Indigo (a prologue)





   The old man had a curious device: a box fashioned from tin, 

with a clever mechanism inside that rolled his cigarettes for him. 

I did not get a clear view of how it functioned -- it seemed to 

consist of a couple of rollers and a leather sling, the whole 

affair taking up so little space that the tin could be used to 

store his tobacco and papers -- and so, as each perfectly rolled 

cigarette popped forth from the slot in its lid, it seemed more 

than a little like magic. He offered me one and I lit it with the 

candle in the center of our table. "Neither of them have ever 

known a man, then?"



   He leered at me. "You would really buy one of my daughters?"



   "Would you really sell one?" I countered. "You made the offer. 

Was it in jest?"



   "That all depends." He lit a cigarette for himself, waggling 

his bushy eyebrows in what he no doubt intended as some sort of 

conspiratorial gesture.



   "Upon the quality of the merchandise in question? I quite 

agree." The cigarettes were oddly flavored, with a fine spicy tang 

which I fully enjoyed; the only first-class thing about this 

gentleman so far. "One has to wonder at the beauty of daughters a 

father's so eager to sell."



   "I can see, sir," said he, with a pride only faintly dinged, 

"that you aren't a father, or, if so, you've been blessed with 

sons. Me, I once had three daughters. Wedding of the eldest nearly 

bankrupted me, between dowry and ceremony. Second's got her heart 

set on marrying as far above her station as the first, not even 

noticing how I must scrimp and save to pay her school bill every 

month. To take one off my hands would be a blessing."



   "If the price is right."



   His attempt at an ingratiating smile was pathetic. "If, as you 

say, the price is right."



   I had nothing better with which to entertain myself, and so 

when he offered to show them to me, I accepted, stubbing out the 

cigarette on the scarred table (and earning a scowl from Molly, 

then). He led the way, brandy sloshing not a little from the glass 

in his hand.



   He had taken one of the back rooms for them, as he confided in 

me on the way up the narrow flight of stairs; room only for one 

narrow bed for the two of them. He himself had to sleep in the 

commons. Just one more in the long line of inconveniences in 

having daughters, it seemed.



   "Why, then, do you travel with them?" I asked.



   "Eliza is on her way back to school. Holidays are over, after 

all. And Lucy, that's my youngest, can't bear to be parted from 

her until the last possible moment. She loves her sister, that one 

does. They'll be sleeping, you know. You'll be quiet."



   "Of course."



   The room was indeed small, and quite close, and retained much 

of the day's heat. The girls had gone to bed wearing only 

stockings and chemises; they had covered themselves in a sheet and 

a thin, threadbare quilt, but had kicked these aside, perhaps, in 

their restlessness, until the bedclothes lay rucked about their 

feet.



   "That's Lucy there," hissed the old man, "and that's Eliza." He 

held the candle above my shoulder, that I might better examine 

them. "Lovely, eh?"



   That they were. Lucy, whom I judged to be about fifteen or so, 

lay on her back, with one pretty leg half-raised. The skirt of her 

short child's chemise had fallen about her hips, leaving her 

raised thigh bare for all of its pale, slender length. Its collar 

was unlaced and fell open between her small breasts, to which it 

clung, rendered faintly transparent by a thin film of sweat. Her 

blond hair was unbound and spilled in a mad curly profusion over 

the pillow and down to the floor.



   Her sister lay on her side, her head nestled on Lucy's 

shoulder; their hair, I noticed, was of the same shade and 

texture, so much so that, mingled together on the pillow, I could 

not tell where one's ended and the other's began. Lucy's mouth was 

half-opened, her face turned up and back, whereas Eliza kept hers 

pressed close to her sister, despite the heat. One hand seemed to 

be cradled beneath her head, while the other lay in seeming 

innocence in Lucy's lap, and she had twined her legs, as pale and 

as slender, about her sister's.



   "Well," said the old man, in my ear.



   I was aroused; more than that. In the first glimpse of the 

sleeping sisters (and here I look down, and glimpse them sleeping 

again; all innocence gone now, heads pillowed on each other's 

thighs, Lucy smiling in a surfeit of pleasure, one arm lifted 

toward her sister's feet, raising and flattening a breast with a 

pretty little nipple as pink as the inside of any fresh conch 

shell; Eliza, her fingers still tangled in the curls between her 

sister's thighs, still sticky with that pleasure, shivering as I 

stroke her cool, bare flank) the mad scheme upon which I am 

embarked sprang full-blown into my mind. It was too providential 

to be a coincidence. I was meant to find these girls, meant to 

take them away with me into my brief exile. If not me, after all, 

then someone else; men, who would separate them, break their 

fragile union and spend the rest of their lives resenting them, 

and hating them, for a reason they could never fathom. Better a 

brief time of happiness than a life of misery.



   But the simple truth is, I had to have them. And I will have 

what I must.



   The old man moved past me then, slurping noisily at his brandy, 

to take up the quilt tangled about their feet and pull it up and 

over their legs and bellies, their breasts. Lucy turned restlessly 

as he did so, her arm flopping over the side of the bed so that 

her fingertips brushed the floor. Eliza murmured something, and 

snuggled more closely to her sister, spooned against her back. The 

old man stood over them both, looking down with a kindly and 

indulgent eye.



   "I would have them both," I said, my voice suddenly loud in the 

close room, and hoarse, from the smoke, and not a little from 

desire. He stiffened visibly, his head snapping up. "What? What!"



   "Shh. Else you will wake them."



   He turned on me then, a flare of anger lighting his eyes. It 

faded. He waved a dismissive hand. "You jest."



   "Never. About something so important, that is."



   The anger returned. "Sir, I -- "



   "Papa?"



   Lucy had stirred, and opened her eyes. I could not see their 

color then, in that light, but even then I could imagine it: pure 

cornflower blue, startling in intensity. And Eliza's are a cloudy 

green.



   "What is it, Papa?"



   "Nothing, my sweet." He bent to kiss her cheek, and I took that 

moment to open the door. "I was just checking on you."



   I held the door for him as he walked out, his back stiff, his 

gaze cutting away from mine. As I turned to close the door, I 

looked back. Eliza had also stirred, and raised herself on her 

elbows; her chemise had also been unlaced, and had slipped over 

her shoulder. From where I stood I could see her breast, slightly 

larger than her sister's, the shadow of her nipple quite clear 

against her pale skin in that flickering, receding candlelight. 

She caught my eye as it traveled from her breast along her throat 

to her face, and there held it with a steady gaze and a small, 

unconcerned smile. She made no move to cover herself. Lucy, also, 

stared at me, motionless, and her face was without expression. I 

smiled at them, and blew them a kiss, and closed the door. My head 

was light and my knees were weak.



   "They are indeed most beautiful," I said to the old man as I 

joined him in the hall. "Their mother must be quite a woman."



   "Sir, I -- "



   "What began as a jest -- your jest, sir, I believe -- has 

become something else entirely." I named a figure he had no way of 

knowing I could not pay, not now.



   He blinked. "I couldn't -- both my -- I couldn't -- " He 

sputtered. "Lucy, perhaps, yes, but my girls, both -- " A wave of 

decision passed over him then; a palpable thing, as if sloughing 

off a visible patina of drunken twitches, slurs, slouches. "You 

may take my Lucy, sir. For half that amount. That's what I can do. 

But you're not a father, sir. You can't know what it's like. I 

can't sell you both my daughters."



   There was then a rustle from the stairs; we both started, I'm 

afraid. It was but Molly, though, coming up for the night, maid's 

cap tucked under one arm, barefoot, unlacing the throat of her 

simple white dress. She stopped as she saw us. "Your pardon, 

m'lord," she said, curtseying at the old man.



   "Come here, Molly," I said. "Come here." I held out my hand to 

her. She came to it, slowly, a puzzled smile playing at the corner 

of her mouth. I took her cheek in my hand and drew her closer than 

she had expected, kissing her fully on the lips even as my other 

hand drew up her skirts.



   "Sir!" cried the old man.



   I turned Molly about so that her back was to me and pressed her 

close, my right hand still tangled in her skirts. "Molly," I said, 

and kissed her neck, "who is this man?"



   "My Lord George Ponsonby, a Baronet." She gasped as I found her 

drawers under the layers of skirt and underskirt and petticoat. I 

smiled; she wore one of the pairs I had sent to her over the 

years, pretty whore's underwear, little more than scraps of sheer 

lace held snug by a knotted cord. "Granted a small fief in return 

for services rendered during the last war, an' it please you." She 

moaned and began to move against me as I cupped her cunt through 

the lace, and rubbed my fingers against her lips, feeling the heat 

of them, and the dampness.



   "His daughters?"



   "I don't -- ah -- don't know much about them, save one married 

a Duke-to-be."



   "Above her station, indeed," I murmured. I found the knot which 

held her drawers and slipped it loose.



   "Sir, I -- " He stared, fascinated; his skin ruddied, and I 

fancied I could see the sweat beading on his forehead. I shushed 

him, and slipped the drawers down Molly's thighs. "And his wife?"



   "Dead, ah!" I slid one finger inside her, then a second. She 

was most warm and wet, and she rolled her hips against me and 

arched her back. I kissed her throat as I frigged her, feeling the 

buzz of her voice against my lips as she said, "Dead now three 

years, oh, oh Indigo!"



   "You!" gasped Ponsonby.



   "I had not thought the mother of girls so beautiful could stand 

idly by as their father sold one or the other away." I stroked my 

fingers in and out of her now, as her hands dove into her skirts 

to play with mine, to stroke her thighs as they fluttered, her 

belly as it shivered. "You are correct, sir, when you say you 

cannot sell me your daughters. It is quite against the law even to 

offer so." She threw her head back against my shoulder, biting 

back whimpering cries as she began to come. "And yet, you have 

done so, and to the Queen's Champion, no less."



   "You monster!" was the best he could manage, as Molly let loose 

one sweet pealing cry, her body quivering like a plucked 

bowstring. "I took you -- " sputtered Ponsonby.



   "That's beside the point." I removed my hand from her skirts 

and held my fingers up for her to lick, which she did with a 

playful lascivity, relishing the taste of herself. "You made a 

mistake tonight. Learn from it, or not; your daughters are mine 

either way. Molly."



   She looked up at me with a satisfied, feline smile. "M'lady?" 

she asked coquettishly.



   "Draw my bath."



   She took two mincing steps away from me, then lifted up her 

skirts to pluck at her delicate, lacy underwear that had pulled 

awry, drawing them down her legs, lifting out each foot in turn. 

Smiling, she handed them to me, then trotted down the hall to my 

room.



   I knelt to pick up her cap, which earlier had fallen to the 

floor. "Don't think to try and spirit them away from me, either. 

My man will be watching their door." I smiled then, myself, and 

allowed a brief hint of the pain and frustration and anger and, 

yes, grief of the past few days to dwell there momentarily. He 

shuddered quite satisfactorily. "You know what happens to people 

who try to thwart me."



   "She's dying, you know," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. 

It confused me. I thought for a moment he meant Molly, or one of 

the girls -- ah, but of course, he did not know; few yet did, that 

she was already dead. Had died, two days ago, in her bed at 

Calmorra.



   "You know my tastes, my 'proclivities,' as I believe the 

broadsheets term them. 'The Queen's Tribade,' you call me in your 

clubs. Believe me, sir, it goes far, far beyond tribadism. I shall 

enjoy teaching them." His eyes bulged, his hands trembled. "Then, 

if you weren't so blind, you might have noted how familiarly they 

lay together, on that narrow bed. Perhaps Eliza has already 

learned something at her school; perhaps she has been teaching 

Lucy some of what she -- "



   "Insolent bitch!" he sputtered. "I will have satisfaction, damn 

your eyes, for what you have slandered about my daughters!"



   I sketched a faint mockery of a bow. "First light, the yard. 

Rapiers. I shall be glad to oblige."



   And you know, I think I finally shocked him with that last.