With his toe, he nudges a bowl across the floor, and a portion of my daily slop oozes over one corner and onto the hardwood. For just an instant, I imagine scooping the bowl off the floor and grinding his nose into the congealed mass of tasteless slop. Let him feel the indignity of being fed and put through his paces like a fucking show pony.
But my fingers only perform an ineffectual flex at my side, instead of the suicidally stupid action I’ve just contemplated. This place isn’t palatial, my role is demeaning, my jailer is an arrogant prick, but I’m under no illusions. I’m better off here than I would be on the streets. That’s the only reason I’ve stayed as long as I have. Because, as shitty as this life is, it’s still better than being homeless in Ascor. I’ll put up with Darius until I can squirrel away enough gold pieces to buy myself a way out of Ascor and a way in to some other city. Any other city, where my face isn’t instantly recognizable as the salacious Snow White.
Darius selects a gauzy, multi-hued dress and tosses it lightly on the bed we share. I stare at it, mouth popping open in indignant surprise. I’ve worn this dress only once before, performing for Prince Achmed, who hailed from a place far, far away. A place called Agrabah in the Anoka Desert. The prince painted a hazy picture of Agrabah while I danced for him that night, dropping each layer of my gauzy drapings, one by one, until I lay mostly bare before him on stage. On the rare occasions I’ve dreamed of escaping, I’ve thought about traveling to Agrabah to find the prince again.
“The Dance of the Seven Veils?” I breathe, too tired to summon true outrage. “You can’t be serious.”
Damn Darius to the blackest regions of the nether realm! I’ve only done this dance once in front of an audience and that was a long time ago. Now he expects me to do it again without any practice, with barely a cup full of oats in my stomach and the fatigue of withdrawal threatening to drag me sideways to the floor? I’ll make a fool of myself and then Darius will punish me for it later.
Darius worms a hand into his coat and dips one finger lightly into the pouch at his belt. It comes away dusted in white, like a baker’s confection. He steps closer to me, offering the digit. I don’t normally like to take it this way, but he’s not leaving me much choice. This is all I’m going to get.
So I take his finger, guide it reverently to my mouth, and slide my tongue along every contour, trying to catch every speck of the priceless powder I can find. The process is over quickly, and my mouth tingles pleasantly as relief swells through me.
“Perform well, and you’ll get more,” Darius promises. “But, if you don’t...”
He lets the statement hang, a sword over my head, waiting to drop. The meaning is very clear.
Failure isn’t an option.
***
I tangle my fingers in the velvet folds of the navy-blue curtain and drag it back a few inches to peer out at the crowd beyond. Male voices overlap, sounding like a rumble of distant thunder. The room is hazy with pipe smoke, the heavy fog of it pressing into my lungs and further tightening my chest.
The number of men who occupy the chairs that ring the small stage staggers me, and I can tell there are still more I can’t make out clearly, arranged at the small tables or standing at the back. How many men are packed into this back room? Fifty? One hundred? I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many men crowded into the Wicked Lyre at one time, even around the annual festival, when spirits run high and men pay their last coin to see the creamy flesh of a nubile, young thing.
Every man in the room is wealthy. If their clothing isn’t a giveaway, their voices would be. Cultured speech, with accents that range from the clipped tones of Grimm, the airy sing-song of a Wonderland noble, or the lilting honeyed tones of a cove-dwelling merchant from the Sea of Delorood.
I let the velvet slide between my fingers, dread settling in the pit of my stomach like a heavy millstone. How the bloody hell am I supposed to pull this off? I’m dizzy already. I’m going to go out there, slide one veil off, and then trip and fall on my face. And that will be the end of poor Neva Valkoinen, the end of Snow White. They’ll find my body in an alleyway, a patchwork of blooming blue and purple bruises, swarmed by the city’s vermin.
Darius’ voice issues from the other side of the curtain, an ugly common accent among the sea of more pleasant voices. The room goes silent when he begins to speak, introducing me to the crowd as he has for years now. Is it four? I think it must be. Gregory died when Darius and I were seventeen. I’m twenty-one now.
And I don’t know what to make of those years. They’re gone and I have nothing to show for them. But nevermind. Thinking about the past only depresses me and my life is depressing enough as it is.
“And now, the main event! The greatest beauty you’ll find in Ascor. Perhaps in all of Fantasia! I give to you, the lovely Snow White!”
The curtains are drawn aside to the sounds of thunderous applause, revealing me in all my dubious glory. I’m bathed in the glow of a thousand twinkling faerie lights
