, I've time enough to study the years of use (and, deeper, on those especially long glances-- abuse) slightly dampening the sparkle.

She clearly loves Margaret Wells, but I wonder if perhaps she harbors similar feelings towards me.

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Isabella is the most honest, trusting lamb on which I've ever laid me eyes. I can read her every thought before she's felt it. I detest that she trusts me so freely and readily.

I'm accustomed to a city of girls who are in an ever-present state of flux due to pox, thievery, disease, hunger, and scoundrels like Blayne.
Girls who can trust nobody fully but themselves.
Girls like Margaret and Charlotte and Lucy and Fannie.
Girls whose trust and love never quite stretches outside of their own aura.
Girls who recover quickly because they've no other choice.

I think I'm most unnerved at the genuineness of Isabella's hurt, fear, trust, and need. She's time to feel so deeply due only to her standing in life. I can never be what she needs. I'm not equipped to feel real love.