Trollheart

In case anyone is interested, here's the latest on what I've been writing.

CHAPTER VIII
DRAG ME TO HELL

I: The crooked pathway (i) First faltering steps

Lady Wetherwood scanned the letter twice more, her eyes moving rapidly down the paper, her hand trembling slightly, though she tried to stop the shaking. She wanted to be sure that she was in fact reading what she thought she was. Sighing, she crumpled the paper up in her fist without looking at it further and consigned it to the wastepaper basket. There was no time to devote to her own personal problems now; her friend needed her, and she was due at an assignation which she must keep. Standing up, she approached the full-length mirror and regarded her reflection. Anyone seeing her for the first time, dressed so, might, she allowed herself the tiniest smile of self-satisfaction and pride at the thought, believe her to be perhaps in her early forties, when in fact ten years and more needed to be added to that number to attain her correct age. Her hair hung loose and low, tied with a soft pink ribbon at the back, and the red hat that perched atop her head was tilted at just the right angle that polite society believed was appropriate for a woman of her years.

Her face was made-up, though not not overly so: some kohl to bring out the attributes of one of her best features, her smoky grey eyes, and the barest touch of lipstick on lips that were yet full and ripe and, she liked to think, in the proper circumstances and when she wished them to be, inviting. The slightest dusting of rouge on her cheeks completed the ensemble. She had considered using mascara, but that was for younger women, and the one thing she did not want to be seen as was an older woman trying to look younger. If people took her for younger, that was one thing. That was perception. But actively trying to deny her years, well that was just deception, and could be a dangerous game to play.

And the game she was about to play was dangerous indeed, but she must engage in it if she were to save her friend.

Her breasts, she was pleased to note, still jutted proudly, pushing against the pale pink fabric of the dress she wore. She knew women younger than her whose tits had already begun to sag, but she was lucky in that regard, and she knew men still eyed her bust hungrily as it bounced along in front of her as she walked. She had been blessed with a generous decolletage, not freakishly huge or impossible to buy a bra for, but certainly very, ah, prominent. Smoothing her hands down over her hips she turned away from the mirror, admiring the way the pink dress clung to her behind: not tight enough to make her look sluttish, but certainly enough to draw admiring glances as she passed.

The dress itself she was very proud of. Tight enough to attract attention, and centre that attention where she wished it to, it yet stopped demurely about halfway down her calf, allowing a tantalising glimpse of legs yet smooth and firm, encased in sheer black silk, but again not giving the wrong impression. She had others she could have worn if she wanted to make that sort of impact, but she was very clear in her mind about the image she wished to present, and this dress suited those intentions perfectly. The shiny black high heeled shoes that rested on her feet pinched a little, as she tended not to wear this sort of shoe very often, but they did help to push her bottom out and make her totter ever so slightly, an irresistible sight to most men, she knew full well.

Picking up her long white gloves from the dresser she drew them on slowly, stretching them until they covered most of her forearm, and then, taking her bag and hanging it lightly from her shoulder, she left the room.

It was a swelteringly hot day, and the way the fabric of her dress clung to her as she walked to the carriage, and the eyes of the men who tried to pretend they weren’t watching, pleased her, but there was more than her own sexual affirmation to think of today. The sun was high in the sky and inside the carriage was uncomfortably hot. She could feel sweat rolling down from her underarms and sliding down her legs, and squirmed slightly. She had chosen an open carriage, as to have been sealed up inside one with a roof would have felt, she expected, like climbing into an oven, and whatever annoying stains the sweat was making on her dress now, it would have been completely soaked in a very unladylike manner had she gone for the latter option.

She sat back, alone in the carriage, and thought over how she would approach this encounter. She was under no illusions that the man she now went to meet was anyone to be trifled with. Even away from his native country, Pent Zamakis was a dangerous man with a reputation for treating those who wasted his time less than kindly. She hoped that he would not consider this meeting to be such a waste of his time; she felt sure he would not, once she outlined what she had to say. But she must be careful, she knew: too much information, and there would be no bargain, as Zamakis could act on his own without needing her. Too little, and he would likely conclude she was indeed wasting his valuable and precious time, and while Pent Zamakis was known to be (at least outwardly, and in public) a gentleman, and one who would not hurt a lady, there were those in his employ who would be only too willing, indeed eager to perform such a service for their master. Women, she knew, were not held in the same high esteem in Zamakis’s country as they were, generally, here, and to have managed to have secured a meeting with him, being a woman as she was, had taken all her guile, and several important contacts.

She felt a little uncomfortable in the dress. Of late, she had taken to the current fashion of wearing pants, but she knew that the man she went now to meet had rather archaic views on how women should dress, and should she turn up in anything other than what he and his kind would consider respectable, she would likely not even be allowed into his presence. So she suffered the snug-fitting dress, but wished she had the choice. The sounds of the busy streets outside faded away as she ran over in her mind all she intended to say, how she would approach the meeting, and - possibly of more importance - what she must be careful not to say. She realised that the best move would have been to have sent some man in her place, to speak for her, but there were no men she trusted enough to share the details of her meeting with, nor indeed, any women really. In order to obtain an audience with the elusive Mister Zamakis, she had had to be quite vague on crucial points, in some cases telling outright lies. But she didn’t care: the important thing was that she got to meet this man, face to face, and put her plan into motion.

She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that it came as a shock when the carriage stopped and the driver, seeing no sign of her exiting the vehicle, called down “We’ve arrived, Your Ladyship. Do you require some assistance?”

As if waking from a dream, she shook herself and blinked, her heart fluttering slightly as she realised the time was now upon her. All those months of planning, cajoling, promising, calling in of favours, all had led to this moment, at this place. She must succeed, otherwise she was lost. And if she were lost …

“No thank you,” she snapped, “I am perfectly capable of getting down by myself.” She realised that she had spoken a little more stiffly than she had intended, but then, carriage drivers were well used to being treated as inferior by the gentry, and the man would think nothing of it. Still, she had come to her position through marriage, not by birth, and had never been comfortable being seen as anyone’s better, so she ameliorated her tone and handed the driver more than the trip cost, smiling that he should retain the surplus, which in turn put a smile on his face, and caused him to tip the brim of his hat.

“Very kind of ye, Your Ladyship,” he beamed. “Would you like me to fetch someone to escort you -” But she was already moving towards the door of the hotel outside which the carriage had stopped, so he shrugged and flicked the horses, and the carriage rumbled off down the road. Lady Wetherwood stood looking up at the sign over the hotel entrance for a moment, then calmly and resolutely walked up to the doors. Seeing a lady of obvious quality approach, the doorman bowed and opened the door for her.

Inside, she quickly scanned the lobby, but it was not difficult to locate the man she had come to see. In fact, it would have been hard to have missed him, or at least, the three burly giants who stood over him like massive oaks sheltering a shrub. She walked forward, not quickly but not slowly, purpose in her gait and no fear in her heart. The giants were attracting many an awestruck stare from those who filtered into, out of and through the hotel’s lobby, but the massive curved swords that hung at their sides kept anyone from getting too close, and many an interested gaze was suddenly turned away as a thunderous frown was directed their way.

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018