Spring 1, 512 AV. The storm has raged for one bell.
The House of Immoral Pleasures, as his prudish raisin of a former wife had named it, looked as weather-beaten as it always had, despite the rain that fell like ice-tipped arrows and the wind that stole the very breath from your lungs, if you turned the wrong way. Why he had chosen a cathouse, he could not say; had he even cared for women when he was ten?
The door flew open. “CHARLIE!” he shouted. He was hoarse from an hour of screaming into canals, only to have his voice swallowed by a raging storm. He had refused to believe the boy had fallen into the thrashing lake—the same lake that had surged up and stolen a young man before his eyes mere chimes earlier—so he had gone from unlocked door to unlocked door, screaming the child’s name into empty rooms, and not-so-empty rooms, one of which had earned him a swollen cheek when a fist connected with his desperate face.
He could feel his eye blackening.
Several heads turned to the source of the commotion. Quinn Lark was panting, his shoulders and hands pressed across the door he had slammed shut. A blue-black ring was surfacing from the red around one bleary eye; his matted black hair clung, frozen, to his face; below one knee, blood mixed with cold water and beyond a tear in fabric, an angry gash oozed and forced him to limp. “Wall fell in on itself,” he grunted and pushed his tired, useless body from the door as a woman in loose pink silk closed in on him to dote on his wound, “Is Charlie here, my son, is he here?”
“Your son? How old—this is a—”
“He’s ten. He’s gone. I’ve looked everywhere,” that wasn’t necessarily true; Quinn had intentionally skipped his mother’s house in his mad search. He could not manage to think of a situation where he looked good, showing up without a child, or showing up to meet a child. While he loved the woman, he could not stand to face the man who dared to call himself her husband. Maybe the Defiler had sucked him into the black water, too. One could only hope.
It was only then that he noticed the House was resuming business as usual, as if the angry weather had done little to faze them: men were still wrapped around whores; people were drinking, laughing, and no doubt rutting above his head. The slattern in pink offered a glazed over stare, and Quinn’s mouth tightened. “He looks like me, only smaller. He’s a Lark, gods damn you, not some street urchin. Have you seen him?”
The House of Immoral Pleasures, as his prudish raisin of a former wife had named it, looked as weather-beaten as it always had, despite the rain that fell like ice-tipped arrows and the wind that stole the very breath from your lungs, if you turned the wrong way. Why he had chosen a cathouse, he could not say; had he even cared for women when he was ten?
The door flew open. “CHARLIE!” he shouted. He was hoarse from an hour of screaming into canals, only to have his voice swallowed by a raging storm. He had refused to believe the boy had fallen into the thrashing lake—the same lake that had surged up and stolen a young man before his eyes mere chimes earlier—so he had gone from unlocked door to unlocked door, screaming the child’s name into empty rooms, and not-so-empty rooms, one of which had earned him a swollen cheek when a fist connected with his desperate face.
He could feel his eye blackening.
Several heads turned to the source of the commotion. Quinn Lark was panting, his shoulders and hands pressed across the door he had slammed shut. A blue-black ring was surfacing from the red around one bleary eye; his matted black hair clung, frozen, to his face; below one knee, blood mixed with cold water and beyond a tear in fabric, an angry gash oozed and forced him to limp. “Wall fell in on itself,” he grunted and pushed his tired, useless body from the door as a woman in loose pink silk closed in on him to dote on his wound, “Is Charlie here, my son, is he here?”
“Your son? How old—this is a—”
“He’s ten. He’s gone. I’ve looked everywhere,” that wasn’t necessarily true; Quinn had intentionally skipped his mother’s house in his mad search. He could not manage to think of a situation where he looked good, showing up without a child, or showing up to meet a child. While he loved the woman, he could not stand to face the man who dared to call himself her husband. Maybe the Defiler had sucked him into the black water, too. One could only hope.
It was only then that he noticed the House was resuming business as usual, as if the angry weather had done little to faze them: men were still wrapped around whores; people were drinking, laughing, and no doubt rutting above his head. The slattern in pink offered a glazed over stare, and Quinn’s mouth tightened. “He looks like me, only smaller. He’s a Lark, gods damn you, not some street urchin. Have you seen him?”