Gabriel stepped inside the parlor, such as it was, of the House of Rest for Weary Men. The name of the two-bit bordello never failed to amuse him, the irony even more prominent in his case, given that while he was weary, he was not a man, and in either case, rest was never what a man sought at this particular address. Escape. Fleshly pleasure. A bawdy good time. Oblivion. They were all sought at various times by various men for mere pennies passed to Madame’s hand. Gabriel was never bawdy, but he longed most vigorously for escape, for a contentment that eluded him, for the respite the grandiose name promised.

“Good evening, Madame Conti, you’re looking well.” In fact, Madame was looking rather ill at ease, standing in front of him, blocking his way to the creaky, slanted stairs that led him up to Anne, where his glass and spoon would be waiting. Perhaps he’d forgotten to pay. He wasn’t really sure when he’d last fronted Madame money for his nightly sojourns, but several months prior he had sold a painting for a significant amount, and had settled his affairs far enough into the future that he had lost awareness of the time.

“You’re early tonight,” she commented, fanning her heavy bosom vigorously with a faded lace fan.

“Impatient.” He gave her a smile and took a step forward, assuming she would move. The dryness in his mouth was irritating, the shake in his hands increasing.

Madame Conti didn’t move, which annoyed him. Moreover, she placed one fleshy hand on his chest and stopped any progress he might have made. “Anne isn’t ready for you yet, Mr. Thiroux.”

Gabriel despised the use of his false name. But he disliked being made to wait even more. Staying away for twelve hours of daylight was becoming more and more of a struggle for him. “I do not care. Whatever she is doing can be done in my presence.”

“In all certainty. But I’m guessin’ you don’t want to see it.”

Gabriel stared at Madame Conti, née Ginny Black, and narrowed his eyes. A former prostitute who had invested wisely, Madame was a shrewd businesswoman, with a mixed vocabulary, acute intelligence, and a devious mind. She didn’t miss an opportunity to make money.

“What might I see?” Though he already had a suspicion, and it did not please him.

“Her toilette.”

It was an innocuous remark, but Madame tipped her hand by shifting slightly in front of him again. Rage lit through him, clashing with the craving for his drink and pipe, and sent heat rushing into his face. “She’s with another man, isn’t she?”