Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

The bear’s real name was Hopper, and he was indeed filthy, dressed as Rose had always seen him, in a wool shirt with dark yellow stains under the arms. He had two visible leaves caught in the combined overgrown hedge that was his hair and beard. It was possible he had no idea his head was gathering material fit for a squirrel’s nest; it was also possible he knew and thought it made him more attractive in a rustic, manly sense.

“In this house you’ll refer to the women as ladies , and you will present yourself clean and polite, or you can take your money across the street.”

This confused Hopper the bear. Rose saw it on his face, but he soon worked it out and scowled. “Grue ain’t got no whores. They’re all here now.”

“I meant go to Grue’s place and drink.”

“I don’t wanna drink. I need a woman.”

“Then go to another place.”

“Other ones ain’t worth paying for.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They don’t smell so good.” The bear wasn’t one to talk. He had a scent that made Rose think he had firsthand experience with the sewers.

Rose didn’t know Hopper personally. He’d visited The Hideous Head enough times that she knew his face, but they never spent any private time together. He was a regular of Jollin’s, who had often remarked about his smell. To her, Hopper wasn’t a bear so much as a skunk. A lot of the men they entertained fit that description, which was why Gwen had made a new rule.

“And you’d prefer a clean, sweet-smelling girl, is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Because licking dirt and week-old sweat is disgusting, right?”

“Exactly.”

“The ladies here all agree with you, and that’s why you’ll wash before you visit us.”

“It don’t matter what they like. I’m the one paying. I call the tune.”

“Not anymore. Now you can either go across the street and drink that coin away, or head to the barber and get cleaned up and come back. And if you do, I’ll warn you to be polite and respectful.”

“Respectful of a whore?”

“Respectful of a lady of the house , or you can go roll around in the muck with a whore.”

He stood there breathing heavily, his lower lip pushed out. He let out puffs of air and looked down at the floor. “I won’t have enough money if I pay to get cleaned up.”

Gwen unfolded her arms. She reached out and touched the bear’s hand. “Get clean. Get shaved. Rinse out those clothes and come back. We’ll work out something. I don’t just insist our customers are clean. I also require them to be happy too.”

Hopper faced her and his stony mouth softened. “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

He pulled his tunic at the shoulder and sniffed. “Maybe it could use a dunk or two.” He nodded and left. As soon as he was gone, Gwen walked to one of the new soft chairs and collapsed into it.

“You’re turning them away now.” Rose crept up and sat on the bench beside her. It was one of the last bits of the old furniture, a simple plank that Dixon had built into a seat from the wreckage of the inn. Rose wasn’t sure why it was still there among all the beautiful pieces that Gwen had handpicked from the craftsmen in Artisan Row, but it was one of the few relics, one of the few reminders of how it started, and Rose felt most comfortable on it.

“We can afford to,” Gwen replied. “But he’ll be back. You know … we should invest in a few more washtubs. We can bathe them right here-even charge them for the privilege.”

“That’s a great idea. You never cease to amaze me.”

Rose smiled at her, and Gwen smiled back. They were all grins lately. At first Gwen had encouraged the practice, saying it was good for business; she didn’t need to remind them any longer. And they all looked so pretty in their new dresses. Gwen snagged the material from the same place she got the curtains, getting a deal on both. They all looked so fine and respectable that Gwen took to calling them ladies-the Ladies of the House. She liked the sound so much she insisted everyone do so. “You won’t get respect unless you act like you deserve it,” Gwen had told them. She knew what she was talking about. Gwen had gained the respect of every craftsman on Artisan Row. Putting food on the tables of the carpenters, tar men, glass blowers, and masons, Gwen also treated them as kings when they visited. Men who had scoffed when she entered their shops were coming to her for advice. No one was inviting her over for supper or suggesting she run for ward administrator, but they smiled when she passed by and often opened doors for her. No longer a foreigner, she had become one of Medford’s own. At last, she belonged.

Gwen had a million ideas. She held dances twice a week. Fiddle, Pipe, and Drum Nights they were called. It was free to dance, and no business was conducted until afterward. For a few hours they were gentlewomen at a ball, and besides it drew a nice crowd. Of course, they weren’t really ladies. Ladies were nobles, and ladies didn’t wear their old rags as slips under their dresses.

As the weather turned colder, Gwen invited the destitute in for free turnip-and-onion soup, but it wasn’t a case of charity. “Everyone has a talent for something,” she told each one, and she was right. Most of the poor used to do something: tin smith, rug hooker, farmer, chimney sweep. She put everyone she could to work, and those who were too old or sick were put to teaching others what they knew. Gwen put the farmers to work tilling a patch of dirt behind the House. Come next year it would help supplement their pantry. One old man used to sell honey and promised he would provide them with a beehive.

She wasn’t like the rest of them. To some degree or other, they had all given up at one time, casting away their dreams and giving in to the demands of the world. Rose saw the differences in the way Gwen acted, even in the way she walked, and most notably by the way she spoke to men. While she called all of them ladies, Rose knew the only real lady in Medford House was Gwen DeLancy.

They heard steps on the porch, and then the front door opened. A cold gust of chilling wind flickered the lamps, and into the parlor walked Stane. Splashed with mud and reeking of fish, his oily hair stuck to his forehead, his face bristling with whiskers.

Gwen was out of her chair in a blink. “What do you want?”

“What do you think? This is a whorehouse, ain’t it?”

Gwen was shaking her head before he finished. “Not for you.”

“What’d you mean, not for me?”

“You’re not allowed here- ever .”

“You can’t do that,” he said, taking a step onto the new carpet with his muddy boots. “You stole all the good whores and locked them up here. You can’t deprive a man entirely.”

“Watch me.”

He took another step and a sick little smile came to his thin, uneven lips. “I know Dixon isn’t here. He left town two days ago and ain’t back yet. It’s just you and me now. You don’t even have Grue looking out for you.” He took another step. “You know, Grue would probably pay good money for someone to put this place to the torch.” He looked around. “Be a pity to see it all burn away. Surprised he hasn’t done it yet.”

“Grue isn’t as stupid as you are. I obtained the Certificate of Royal Permit on this place by partnering with the city assessor. Just like you, he knows how much Grue would like to see us fail. Any suspicious fire or deaths and who do you think the city assessor will blame? And burning any building in Medford is a crime against the king, because he owns this building-we only lease it. And if you hurt any of us-”

“I ain’t gonna hurt nobody, just here for a good time.”