Marie's Den

[Marie Darrieux]

Below ground, away from the eyes and ears of the city, lies an establishment which few would expect to find North of the river. The thick smoke masks many things here, a whispered conversation, a glimpse of soft white flesh, a last gasp of breath.

Its smell is subtle, somehow the tireless staff ensure it is well aired during the day, but a sensitive nose will detect tears, as well as blood, all masked by the sweet, sweet, poppy.

The proprietress moves through it all, a swish of deep red skirts betraying her passage. Procuress and comforter she may be, but gold is only an intermediate currency to her. More dear by far are the stories told here, the lives which unravel under her tender care. A last sigh for a long-gone love, the cries of longing unsatisfied, the heedless weeping of those whose pain can only be assuaged by the milk of a faraway flower.

She knows that few come to her in happiness. Now and then they will come once for curiosity or dared by a friend. But that is never why they return. Those who seek her night after night are the ones desperate to flee in to another world, where they can dream of all the joy they will never have in this poor, dark existence.

These offerings which tumble so carelessly from their cracked lips, she gathers, keeping them close for the future. For every betrayal there is a traitor, for every heart broken, a lover, and for every story of vengeance yet to come, a waiting victim. From these disparate threads a tapestry is woven, which shows the darker goings on of the city, a web of deceits and truths, and she waits for the slightest tremor to tell her which threads to pull.