The change from the bright street to the dim, smoky interior was blinding. The air was thick with a cloying, heavy perfume, cheap wine, and the smell of unwashed bodies. A tiny piano sound could be heard somewhere. Before her eyes could even adjust, a figure detached itself from the gloom.
"Oh, my, my! A new little bird, and a fine one, too!" a woman's voice, like gravel in honey, boomed in her ear.
A large, formidable woman, squeezed into a gaudy, bright-red silk dress that left little to the imagination, stood before her. Her hair was a mountain of fake, bright-orange curls, and her face was a mask of thick white paint and a crimson, shark-like smile. This had to be the owner, Madame Irene.
"Welcome to The Pleasure District, my lady," Irene said, her eyes, sharp as a moneylender's, already assessing the fine quality of Marissa's cloak, the expensive gloves on her hands. "And what is your heart's desire today?"
