Page 84 of Disturbing the Dead
The woman nods and melts back into the darkness as Queen Mab turns and walks away. When she realizes how fast she’s moving, she slows to let me catch up.
“I apologize for the insult,” Queen Mab says to me.
“You aren’t the one who made it.”
“Perhaps, but I should have realized that assumption would be made, purely on the grounds that you are young and pretty and female. Clearly you are what I am offering in trade tonight.”
“They might have still presumed that even if I weren’t female.”
“Hmph. That is part of the reason I insist Gustav wait outside. I do business with these people, but it is not only the mystical leanings that keep us from being more than mere associates.”
“A market for the mystical can mean a market for everything. Every taste.”
“It will not happen again. Everyone who thought I brought you for that now stands corrected. I will pause my own browsing and take you where you want to be.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
We keep walking until we have reached the farthest row. It only takes a glance to realize it’s Medicine Lane. There’s a young Asian man demonstrating acupuncture to a woman with knotted hair and dirt-stained clothing, looking like a medieval herbalist who just wandered in from the woods. At another booth, a Middle Eastern woman rubs something onto the gnarled hands of a tiny elderly man dressed in a bright green suit that screams “leprechaun” and also “arsenic.” A third booth has a tent behind it, the flap drawn. I slow, curious, until a muffled gasp from within makes me jump.
“Flagellation,” Queen Mab says, still walking.
“Flag…?”
“Whipping.”
“Oh, I know what flagellation is, but it seems more appropriate for a brothel than Medicine Lane here.”
She glances over with a barely suppressed smirk. “And what would a lovely young woman like you know about such things?”
“I’m not as young as I look.”
“Why do I get the feeling that’s even more accurate than it might seem?” she murmurs. “In this context, the flagellation is for driving out inner demons, therefore it is medicinal. However, if you look all the way at the end, there’s another closed tent specifically for women suffering from nerves and discontent. Do you want me to tell you what they’re getting inside?”
“Orgasms?” I say, lowering my voice. When her brows shoot up, I say, “I’ve heard of that. I’m sure it does make them feel better, though self-medicating is certainly cheaper.”
A sputter of laughter that turns into a cough. Only it doesn’t come from Queen Mab, who’s only smiling. I glance behind me as Mrs. Wallace stops coughing and fixes me with a remarkably blank stare, as if I imagined the laugh.
“You are far too clever for your own good,” Queen Mab says. “Admittedly, while I do not begrudge those ladies their treatment, I am saddened to think they need to come here to get it. And saddened to think that it works. Imagine a society that has twisted basic human nature to such a degree that those women do not even recognize their dissatisfaction and longing for what it truly is, and how easily it is remedied. I am glad you do not have that problem. If you do, I would suggest you ask your in-house doctor for the remedy.”
I roll my eyes. From behind me comes a sound suspiciously like a growl.
“I know you are teasing,” I say to Queen Mab. “But beware Mrs. Wallace. She already believes I have my sights set on the boss’s bed.”
“Why shouldn’t you? If I were ten years younger, I would.”
“Only ten?” Mrs. Wallace murmurs.
“Only ten.” Queen Mab gives her a look that dares her to challenge that. “Your employer is a handsome and virile man, but more importantly, he is clever and interesting and also considerate, which make him very likely to provide what the ladies entering that tent lack in their own lives.”
“Ma’am…” Mrs. Wallace says, her voice laced with warning.
“Oh come now. It is not disrespectful to speak of Dr. Gray like that. If you are concerned that I am putting ideas in Mallory’s head, then I would point out that you seem to think she already has those ideas. And I would counter that, even if she does, she has no intention of acting on them, sadly. I thought you a better judge of character than that, Paulina.”
“I believe that is the stall you were looking for,” Mrs. Wallace says, nodding to her left.
“Ah, it is. And do not think I didn’t notice that sudden change of subject. Speak to me later, Paulina, and I believe we ought to make a wager on whether Miss Mallory’s goal involves bedding her employer or not.”
I decide to end this conversation by taking great interest in the stall. It specializes in herbs, but tiny labels in calligraphic script list things I wouldn’t expect to find in Isla’s laboratory, and maybe not even in Queen Mab’s. Some of them I recognize, like red lotus. Others, such as a “dream herb” from Central America—Calea ternifolia—I don’t.
