The Garden of Virtue & Vice Ch. 01

It was a thunderingly beautiful experience -- voluptuous, sexual, dangerous, and expensive as hell. -Kurt Vonnegut

The Auctionhouse stood out in Cimmeria's slums like a candle in a darkened room filled with staring eyes. Fingers of light from the lamp sconces, and out the dirty windows shone and wobbled through the thick smog. Each time the large double doors opened, the sounds of laughter, music, moans, and screams spilled out into the narrow streets, only to fade back into a dull hum when they slammed closed.

From the kitchen vents, scents of exotic spices from Sarabanda mixed with the coppery tang of blood to turn the stomachs of those who passed by, forcing them to wonder if their discomfort was out of disgust or hunger.

Some swerved towards the doors, lured into the Auctionhouse and the wonders held within. Most hurried their step, cursing the bad luck that took them scurrying passed that accursed place.

I stood frozen on the sidewalk across the street from a small back entrance. A single flickering lantern hung above it, swaying in the wind as it blew autumn leaves and stray trash along the cobblestones. My fingers clenched around the wrinkled paper of the advertisement.

Was I really doing this?

It wasn't too late to turn back and run home. If I was quick, I might even beat the constable. If I hid in the attic...

No. Kate had seen me holding the knife, and she had run to get the police. Sure, a judge might believe me over the word of a servant girl, but his mother wouldn't. Kate had been with the Rocca family far longer than I had, and Mrs. Rocca already had reason to dislike me. Even if Kate hadn't walked in on me mid-crime, the merest suspicion would ruin me.

Not that it would matter, because I definitely wouldn't survive to a trial. I had known the Roccas were into some shady business back when Giacomo and I were still in love enough that I didn't care. Over the last few months, however, it had become clear that 'shady business' was a considerable understatement.

It wouldn't surprise me if Mrs. Rocca had already ordered a hit on me.

That was the thought that broke me from my stupor enough to cross the street. Distracted, I had to swerve out from under the wheels of a bicycle rickshaw trundling past. I caught a brief glimpse of a woman in a peacock blue and green silk dress and jaunty hat laughing as a man disappeared beneath her voluminous skirts. She lifted a long metal pipe to her painted red lips, and for the briefest of seconds, our eyes caught.

In those whiskey and opium-dulled depths, I saw the creature I had glimpsed in the mirror last night while Giacomo dragged me to his bedroom. Not much else of the night was clear, but that moment remained embedded in my corneas like the afterimage of a photographer's flash.

How had things gotten so out of hand?

The back door to the Auctionhouse had a sign on the door.

Always Buying.

Always Open.

Always Hiring.

I stuffed the advert in the pocket of the oversized coat I wore over my wrinkled and blood-soaked gown. It was Giacomo's coat. I hadn't been paying attention when I ran from the house, but now I wish I had. My jacket had included my wallet.

Nothing for it. I could never go back.

My hand shook as I raised it to pull the doorbell cord. I jumped at the loud clang, then jumped again as the door opened as though someone had been waiting right behind it. No one was there. The hall was dark other than a thin line of flickering incandescent bulbs directly above arrows on the floor in peeling white paint.

Lifting the mud-stained hem of dress and petticoats, I stepped over the threshold. "Hello?"

No one answered. I walked forward a few feet, and the door creaked closed behind me. Inside, a matching sign read.

Welcome to the Auctionhouse, Victoria.

I jumped. How did the sign have my name on it? I had heard the rumors that this place was more than met the eye, but I had been here just the night before. Like the hundreds of times prior, I had socialized, danced, played games. There had been danger and intrigue, but from the other socialites, not the Auctionhouse itself. Seeing my name carved into the wood, paint chipping with age as though it had been here for decades, was creepy even by the standards I had grown used to with Giacomo.

I reached for the door handle. Nothing. I tried again, fumbling around in the dark where the handle should be, but there was nothing other than smooth wood. Not even a keyhole.

"Excuse me? I made a mistake. I'm not supposed to be here." My voice bounced off the walls of the long corridor. No answer came.

I looked around for something to jam in the crack between the door and the frame to force it open, but the hallway was bare. Even the sign was screwed in tight.

"Damn it," I exclaimed under my breath. This was what I deserved for panicking and running to the Auctionhouse of all places. It was idiotic, except... where else could I possibly go to be safe from the Rocca family now that I had stuck a knife through the lung of their sole heir?

I wasn't even technically sure that the Auctioneer actually had the power to keep me safe or that he would be willing to. Stupid! I should have listened to my sister when she said never to get involved with Giacomo.

Seeing no other choice, I turned away from the door. The lights flickered in time to a muffled throbbing beat. The distant sounds of laughter and vibrations of people walking on the floor above carried through the walls and ceiling. My own feet were bare and freezing. That was for the best. If they were not numb from the cold, they might have registered the nicks and bruises I had gathered walking through the nighttime streets of Cimmeria.

The hallway seemed to go on forever, curving and branching off in dozens of directions. I followed the arrows, though every time I passed an intersection, I craned my neck to spot any sign of another person. If I could only find one of the staff, maybe they could tell me how to get out of here. Alternatively, how to never leave. I still wasn't sure which scared me more.

A clattering and clinking heralded my lucky break. A woman hurtled down a side corridor, holding a tray of empty drink glasses. She was pretty and curvy, with bright blond hair up in a deliberately messy do and dressed in the tight trousers and fitted jacket most of the employees of the Auctionhouse wore.

"Ah, excuse me," I began.

She interrupted, blowing right past me. "Can't talk. The Count of Morell is out of olives for his drink, and lot 5,699 is next up. Just follow the arrows."

"But," I spluttered. She was already gone.

I considered trailing her, assuming I would eventually end up in a kitchen, but then what? The Auctionhouse rules were clear: no patrons in the back. If I wasn't here to get a job, then that made me a patron. Even if it was a misunderstanding, I couldn't afford both superpowers in the city disliking me.

I continued on. The Auctionhouse took up a whole city block, but it felt as though I walked for much longer than that. I was horribly turned around, having gone up many staircases and down perhaps even more. After so many turns and without a single window, I didn't know what direction I was facing when I stopped in front of a large door labeled simply: Recruitment.

Taking a deep breath, I raised my hand and knocked.

"Come in, Victoria," a deep, masculine voice said, as my knock still rang in the air. I gulped but pushed the door open. The office within was impeccably neat, but dust motes hung in the still air. The only light came from a lamp on the desk, pointed to illuminate a single piece of paper and a pen. A man sat behind the desk, white-gloved hands resting on the smooth mahogany, and face completely shadowed.

"Ah, hello, Sir. I don't know if I'm in the right place. Is this where I talk to someone about a job?" I asked, voice as tremulous as my racing pulse.

"Take a seat; I have been expecting you," he replied, gesturing to the hard-backed chair.

I stepped forward, fighting hard to cross the threshold. The office was large enough that it felt like a mile-long walk, even though it was a dozen steps in truth. Carved wood designs dug into my back as I sat down, spine straight, and doing my best to regain what shreds of composure I still had. "May I ask your name?"

I wasn't sure, but I thought I could glimpse crimson lips twisting up in a smile deep in the shadows. "You may call me Mr. White. I am here to explain the rules of the Auctionhouse to you. Shall we begin?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

Mr. White's ruby-red lips turned up in a smile, and he leaned forward. He wore an impeccably neat black suit and a white mask covering the top half of his face. White gloves adorned his long fingered hands, and what little I could see of his eyes were bloodshot. "At the Auctionhouse, we have three rules of employment. First, everyone here works their way up from the bottom. You will be offered the next available entry-level opening, and you will either accept it or leave. Were you to accept, you may work your way up and move between departments, but it will only happen after you prove your worth. No outside accolades or resumes will help you here. As such, I will not be asking about your credentials. It is your job to demonstrate them."

Once more, I nodded. The part about not choosing my department was ominous, considering the many and varied employees I had seen on my visits here as a patron, but maybe I would get lucky. I wasn't too proud to scrub pots or floors, and while the thought of meeting some of my friends while bringing them their drinks made my cheeks flush, I could handle it.

"Second," Mr. White continued, "at the Auctionhouse, everything is for sale, but a sale cannot happen without the consent of the seller. That is robbery, and theft is never permitted within these walls. You may always choose not to perform a task while under the employ of the Auctionhouse. We ask many unusual things of our employees, so this point is essential. Your consent is yours to give, and you may retract it at any time. However, when you choose not to work, you are also choosing not to be paid. That is how transactions work, after all. Take the opportunities you wish, and earn chips. Choose not to work, and earn none. Everything at the Auctionhouse costs chips. Your lodging, your food, your medical care, your training. Those chips may be exchanged at the front for cash, if you need it, or used on the gambling floor to lose or win your fortune. There will be no handouts and no theft. Understood?"

My head bobbed on its own accord while I wrung my hands. "I understand, sir."

Mr. White's lips pursed. "Finally, while under the Auctionhouse's employ, you are under the protection of the Auctioneer. No one may harm you within these walls unless you consent to it. That protection ends when you leave the Auctioneer's employ. You may quit at any time, and were you to return, you would have to once more start at the bottom. This comes at a cost. All that you learn while in the employ of the Auctioneer is proprietary. You may not reveal what the Auctionhouse contains, nor can you share information about what patrons buy, sell, or the prices they pay—now, or ever. While information is a traded commodity, only information sold to the Auctioneer may be sold to a member of the public. It is not yours to give away or sell for your own profits. To ensure your discretion, you will be fitting with a band around your neck. Through it, the Auctioneer will be able to see and hear. You will be required to wear it throughout the full duration of your employment. To remove it without mine or another senior member of staff's explicit permission is to forfeit your position, and trust me, the Auctioneer, and I will know if you remove it. If you are caught spilling the secrets of the Auctionhouse, the punishment will be... severe. This includes after you leave our employment. Do you agree to trade your privacy and silence for your safety?"

There it was: the snippet of information I had only heard as rumor, and the reason I had come here of all places. The Auctioneer was famous for protecting his staff.

Still, the thought of someone being able to witness every minute of my life made me squirm in my seat. At least, I reasoned, I could always choose to leave. Perhaps, after a few months here, I would have enough money to leave Cimmeria altogether. While the Rocca family were powerful, most of that power was centered in the city. If I could afford to get out and start again far away with a new name, I might be able to make it.

Until then, the Auctionhouse was the safest place I could be. It didn't matter what job I was assigned. I didn't have anywhere else to go. I reached for the pen with shaking fingers as Mr. White slid it and the paper across the desk.

On the single page, the three rules he had explained were outlined in much more precise details, closing loopholes and clarifying minutia. There was nothing else other than a place to sign and date.

The pen hovered over the page as I tried to work up the nerve to sign it. To stall for time, I asked, "What will my job be?"

"That may be a secret the Auctioneer doesn't want spread. You will not be told until after you sign," Mr. White replied, no impatience or annoyance in his voice. In fact, his inflection had never changed throughout the whole conversation.

"And if I can't do it?"

"Rule Two. You may always choose to walk away. I should warn you, though, that there is a twenty-four-hour wait time before you will be allowed to reapply if you choose not to accept the first offer, to avoid time-wasters."

I didn't have a day to spare on that. Mrs. Rocca likely already had people scouring the streets for me. It was a miracle I had made it to the Auctionhouse at all.

I touched the pen's tip to the paper, then closed my eyes and signed in a rush, with my full name: Victoria Delaney. No sooner had I dotted the last I than Mr. White opened a drawer and pulled a box out. He stood, rounding the desk as he removed a thin black leather band with a golden medallion the size of a coin at the center and golden clasps from the box.

As he fully entered the light, I saw that there was a similar collar around his neck, too, sitting right above his collar and neat red tie.

"Hair," he directed.

I reached up and pulled my long black hair away from my neck, pulse racing. I kept my eyes fixed on the flickering lightbulb of the lamp as the cold leather slipped around my throat, the light burning into my vision and leaving dancing floaters. His fingers did not so much as graze my skin as he fastened the marker of my new employment, then stepped back.

"As a courtesy, we allow our employees to choose a new name before they are introduced to their department head. Do you wish that?"

"Yes," I exclaimed. Anything to distance myself from the life and crime that had landed me here. Plus, it provided an excellent momentary distraction for the part of my mind screaming at me for what I had just done. Was I crazy? I had just taken a job at the Auctionhouse.

"Did you have one in mind?" As he once more rounded the desk, Mr. White asked, pulled a massive ledger out of the same drawer. He placed it on the desk, a puff of dust rising into the air, but none seeming to land on his pristine white gloves.

"Ah..." My mind raced frantically. I looked down at my lap, at the purple fabric I was clutching. "How about... Violet."

"From the Violet & Brass novels by Cynthia Crane?" He asked, still with no particular inflection. A clarification question, not interest.

"Yes." They were my favorite books. Like everything that had once been mine, it had been sold off to pay for my society debut, in the hope I would be able to make a good match and save our late parent's antique shop. What would my sister do now that I had failed? Guilt tore through me, and I focused on the way Mr. White's long index finger trailed down the page he was reading.

"Then welcome to the staff of the Auctionhouse, Ms. Violet. Ah, here we are." He snapped the book closed, stood, and gestured to the door. "This way. We are headed up to the third floor. The opening you will be filling is in the Garden of Virtue & Vice, as an entry-level escort. If we hurry, we will be able to catch the department head before he retires at dawn."

Oh no.

What had I done?