Despite the now strange atmosphere that immediately followed the haunting scream, cool and ever so collected, Madam Zenarie turns to her guests and smoothly says, "Please continue to enjoy yourselves, gentlemen, I can assure you that there is nothing to be concerned about."
Put at ease by Madam Zenarie's words, the patrons return to cautiously chatting as Madam Zenarie steadily gathers her skirt in her hands and hurries upstairs in a calm fashion as if said incident occurred every day. Seeing her act in such a serene fashion further quelled the doubts and fears of the guest. It must surely be some sort of ill-natured joke in bad taste, nothing too serious to be truly concerned about. Within minutes, the entire incident is entirely put out of their minds as they move on to more enjoyable activities for the evening.
The sentries were already upstairs and had already calmly ushered the guests back inside the bedrooms before Madam Zenarie had even made her way up the staircase. In the meanwhile, three sentries having used a master key had forced the door open and made their way inside. Two of them had immediately captured the patron, who tried to duel with them only to find that physical brute force can in fact beat a wand at close range. While the third sentry hurried over to tend to the severely injured flower laying strewn on the bed as if broken, the sheets around her are stained bright red.
Hearing loud vehement cursing from inside, Madam Zenarie waits for the sentries guarding the outside entrance to move aside to let her enter. Once inside she slows to a halt at seeing one of her sentries carefully cradling in his arms one of her flowers named, Tamara, while the other uses his wand to halt the flow of blood as best as he can before she bleeds to death.
Tamara is a rather new flower at the establishment, but fairly popular given her age, and innocent willow-like maiden looks. However, that gorgeous visage was now visibly tarnished by cruel, bleeding whip marks that covered her entire body except for her face. She must have protected her face with her hands as the back of one of her limp hands is slicked open and dripping crimson drops onto the bedsheet.
Madam Zenarie's eyes flash with fury and barely controlled outage. One of the rules of her establishment is that none of her flowers or herbs are to be physically hurt by any of the patrons. If some of her patrons enjoyed such sadistic pursuits, they pursued them elsewhere at some of the other less-than-selective brothels. These rules were all in place to protect her flowers and herbs, and to ensure that no underage flowers or herbs are actively employed.
And in fact, the Potentate of London actively enforced that particular rule for any brothel located within his territory. Any pimp or madam caught doing so would swiftly wish they were dead for there are truly far worse fates than death. In fact, death can be merciful in some cases.
Madam Zenarie takes a breath to control herself as she had her reputation to main. Still, there was not much that could be done at this point. Tamara would certainly survive but not even the best of healers including St. Mungo's could remove the scarring that a curse would leave behind. No, the poor girl's lucrative career had come to an abrupt end.
Still, Madam Zenarie would not see Tamara thrown to the street. She'd find a place for the girl in the kitchens or as a tailor to ensure that the girl would have a place to stay and be paid. It was the least that she could do. And if she was clever, she would even be able to gain a bit of remuneration for the girl.
Filled with a steely purpose in mind, Madam Zenarie turns to the figure that is spewing vile insults out loud. "She's merely a Harlot! I can't believe this; do you know who my father is?! He'll see to it that all of you are dead!" Roared the recently turned fifteen-year-old pureblood.
"Enough, Mr. Mulciber," Madam Zenarie frostily said causing the handsome golden-haired pureblood youth to stiffen in dismay at being recognized.
"How do you know my name?" Damian Mulciber heatedly asked knowing full well that he had entered the said fine establishment using a false name.
"I make it a point to know the actual identity of all my patrons, Mr. Mulciber," Madam Zenarie coolly replied with a touch of scorn. "However, that being said, Mr. Mulciber, you have broken one of the foremost rules in my establishment and are here forthwith banished from the premise forevermore."
Damian leans back and coldly sneers at the middle-aged woman. "So what? This is merely one of many whorehouses available to me, I shan't be missing of your whores. Now have your filthy mutts release me!"
"Release him," Madam Zenarie murmured earning a smug glance from Damian as he was released by the sentries. But one of them still retained his wand for the moment clearing not trusting him not to use it against them for the time being.
Damian cockily zips his trousers shut and reaches down to grab his shirt and jacket from the flower. While he dresses the slut is gently carried out in the arms of one of the sentries. "Good riddance," Damian arrogantly declared with a loud mocking snicker. "She wasn't that good and could even take what I had to give. Pathetic, really."
The remaining sentries in the room let out growls as Madam Zenarie says, "And be assured, Mr. Mulciber, that your father will be receiving the bill later for this evening. And I can reassure you it will be a most costly fee."
"It's not my fault that the wench couldn't handle it!" Damian conceitedly spits out in outrage. "And besides, she's nothing more than a common whore!"
"Be as that may be your opinion, Mr. Mulciber," Madam Zenarie crisply said. "Tamara was not only quite the valuable commodity but one that could have easily earned herself a small fortune with enough time of service. And my establishment is not some random lay to be had against some random alley wall, but one for connoisseurs, Mr. Mulciber. It would appear that you are not one and have rather outlandish tastes. Might I suggest the nearest alleyway instead?"
One of the sentries loudly snorts at the Madam's words and tries to cough to hide his laughter. The other sentries are much better at hiding their laughter, but a cold gleam of satisfaction can be seen in their eyes. They all liked Tamara; she was a rather good girl despite being in the business of pleasure. And she'd not earned herself the harsh treatment that she had received from his cruel, unyielding hand.
Not one to leave without the last word, Damian rudely snatches his wand back from the sentry, and says, "My father will see to it that this pathetic place is razed to the ground. I can promise that."
"I think not, Mr. Mulciber," Madam Zenarie retorted with a great deal of satisfaction. "Your father is not foolish to dare to cross the Potentate of London. You would do very well to remember this lesson, Mr. Mulciber, and it is that there are existences in this world that your father means less than nothing to."
Grinding his teeth, Damian shoves his way past the sentries and down the hallway. He stomps his way down the stairs as Madam Zenarie sternly ordered, "See to it that he leaves in peace. I don't want another incident adding to tonight's events."
"With pleasure, Madam," the sentries said as two eagerly left after him to ensure that he properly left and was helped right out the door. Oh yes, in fact, he went flying out the door and onto the cobblestoned street.
Glancing back at the bloodstained room, Madam Zenarie tiredly closes her eyes for a moment and says, "Have the maids come and clean up this mess. I have to see to the guests."
"Yes, Madam," the remaining sentries said, before leaving to gather the maids.
Opening her eyes, Madam Zenarie takes a deep breath and straightens up with her head held high and her back straight like a rod. She was a businesswoman, and she had a business to run. Striding confidently out, she only pauses to close the door firmly behind her, before making her way downstairs. Time waits for no one and most especially money. Because money is the most loyal mistress of them all. That is as long as one possesses her affection.