Why does the moon look like that? Do you ever wonder? Wander? Do you ever either? Is it fair that the moon looks like that, and will look like that after we are gone? No, it does not seem fair to me either.
But you must excuse me, you are welcome and more than welcome to my hospitality. The button was very fine, as I said, and also the thread. The thread was . . . well, I fear I have lost it. In any event! Sleep comfortable! I offer you sanctuary within my demesne, protection from the pawed and the clawed and the moonlight which will shine when you are gone.
Day 2
(9): Minder of the House of the Full Peach
11:55 AM
If you seek employment, you will find the matron on the second floor—though you might take a bath first. You look like you’ve spent the night rolling in filth. For that matter, you should have someone attend to that finger. Though perhaps that will appeal to some of the clientele. In any case, it is the matron’s concern; I’m here only to maintain the safety of the staff and guests.
Few enough this time of day, the one in blue was our first. And fewer still make trouble, but my ratchet is self-cleaning, and my components remain in working order. Mostly the sight of them is enough to turn away the poor and the moon-eyed. There was a man who came by last night who claimed that Tabni looked just like an old lover. He wished to give her a bouquet of frangipani—but the house does not take frangipani, only coin. He sat with me on the stoop and spoke of a son he has not seen in many years. I did not mind listening to him; I am told it is how the girls spend most of their time. Still, I hope he will leave us be; the matron says if he returns, I will have to hurt him.
In any case; if you wish to see the matron, one of the girls inside can guide you. Otherwise, be off.
* * *
Forgive my rudeness, Amanuensis—I intended no disrespect. I had not . . . I did not . . . Forgive me. I am willing and thrice-willing to assist you, though I don’t imagine I know anything of interest to Ba‘l Melqart and his slaves.
Yes, it’s all backed up internally. I cannot claim your gift of memory, but my condition allows for a standard of recollection that no normal human could match. My banks will not rot for a very long time yet, though I record less; light and sound only. It has been forty-nine years since I tasted anything, and though I am aware of pressure it is not the same as touch. There are times when I think I can recall the smell of the ocean on the sand, the rotting fish and the sea salt, the close-wet reek of my family, my own distinct scent. . . .
But I haven’t offered you a proper greeting. Welcome to the House of the Full Peach, or at least to its doors. We are number 343 in the official licensing, copies of which the matron would be happy to provide, the originals of which are kept safe in the High Chapel. We host thirteen registered consorts and two former members of the staff who act as caretakers. And the matron, as I said. And myself.
No, not at the moment. We have a doctor who visits twice monthly. Precautions are taken. Not perfect, but then what is? On those occasions when the aegis slips, most of the girls choose to terminate. But that is their choice, and not one forced by the house. We have had children in the past.
You may call me the Minder, or anything else etiquette allows. I have not used a name for a long time, since I was first fettered at . . . seven, or perhaps eight. Since entering my new form forty-nine years, six months, thirteen days, six hours, thirty-nine minutes, and twenty-seven seconds have passed, but I cannot speak with certainty of the time before. There was little to tell of it. We lived on the outermost shores of Seaside. I am told that estates of great wealth now run along the seawall, even dripping into the breakwaters, but in my day there was nothing of the kind. The richest among us lived in shacks of driftwood and tarpaulin. My family was not among the richest. The only thing in the world of which we had a surplus was children. A common story.
There were always brokers at the market, mustachioed men with booming voices. “Serve the city, help your kin,” the predictable pitch. They gave me some tests—simple math, a cup and ball to check my coordination—and decided on my model. I was excited. Protection seemed better than maintaining the aqueducts or working the high steel. They gave me a small pamphlet regarding the form I would take. I could not read the words, but there were pictures, and in the weeks that led up to the procedure I would stare at them by the little light of our vapor-lamp, trace my finger along the lines of my jets, and the twin ratchets. A few more years and it would have been pinup girls, though we are fettered before we reach that point. I am not sure why, but youth is a requirement.
As for the transition itself, there isn’t much I can tell you. There are no words to describe the External, or if there are I never learned them. It is said they know nothing of time but everything of everything else, that they will answer any question you ask but never in the way you wish, that they can shift and shuttle about the minds of men. That last, at least, is true. One instant, I was flesh and bone and sinew, ten fingers, eyes of . . . no, I cannot anymore remember the color. In the next, I was as you see me. My services were purchased in perpetuity by the house. By a different matron, in fact; I transferred ownership with the bill of sale.
We are a long way from Seaside, though my family made the journey a few times. Three times. Once they all came, or nearly, there were so many it was hard to ever be sure. The next it was just my mother and sister. Then my mother alone. I asked her not to come again; it was easier for everyone. Most fettered prefer to have no contact with anyone from their previous existence.
But surely none of this can be of any interest to you, and you will forgive me for speaking so long. If you would tell me of the specific nature of your inquiry, I could be of greater assistance.
A holographic projector, I gather? And as for the image . . .
* * *
Who are you? What is it you want? There are things which are best not discussed, not by anyone, not by your kind or by mine. However pitiful my existence, I would not have it end.
No. No. Forgive me. I would never imagine going against Ba‘l Melqart, blessed be His name. Blessed be His name. I will tell you whatever I know.
Yes, I recognize her. She called herself Rose, but I never supposed that was her real name. Our records of that time were destroyed in a fire years ago, and our matron wouldn’t know either. It was a different matron, as I said. I’m the only one left who knew Rose.
She arrived in the early afternoon. She looked . . . ragged. Too thin, and dirty, and tired. But still she was beautiful beneath that, very beautiful, and our house was not so well-established as to be turning away talent, even if it needed a buffing. I sent her in to see the matron, knowing well that she would be accepted, and then I waited for the ones that would follow.
Many different girls have passed through these doors. Some come because they do not see any difference in the life they are living and the life they would live here, save that in the House they are compensated for things elsewhere taken. Some come because they put no high value on the services they offer, some few because they so enjoy offering them. But some come with the look Rose had, of being chased. Fathers, lovers, former managers: it does not matter. I am here to meet them.
This was in the bad days, just after the Ascent, when the city was in an uproar and none knew what to expect. Four of them arrived that evening, dressed as thugs though that was not what they were. I am not sure, but not that. Twenty-four years I had watched the house by then, you may believe I could tell a footpad from a counterfeit. Their clothes were cheap but not worn, and their flesh was smooth. There is no bravo worth his salt who does not have a ratchet scar. Even the very skilled ones allow themselves to be marked as proof of their badness.