Marcellus felt the stirrings of an idea. It was not fully formed, but it was a start—a fusion of the paths, perhaps, or something entirely new.
Without a knock, he strode into the room as if he owned it.
He was reminded of Noah's words during his last visit here: 'Show no fear.'
The phrase took on poetic resonance as he surveyed the room. 'you have a whore for every finger,' Ginger had once snidely remarked.
Before departing last time, Marcellus had secured Ginger as his exclusive companion through a bribe, liberating her from the clutches of the infamous Mr. Doan.
Tonight, he had returned with intentions both to spend the night and to confirm certain suspicions.
Although he had paid Mr. Doan five silver coins for Ingrid's exclusive services and protection, Marcellus harboured no illusions. He hadn't even intended to encounter Ginger again.
As expected, Mr. Doan had not upheld his end of the bargain.
Marcellus' eyes narrowed as he took in the scene: Ginger was indisputably still in the brothel's employ, engaged in an intimate act with another woman.
The room was darky-lit with a spill. As he walked in he saw Ginger on her knees, head between the legs of a woman on the bed. Moaning and groaning.
The woman on the bed appeared both young and delicate. She had dark, curly hair that gracefully stopped at her shoulders. Her skin, the shade of well-defined eyebrows, was smooth and unblemished, complemented by a straight, refined nose. She was strikingly beautiful. She wore a simple, off-white tunic accented with a golden hem at the edges. Draped around her neck were two exquisite necklaces: one was gold-coloured and looped multiple times, and the other featured a captivating green emerald.
The woman on the bed locked eyes with Marcellus, and for a moment, the room was charged with an electricity that felt almost tangible. Her eyes, a stunning shade of green that seemed to pierce through him, widened in surprise and then narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Her vivid green eyes expressed a sequence of emotions—surprise, then a fleeting narrowing that seemed almost calculative. Swiftly, she disengaged from her intimate pose, her movements seasoned by urgency.
Her movements were swift and practised as she grabbed a scarf that lay at the foot of the bed, wrapping it around her shoulders to cover herself. It was a fine piece of cloth, imbued with delicate embroidery that hinted at a lifestyle far removed from the circumstances Marcellus found her in. She seemed like someone who knew how to carry herself, how to command respect—yet here she was, in a place that afforded her none.
She draped it around her shoulders, covering her exposed frame.
In a different setting, she might have unleashed her anger on Marcellus, accusing him of violating her privacy, of defiling her honour. But she understood the delicate intricacy of the situation. How could she raise her voice in righteous indignation when the room itself was a testament to compromised virtues? What explanation could she offer for her presence in a brothel, a place that inherently questioned the traditional norms of honour and propriety?
She looked at Marcellus one last time before exiting, her eyes aflame with a complex emotion that seemed like a volatile mix of anger, embarrassment, and something else—something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. But she said nothing, her silence as powerful as any words she might have chosen.
It was a stark reminder of the leverage; in that moment he held leverage over her.
Marcellus turned to Ginger. His eyes met Ginger's for a fleeting moment, and the brief flash of recognition in her eyes was quickly veiled by practised indifference. It was a small betrayal, but one that cut Marcellus deeper than he would have liked to admit.
It also confirmed what he already assumed; Ginger was a liar.
"As expected, I hope I can sleep here tonight," Marcellus murmured to Ginger.
Coin can buy little in the way of loyalties, Marcellus mused, lying down on the bed. What can buy loyalty?
There was nothing to say to Ginger. She made herself busy arranging stuff out of nervousness.
...
In the morning's feeble light, Marcellus found himself awake, his body filled with restless energy. The turmoil of the previous night's thoughts had evolved into a biting suspicion.
He sat up and scanned the room until his eyes settled on Ingrid, or as the people of Mythralis knew her, Ginger. Her back was turned to him, her movements absorbed in a series of trivial tasks.
"Ginger," the word spilt from his lips, a deliberate choice to employ her work name, not her real one. "I have some questions for you."
A pause stretched between them, filled with unspoken tension before she finally turned to face him. Her expression was one of rehearsed neutrality, yet her eyes flickered with caution. "Of course, what would you like to know?"
A contrived smile played on her lips. "You should call me Ingrid."
The facade didn't fool him. "Have you ever given information about me to anyone?"
"Why would you ask that?" Her voice was a blend of disbelief and a shade of defensiveness as if she was bracing herself for an attack.
"Is it Captain Crowe you've been talking to about the book? Or is it Edwin?"
"I haven't told anyone anything. Why accuse me?"
He noted her evasion, filing it away as evidence. "Is it not your name, Ginger?" he retorted, the implication hanging in the air between them: Are you not what your profession implies?
The petty naming was more than a jab; it was a mental adjustment, a means of distancing himself from her emotionally. By referring to her as Ginger, he disassociated her from the "Ingrid" he had thought he knew, emotionally distancing himself from whatever harsh steps might become necessary.
Her eyes flickered, perhaps recognizing the venom hidden in his casual address. "I don't know what you mean."
He needed no more confirmation, she was lying. He had eradicated the scant doubt that remained.