Free Wasp by Ian Garbutt

I haven’t guessed where I am?’
    The Abbess sucks air through her teeth and leans back. A gentle cloud of honeysuckle drifts into Beth’s nostrils. ‘I’ve read about places like this,’ she continues. ‘My employer was a regular subscriber to Town and Country. He didn’t care where he left that scandal sheet lying. Even the local milkmaids know about these city vice-pits, and not one of them can read a word.’
    ‘No immoral earnings are obtained under this roof. The House of Masques is not a market hall for bawds or courtesans. We do not need such creatures to advertise our services, nor are we a facility by which they can fill their own purses. Notoriety of that nature is not welcome. A client who has endured a difficult day may come to us desiring no more than a soothing voice or cheerful melody. We smile, hold hands, whisper reassurances into their ears. Brows are cooled in summer and hearts warmed in winter. Men’s vanity does not wane with the passing months, and our services are always discreet.’
    ‘Whore, courtesan, it’s all the same. Why was I chosen? The madhouses must closet a hundred girls with faces fairer than mine.’ The Abbess leans forward. Her eyes catch the light and seem to shimmer. ‘For the first few weeks of your stay here, you will work as a maid. You will fetch and carry for your Sisters, clean out their hearths, turn down their beds, empty their pots. You will address them with courtesy at all times. You were nothing when you arrived at the House. Nothing you will remain until you have proved yourself. However, we are not slavers. First you heal. Then you work.’
    ‘Nothing? But I am—’
    A raised hand. ‘You are nobody. The person you were will die on her bed in the Comfort Home. She will be buried under quicklime in a pauper’s grave with no tombstone or flowers. She will be forgotten.’
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘As you heard, I am the Abbess, and we are going to be friends.’

    Beth’s escort is waiting in the hall. ‘I shall take you upstairs. Hummingbird is waiting for you.’
    ‘Who is Hummingbird?’
    ‘She will be your tutor.’
    Before they reach the bottom step, a tall, slender woman in a gold-trimmed linen gown blocks their path. Sun-coloured hair is gathered behind her head and tumbles down her back in a long tail. Blue eyes glitter under sweeping lashes. Her skin is pale, her lips plum dark. On her right cheek is a picture of a bird. Her left sports a second emblem, a pattern of four diamonds — two red and two white — forming another, larger diamond. When she tilts her head the light catches the emblem, turning it blood red. She smells of roses.
    ‘So, a new Kitten fresh from some country ditch.’ Her bladed voice cuts the length of Beth’s spine. ‘We get our share of farmers’ daughters.’
    ‘I worked for a squire and his family in a fine house.’
    ‘Draw in your claws, Kitten. I’ll not have you scratch me. Go on twisting your fingers like that and you’ll have them out of their sockets.’
    ‘My name isn’t “Kitten”.’
    ‘I’ve no doubt your real name is very lyrical.’
    ‘And what are you called that is so much better?’
    ‘I am known in the House as Nightingale.’
    Beth snorts. ‘Not a proper name either.’
    ‘Inside or outside these walls, it’s the only one I have. You would do well to commit it to memory as soon as you are able. I am not in the habit of repeating it.’
    She walks off across the marble floor, gown swishing around her legs.

Into the Night
    The cart and Shire were waiting in the yard when the Fixer arrived. The beast was starved to its ribs yet the darkie, big as he was, looked dwarfed beside it. He scooped the girl into his arms and laid her in the back amidst a pile of straw. Next to it was a makeshift crib. ‘I took bales from the stable,’ he explained.
    The Fixer climbed into the cart, checked the baby and covered her with loose straw. The darkie took the driver’s perch and clicked off a series