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An Author's Note:

_A short content-warning to the reader, so that you may be informed. Not all stories are happy ones; this is one such that is not. This story deals heavily with mature themes such as violence of varying natures (including implied sexual violence), as well as touching on topics that are otherwise very sensitive to debate or discuss, such as mysticism, religion, science and their intersections. _

Those who have sensitivity to dark topics may wish to find other reading material; I encourage everyone to do what is best for themselves. Please remain civil to one another, should you decide to leave a comment.

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Chapter One: The Cut Recovery

Little Lizzy's paws were red

Little Lizzy's folks were dead

Little Lizzy gave her Word

Little Lizzy's lie was heard

Found out by Crows, she knew she'd die

They brought a noose, taught her to fly

• Nursery Rhymes for Nippers, circa 1902. Charinthosse.

Theodore Locke wasn't nearly naked because he worked at brothel, but because he didn't want to get the unholy stew from the mop bucket onto his uniform. "I'm not banded for the evening; I'm not going to take the appointment," he grunted. The Wolf shoved the mop deeper into the bucket of tepid water in irritation. The gray brew slopped across the stone floor. The bubbly concoction of pine-scented cleaner, and everything it could have picked up, forced Patricia to take a step back.

She smoothed her apron over her dress as she retreated. Beneath its red fabric, she wore a simple sleeveless black dress built for bar work over the top of a white long-sleeved shirt. She kept her shirt cuffs buttoned to the wrist to maintain an air of elegance. If nothing else, it proved she was excellent with her duties; any lesser barmaid would have been up to her elbows in beer suds and alcoholic stink.

"Theodore, I'm only repeating what I've been told-and that was to fetch you for an appointment," the Leopardess pleaded. She didn't look at him, her gaze instead traveling the front hem of her dress to make sure none of the water got on her. "Please, don't make me gopher between you and the Madame."

Theodore's golden eyes looked her up and down. Nature had been gentle with her spotted pattern, as the black spots on her exposed fur appeared more like accents than the freckled mess that he'd seen on other members of her species. Her tail began to curl around in the face of his silence, and Theodore felt his shoulders fall. He did hate seeing Patricia like this; front of house and the one of only half a dozen barmaids was an impossible task on a good day; and she had management duties besides. "Tell her I'll finish up here, and be up shortly thereafter," he tried to bargain.

"She was very clear that she wanted to see you now," she stressed, smoothing a crease in her dress. "Time is of the essence."

With lowered ears, a growl boiled in Theodore's throat that caused Patricia to take another step into the hallway from the private sitting-room floor. He forced his features to soften, and turned his head away. "So what's changed then?"

"I wouldn't know, Theodore," her soft, sincere voice drifted through the painful silence. "But what I do know is this: she's requested you, run off Ymir for being curious, and won't entertain the thought of anyone else."

Theodore scoffed. "It's because I'm the only gent who'll left-band, probably," he shook his head slowly, staring into the furthest corner of the private bar. "Where's Guthery in all of this?"

Patricia's shoulders straightened and she tilted her head, her chin rising over her right shoulder; Theodore recognized it as her way of combining a head shake for 'don't ask' and a nod for 'you have the right question'. She sucked air through her teeth, confirming his suspicions that the news wasn't good. "That is the topic on the top floor, yes. Guthery's been missing for two days now. Folk have been placing bets on where he was yesterday afternoon but bets stalled when he didn't show up for work this morning," her arms crossed over her stomach, and Patricia's head righted. "The Madame sent a carriage to go find him after he was late; when that came back without Guthery, she asked to see you."

Theodore fell silent. Confusion crossed his face in a display of half-started sentences and twitches of his ears. He used the mop to shove the bucket toward the wall, and leaned the mop's hilt to keep it upright. "He's a shade... tender to be gone for so long with nothing wrong," Theodore tried to match Patricia's diplomatic tone. "Always worried about that- really-"

"Don't be an ass." Her voice dipped as she warned him.

"-I just never understood the gent, is all!" he protested. "He wouldn't take the top if he were paid three times more. There are some folks out there who like the daintier sort in behind'em."

"Please spare me the details?" Her whiskers twitched.

Theodore shrugged. "I'm just saying that there's no point in closing himself off to clientele; plenty of gents out there who want to get stuck just as bad as he did."

Patricia raised paws to her muzzle, her fingers laced over its bridge as she turned her back to Theodore. Her spine was rigid as she turned the corner, striding down a wide hallway; it would take her to a staircase leading upward and away from the escort's antics and to the safety of the howling crowds above. He had to perk his ears to hear her mutter to herself, "The things that come out of your mouth, Theodore Locke. Gods help you with your manners where we failed," and he grinned after her.

"Can you check the reprieves when you go by?" Theodore badgered. "I upturned the furniture in the gent's lounge and found a rat. Care to double check me to make sure nothing got missed?" Patricia waved a paw at the matching set of doors as she strode past them to the final corner of the hallway.

"I'm sure they're fine! You've been cleaning all day," she tried to sound pleasant as she neared the final corner that would take her up the stairs to the main floor of the Silver Ladle. "You're very thorough and we like that about you."

"No questions about the rat?" Theodore feigned offense.

Patricia paused, mere steps away from the safety that her job would afford her. The lights flickered in perfect timing and it brought a grin to Theodore's maw. "Shall I tell Isolde you're practicing your hex work?" He offered.

"I leave the hexing to Isolde, but I would gladly ask for something nice and special just for you," Patricia's sneer was sickly sweet. She was done with his bullshit. "And if she doesn't hex you, I'll be sure I drop some chili oil in your lotions next time you have me deliver them." She turned with a flounce toward the stairs once more.

"I get you to laugh more often than not!" He called after her, following her just far enough to watch the ladybeast disappear around the corner. She paused right before passing out of sight. He had to concentrate, and his ears lifted, but he could hear the telltale inhale that came with Patricia wrinkling her nose at him.

"Madame Sybil. You know where her room is. But first, please put on something more than your shortclothes!" Her voice was louder than it needed to be, but Theodore assumed that was more for her own sake, or to get a chuckle from beasts near the stairs that he couldn't see.

Theodore glanced down at the himself, then back toward Patricia with a nonchalant shrug. He strode down the hallway to press the matter further. Much as he enjoyed being alone, Patricia reacted so well to his jabs. "You know, the Silver Ladle is the only whore house in the docks that doesn't have us run around undressed?"

"Yes, but that's because you're escorts; you sell an evening of company. Sex is just something you do too often with your clients. And we're the only house that caters to foreigners because of it," she said from the base of the stairs. "Now: trousers, Sybil, in that order please!"

"The way you say that makes it sound like it's my attentions that keep dragging folk in from the docks," he responded with a toothy grin. "Is that true, really? Is that why Ymir can't stand me?"

"Oh, yes, that is why she can't bear to be in your company," the lead of house exaggerated a nod while she tromped up the stairs. "The only reason at all! Couldn't be you chasing down your coworkers in naught but your modesties. I am not mincing any more words with you." Patricia called over her shoulder.

Theodore pretended to not hear her, craning his neck to look over his shoulder, then toward his own tail. "Y'know, I've gotten more than a few compliments over the fit-"

"Trousers. Sybil." Patricia's voice tensed as she ascended the staircase. He grinned after her; try to hide it though she may, he could hear the smile in her voice.

She left him in silence and Theodore moseyed his way back down the hall to the private bar. Wooden walls were dotted with paintings in absence of windows; landscape scenes to help ease the claustrophobia of being underground, Ymir had once told him. Plush carpet rolled from the base of the staircase around the corner and down the length of the hallway, stopping just shy of the scaffolding for the private bar's major renovation project.

Theodore did his best to ignore the bile that rose in the back of his throat as he rounded the corner back into the nearly-complete construction site. A shiver tried to claw its way down his spine, but he fought it off.

His chest rose and fell in a calming breath and his eyes traveled the downstairs bar once more. Space wasn't something that Madame Sybil tried to save; rooms large enough for half a dozen egos were the norm for the Ladle, and this was no exception.

Theodore gave a sigh, then pinched the bridge of his muzzle against the memories that rattled around in his mind. The recently-completed expansion involved raising the ceilings and installing an emergency bell; the task of decorating was given to Theodore to help reclaim the space as 'safe' in his mind. It had been a few weeks since several gents couldn't control themselves after enough liquor, and he'd been the one to pay the price. In hindsight, the bell should have been put into place at the start for a dirt-as-sound-proofing subterranean bar and pool.

He'd considered several ideas, but couldn't settle on a motif for a sitting room that was a giant square with a connected private pool. The problem was compounded by the high ceilings and arched beams required to keep the burrowed bar from folding in on itself. Theodore shuddered at the thought as he considered the amount of stone that made up the walls and the sophisticated carvings on the load bearing beams. A once-solid wall that separated the two spaces was replaced, disrupting the previous privacy of the pools with a tasteful fogged glass. Less space for bastards to hide if they wanted to-

He shook his head against the memory, running his tongue over his teeth. The Madame had already given her Word they wouldn't be served again in this establishment. Theodore hadn't heard anything beyond that, however, he also hadn't pried.

She was a beast of her Word and he took comfort in that.

Theodore decided the rest was up to him to be a survivor in his own story, not a victim in theirs. He felt a small blossom of pride in his chest; he had surprised Madame Sybil with the speed of his recovery, even if it was still a work in progress.

"Maybe this is what she wants to talk about?" He wondered to himself as he located and pulled on his trousers, shirt, and vest. Then he shook his head. "No," he reasoned, "she wanted to see me for an appointment."

The thought once again brought an unwilling snarl to his lips, and he brushed it off his muzzle with a palm. His eyes narrowed and shook his head violently. No, he commanded himself. You're past this.

He distracted himself from the wave of nausea in the back of his throat by looking around and taking stock of the private bar once more.

Reserved for the most exclusive clients, this bar was for high rollers who could be squeezed for extra funds, beasts with the best track records, or those with enough coin to reserve it for the night. He and the other staff had joked that the prices for the bar were so high due to how damn difficult it was to keep the space clean, and now he wasn't sure he was wrong.

Theodore put his mop away and crossed the otherwise-empty room. He'd laid his clothes over the scaffolding for what would become the bar that stood guard for a door to the hallway that lead to the wine cellar. His golden eyes turned away from the door with a wince; he planned on having Madame Sybil replace the prison-styled security door with something iron-wrought and fancy. The sales pitch was going to have to be a good one and Theodore doubted 'I got drunk and closed my tail in it twice in one night' would be quite enough.

It was a start.

He let the thought simmer in the forefront of his mind as he slid back into his clothes. Gray trousers, a tan shirt, and a deep red vest were the uniform of the Silver Ladle. Form-fit as they were, the Madame insisted the clothing be eye-catching and leave little to the imagination, all the while pretending to be modest. She'd once explained how there was more money to be made adding mystery to lust and how escort work wasn't whoring, but Theodore hadn't paid much attention.

Theodore dashed down the hallway, then skipped stairs on his way up from the private bar, his ears tucking back against the din of the late-dinner crowd. Even from around the corner, the noise was impressive. By the amount of cheering and off-key yowling, there was some sort of party going on, but Theodore didn't have time to find out what.

Quick as a shot, he was up the switchback staircase to the private rooms above. At the crest of the stairs and to his right stood the only entrance to the bath house, and to his left the hallways to the escort's rooms. Directly ahead was a pathway toward a balcony that led out to a set of hanging gardens maintained by the House Druid, Isolde. He turned a hard left and paused.

The doorway to Madame Sybil's suite was a straight shot forward. The dark oak stood out against the brighter-colored walls. The angular door panels stared forward to be the first thing one saw as they crested the stairs, as if to remind patrons to be on their best behavior. Under normal circumstances it would have made Theodore grin, but the way the door stood open was concerning. He cleared his throat, jogging through the hallway.

One particularly loud giggle from a room could be heard, but Theodore paid it no mind as he passed by the turn that would take him toward the escort's personal rooms.

At a glance, Theodore saw that three of the eight rooms were open. Four doors on either side, with his own being the first on the left, stood in the whoring hallway. Unlike its hotel-style counterparts, the Silver Ladle boasted a set of duplexes. Originally there were five rooms on either side of the hallway, but the Madame had seen the center room removed to create a break; a skilled carpenter could see the scars from the deconstruction. While a few of his clients complained about the decision (several of them insisting that the Ladle would run differently if they were in charge,) its design did serve to make some of the quieter nights escorts had from being interrupted by enthusiastic against-the-wall antics. Theodore never had to worry about so many things, sharing his half of the makeshift duplex with Guthery, so he didn't complain.

The trip down the carpeted walkway didn't feel long enough; Theodore hadn't finished his thoughts before he found himself in front of the Madame's door. Gathering himself just outside, Theodore tugged on his sleeves, making sure the creases in his uniform were--

"Come in, Theodore," Madame Sybil's voice cut through the air as the Wolf darkened the doorway. He ducked his head as he stepped inside, then straightened his back to stand at attention before the Panther.

Flickers from her fireplace cast brilliant streaks of orange glow through inky black fur, accentuating Madame Sybil's sharp features. Theodore's fists clenched in nervous anticipation underneath her gaze, made more intense by the firelight's contrast in her deep emerald eyes. She sat cross-legged in a chair that was built for luxury, at odds with the simple travel dress that Madame Sybil wore.

"You wanted to see me, Madame?" Theodore offered.

"I waited to see you, Theodore," she corrected, her fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. "I know I told Patricia that you need to come immediately; did you lose track of time?" The escort cleared his throat but didn't respond, leaving Madame Sybil to nod. She paused, paws moving from the arms of her chair to fold in her lap. "I am sorry for rushing things," Sybil remarked, her voice tense. "But tonight, situations have changed, and I will need you to pick up a banding."

The Wolf scoffed, his head tilting as he bared teeth in disgust. "What happened to 'when I was ready?'" he demanded. A glower caused him to retreat a half-step.

"Guthery happened, Theodore. Or rather, something happened to Guthery." Theodore's ears lifted with curiosity. Sybil drew a deep breath, then adjusted in her seat. Nearby, a Hyena stirred in the darkness of the room. Theodore recognized Isolde, Madame Sybil's right paw on everything to do with business, but the lady only nodded to Theodore, standing in silent support of Sybil, who spoke again. "He was sentenced this morning. I was in Northern District trying to see what the charges were," announced the Arbiter.

Theodore noticed her glance about the room and took a hint that wasn't offered: he picked up a shawl that snagged Sybil's lingering gaze and offered it to her. She declined with a lifted paw, continuing to explain while he folded the garment and placed it nearby. She dismissed him back to his position near the door with another wave.

"Sentenced for what, if I may?" Theodore asked, his tone soft. Whether or not he understood Guthery was beside the point; the Feline hadn't ever been a bad gent.

Madame Sybil adjusted again. Age came gracefully to any feline, but it was moments like this where the years seemed obvious. "He gave his Word to the Crows, Theodore. And then he was found a liar."

Theodore froze in place. It took him several moments to process the statement. When he was able to bring himself to look, he caught her turning from him to the fire once more.

"So he's going to hang?" The answer to the question felt obvious.

Theodore knew there weren't many rules that Charinthosse enforced; unlike other 'civilized' nations, the city-state's methods of punishment usually ended in death or a public example. While Charinthosse's Justices and Arbiters were adjusting to less extreme methods in their own ways at their own rates, there was still a soft spot for a liar's noose. Chances of that were doubled when the Arbiter's enforcement arms were involved; anonymously selected and maintained, the identity of the Crows were a secret to all but the Arbiters they obeyed.

She nodded. "This evening, and my authority stops at the Northern Ward Gate. I've reached out to a few folks in the Northern Arbitership to see if I'm able to do anything for Guthery. So far, there's been no response; my only hope is that their justice isn't as efficient as ours."

Theodore nodded. "I thought you were an Arbiter?" he asked at length, his head tilting toward the Madame. "Can't you--?"

"I just explained that, Theodore," Sybil snapped. "My authority stops at the ward gate; Guthery lived in the Northern District."

His face scrunched in confusion. "He'd travel that far for work?"

"An hour's carriage ride isn't that far, and it's less if he took the train," Sybil settled back into her chair, finally getting comfortable enough. Theodore grunted in disagreement, but Sybil continued in spite of it. "The docks have always more forgiving than the hills for escort work."

"And yet, we work the Solstice Galas?" replied Theodore, only to bite his tongue. If he could have snapped the words back out of the air, he would have.

"I said more forgiving, not less common," her voice carried a dangerous rumble. "Be that as it may, Guthery has a request tonight that I cannot ignore. You're the only other gent I employ."

Theodore gave a slight exhale, then crossed his arms with as much attitude as he could get away with. "I thought you said I wasn't going back to the bands until I was ready."

"You're an evening companion, Theodore; that doesn't always mean sex," Sybil responded dryly. "Get him drunk. Get him talking. Ask Ymir or Isolde for a sleeping tea; if I cared less about that tonight, I wouldn't bring it up at all."

Theodore's head turned away, and Sybil leaned forward, rising to her feet with the slightest of shakes. The woes of old bones, if Theodore had to guess. "So, for now, I do ask that you leave me be. I only wanted to inform you of your appointment--" Madame Sybil said.

Theodore retreated a step when he felt her paw against his elbow, but he didn't make eye contact with her.

"I'm not thrilled by any of this, and I know that you aren't either," she said. His ears perked at the apologetic edge in the Madame's voice. He'd heard it twice in the three years he'd worked for the Silver Ladle. "But please, forgive me. I wouldn't ask this of you if it weren't deathly important."

"If this client tries right-banding me..." Theodore warned.

"If he tries to put anything under your tail that you don't welcome, you have my permission to gore him in spectacle. I will leave word with the front desk to grant him warning however, that you are not Guthery and won't get special treatment even though he is a regular," Sybil confirmed. "Be a companion for the evening, and an alibi. That is all I ask."

Theodore's ears perked forward. "An alibi?"

The Madame dismissed him with a wave of her paw toward the door. She was using more gestures that her stiff posture should have allowed; that alone told Theodore the toll this was taking on her. "To your appointment, please. You're looking for an Otter gent by the name of Victor DuGall. He is one of Guthery's regulars, but in absence of Guthery and with the specific nature of Victor's tastes, you have the appointment."

"Specific nature of his tastes?" Theodore quoted, raising an eyebrow.

Isolde cleared her throat, but offered nothing else to the conversation. Theodore's eyes darted from between Sybil and her wife. It took him longer than he wanted to admit to connect the dots.

The Wolf grunted. "He has 'victory', 'do' and 'gall' in his name; he sounds like a busy body. I think I hate him already," he groused, but didn't mean it.

Madame Sybil gave him an even rarer smile. "And you have 'the odor' and 'lock' in your name. What does that say of you?" Theodore's eyes narrowed. "Away with you, pup." She motioned toward the door.

"And leave the crone alone with her wife and thoughts?" He tested Sybil with a grin. It vanished beneath her withering glare. "Good night." he squeaked, sliding out of the room.

Sybil was so close on his heels she almost closed the door on his nose. He wouldn't have blamed her if she did.