Domesticity

[Seket]

Frost 121

The morning tended to start late for the brothel, but not for Seket.

Dawn rose, and so did she.

Her footsteps were quiet, as she slipped on her boots. She gathered her dark hair and tied it back with some spare ribbon, fingers pausing when the soft cries of a babe echoed down the hall. Seket opened her door and peering out, staring down the dark hallway while the siren's song echoed in the empty chamber of her heart and filled the shadows. There was a pause, an inhale, and the scream shrilled louder, more demanding. Seket closed her eyes and moved in its direction as if pulled by a siren's song, pausing to knock twice on the door and then entered without hesitation.

Hidden from sight, the baby cried.

Seket looked once at the large bed, a nude woman stretched across the mattress. The harlot's face was obscured by a rat's nest of hair, and she whimpered softly in annoyance from having her sleep disturbed. A beg for silence with fewer words.

Evidence of last night's debauchery laid scattered around the room like remnants of a storm. A wineglass with its rim painted with lip stain, a man's forgotten coat still hanging from the rack. The air was heady, musk tinged with the scent of soured lovemaking.

"He never stops," the woman grumbled, twisting beneath the fur blanket and propping herself up on her elbows, "He just... cries and cries. I swear I thought I'd lose wages last night."

Seket said nothing, looking to the ornate wooden wardrobe, opening the door to see the pale child reaching at the sudden light, his tiny nose red and scrunching, "You should have called for me," she reprimanded firmly, bending down to scoop the babe into her arms. He wore only a nappy, the swaddle having fallen away in the child's fussing and his skin was cold. Seket frowned, drawing the child closer to share her warmth, "He's freezing."

"He shouldn't be. I gave him a blanket last night."

"Well, he is." The room was like ice. Frost had brought a drop in temperatures and no fire was lit yet in the hearth. Seket gathered up the blanket and tried to bundle it around the child, frustrated already by the lack of maternal instincts some of the women in the establishment showed. The rage she felt was growing at the blatant disregard. How could a mother hide her child away like a hidden secret? How could she not seem to care?

"Is he hungry?"

Seket's eyes flashed, but her feet slowed.. The young mother was just that. Young. She nodded reluctantly.

"Bring him here," the harlot smiled, wiping away the sleep from her eyes. She reached for her chest with one hand, massaging her breasts. Her pale nipples were perky in the brisk morning. Milk dribbled down across her flesh, disappearing into the mess of blankets on her lap and she reached for her son, "I should have a little left after last night."

A wash of disgust knotted in her stomach, imagining the men that would perverse motherhood. With a final stroke of the child's head, Seket moved towards the bed and silently wrestled with her own reluctance. With the child passed over,, she hurried towards the fireplace, picking up the logs and positioning it for better aeration. While the cries of the baby silenced, replaced with soft sounds of feeding, Seket worked on getting the fire started, striking sparks with the flint and steel.

[Seket]

Sparks were coaxed to flame, followed by Seket sweeping across the room, gathering soiled clothes and sheets and a half finished tray of hors d'oeuvre, hefting the fabric to the laundry shoot where she would later continue her work. The tray she balanced on her arm, just as the babe finished eating and the mother was wiping his mouth with a silk handkerchief. With barely a word, Seket was handed the baby, which she perched on her hip and began her trek to the kitchens, silverware jostling gently as she made her way down the stairs and to the dining room.

"Seket... There you are," a curvy woman with pointed ears looked up from the table, wearing a dark blazer and a bone ribbed corset with lace lining the top of her ample cleavage. She had red hair, braided tightly across her scalp and wore fitted leggings that accentuated the shape of her hips. She pointed a manicured nail towards the door, "The side door is catching. Something about the floor threshold," Madame Lunaria Zimomei sipped on a steaming mug, jotting something in a leather bound notebook, "The garden needs to be winterized and the clock in the west wing has stopped working. I trust you'll solve these problems by end of day?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Good girl," the woman eyed her, her expression softening over the rim of her coffee mug. As she turned, Madam Zirnome called out one more, "Seket?"

"Yes, Madame?"

There was a pause, "Are you..." there was an uncharacteristic hesitation and her attention fell to the child in her arms, "-well, here?

The real question was unspoken between them.

"Yes, Madame."

"I see... Circumstances, be what they may," Lunaria cleared her throat, hiding the sound by taking a sip of her morning brew. The sentence that followed was stiff, unpracticed, "We're happy to have you home."

Ha.

She meant well, but it was a sharp slap to her pride. This place wasn't her home - that had been taken from her just as her child had been, in an act of horrendous betrayal and the involvement of poison - this place was a gesture of pity. A den of attempted recovery where her skills could be exploited, "Thank you."

"Of course."

Excusing herself, Seket made her way to the kitchen, where she began preparations for breakfast. Few girls were awake so early in the morning, but a few higher paying patrons were allowed to stay overnight, and one of the services allowed at this hour, that very few knew about, (and acquired for a significantly hefty fee), was breakfast in bed. Lighting up the stoves, and gathering her ingredients, she did an inventory stock of the pantry and the icebox, writing a list to be passed along to the Madame, and tied an apron around her waist.

Much like in her shop, she collected her tools and found peace in organizing the workstation. Without expertise or practiced skill in the culinary arts, Seket required order. Instruction, formula, patience, these she understood. Lining up her knives, the infant in her arms flailed, reaching for the sharp instrument, and she dodged his attentions by placing the wire end of a whisk in his chubby fingers. His mouth opened, lip curled like a turtle, and his tongue darted over a row of gums. He tasted the item and drooled.

Seket gathered the eggs.