I’ve heard whisper that not every court has a Choosing like ours. That it’s only our prince who hasn’t yet found a woman strong enough to give him the heir he so desires.
For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to be anywhere else but here. If I saved enough coin, could I find my way to one of these other courts?
Would their rulers be just as cruel?
It’s nothing more than a silly daydream to imagine leaving this depressing city behind. I know that, but every season, when a new Choosing begins, I can’t help but indulge myself in the fantasy of leaving and starting a new life somewhere far away from here.
Then reality hits, and I realize that nothing would change. I’d just be working in another tavern in a new city. If I was lucky, which I’m not.
At least here I can be thankful that the wolves have long since lost interest in me. I’m too old to be taken, and, like the red-faced man said earlier, I’m certainly no virgin.
“A round of drinks to celebrate another year of keeping our daughters safe,” a man yells above the din.
“And another year of letting the beasts take our useless girls off our hands,” another adds.
I glare at the man for a second before noticing Mistress Wrotham off to one side of the room. Plastering a smile on my face, I set to work with new fervor as I pour endless drinks for the crowd of men.
To be fair, most are celebrating successfully hiding or otherwise kidding their daughters safe, but the few bad apples among them spoil it for the bunch. I know I shouldn’t be surprised, there are always those who see the Choosing as a chance to save themselves from having to deal with unwanted daughters, but I am.
No girl chosen has ever returned. For all I know, death is the only thing that awaits any human female that finds herself at the mercy of the wolves.
And, from what I’ve heard, it’s not a quick or painless ending either. My blood runs cold at the thought, a shiver running down my spine.
Heartless bastards.
Picking up several mugs of ale, I turn to deposit them amongst the men. I feel their eyes starting to shift to me as I move, but choose to ignore it, as I try to keep pace with Mary as she serves up steaming bowls of stew.
“Shame all the pretty things have been hidden away while the wolves are out prowling our streets,” a balding man complains as I set another round before him.
“If you don’t need them pretty or untouched, there’s still women about to be had.”
The words prick me, but I do my best to ignore them as I try to focus on my work instead. Keeping my head down, I can only hope that they forget that I’m here.
But unlike the streets, I’m unable to melt into the shadows here. Their eyes follow me, and the more they drink, the bolder the men become.
An older man, his hair mostly white, is the first to stretch out a stray hand to run along my hips. Stepping away from him with, I do my best to keep my distance as I change my path through the crowded tables.
My eyes catch on Mary across the room where she’s smiling as she leans into one man’s touch.
I’m not sure how she does it. Unlike me, she almost seems to enjoy their attention. Their words and wandering hands never seem to turn her stomach like they do mine.
Somedays, I want to ask her if she doesn’t know what happens in dark allies to women like us when men decide we exist solely for their pleasure. But I don’t. I’m not looking to hear her story, just as she doesn’t ask to hear mine. Besides, I know she’s far from helpless and probably wouldn’t appreciate my warnings anyway.
“It’s a relief that not all women catch the wolves’ interest,” a man loudly whispers to me as I deliver his ale.
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes at him.
As the ale flows, the men pay more and more attention to me and the other women as we move about. It becomes harder and harder to dodge their hands.
Despite the alcohol slowing their minds, their hands move quicker than ever. My skirts are tugged at, and my apron rumbled. Still, I force a smile on my face as I take their coins and return with even more ale for them.
Their faces flush ever deeper hues of red, and their words slur, but that does little to make them lose interest.And, if anything, they become even more vocal toward me. Some compliment me, while others mutter about what pleasure they could show me given the chance, and a few go so far as to remind me that I should begratefulthat they’re even interested. That I should be thanking my lucky stars that I’m too old,too used, to ever be of any interest to the wolves.
I keep my lips pressed together, my smile having long since slipped, as I just nod along to the endless refuse that pours from their mouths. My participation in their conversations isn’t required, thank the gods.
A hand slaps my backside, and I grit my teeth as I’m forced to remind myself to remain calm … that I need the coin. Another man tugs at my skirts, slurred words that I’m guessing are meant as a compliment are hurled at me.
It takes every ounce of control left in me to ignore the hands and words, to pay no mind to the men as they grow bolder with each drink. Just a few more hours, and then I can slip away from here and into the shadows as they all stagger home to their poor wives.