The streets of the outer district were narrower here, the cobblestones uneven, the air thick with the scent of smoke and perfume. Lisa clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her eyes darting to every shadow.
Marco walked beside her, jaw set, hands clenched. He hadn't wanted to come here. Neither of them had. But they had nowhere else to go.
The sign above the door still read LoversBed , its gold lettering dulled by time but unmistakable. The curtains in the windows were drawn, but the faint sound of laughter and clinking glasses drifted through the cracks.
Marco pushed the door open.
Inside, the air was warm and perfumed. Velvet couches lined the walls, and a woman in a corset glanced up from her powder mirror, then looked away.
Wahlberg was waiting.
He sat in a high-backed chair near the hearth, legs crossed, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. His smile was slow, deliberate — the kind that made Lisa's stomach twist.
"Well, well," he said. "Look what the wind dragged in."
Marco stepped forward. "Uncle."
Wahlberg gestured to the seat across from him. "Sit."
Marco hesitated, then obeyed.
Lisa remained standing.
Wahlberg's eyes flicked to her. "Still proud, I see."
"We need help," Marco said. "Work. Shelter. Anything."
Wahlberg sipped his drink. "You come to me now, after all these years? After your mother spat on my name?"
Lisa's voice was tight. "We didn't come to beg."
"No," Wahlberg said. "You came to bargain."
He leaned forward, his smile widening. "And I'm feeling generous."
Marco looked up. "We'll do anything."
Wahlberg's eyes gleamed. "Anything?"
Lisa's hand gripped Marco's arm. "Don't."
Wahlberg stood, walking slowly around them. "You'll stay hidden. No names. No questions. You'll work when I say, how I say. In return, you'll have food. A room. Protection."
Marco nodded once.
Lisa didn't.
But she followed him anyway.
The days blurred.
They were given a small room behind the brothel, barely large enough for two cots and a washbasin. Lisa worked in the dressing wing, applying rouge and powder to the men who came to perform — or entertain. She tied corsets, adjusted wigs, painted lips.
She never looked them in the eye.
Marco cleaned the baths. Scrubbed the floors. Changed the linens. Hauled buckets of water and swept the halls after the guests had gone.
They wore masks when they moved through the main floor — simple black silk, enough to hide their faces. They were ghosts in the house of pleasure, seen but never known.
At night, Lisa would sit by the window, staring at the moon.
Marco would lie awake, thinking of Colden.
Back at the castle, Carmine stood outside Elaine's chamber, her heart pounding.
She had tried to forget the kiss. Tried to bury it beneath duty and silence.
But it wouldn't stay buried.
She knocked once.
"Come in," came Elaine's voice.
Carmine stepped inside.
Elaine was seated at her vanity, brushing her hair. She looked up, surprised. "Carmine?"
"I need to talk to you," Carmine said.
Elaine set the brush down. "About what?"
Carmine took a breath. "About us."
Elaine's eyes widened.
Carmine stepped forward, her voice trembling. "About what I felt. What you felt. What we're both pretending didn't happen."
Elaine stood slowly.
Carmine's hands were shaking. "I don't know what it means. But I know it wasn't nothing."
Elaine didn't speak.
"I need to know," Carmine said. "Do you feel it too?"
Elaine looked at her, eyes unreadable.
And said nothing.
Carmine turned, heart pounding, and left the room.
Elaine stood alone, her reflection flickering in the mirror.
Outside, the wind howled.
Inside, everything was changing.