A/N: Well, it looks like this may become an actual story. I am still uncertain. Felicity and Gemma are not yet certain what they want, and will not permit me to rush them. Heaven forbid. We all agree that this is the next step, however. Input from my lovely readers would be wonderful.

[Paris]

My master has declared that I am no longer to be the lonely lady in the paints.

Somehow, I doubt that he has the power to truly declare that about me.

Nonetheless, I will do as he says. I have always wanted to travel, despite never truly having traveled myself. I have seen England and France, but never truly traveled within either.

My master has been inspired. A friend of his introduced him to a new artist, a man who paints only in black and white.

My master wants a partner for me. He wishes to paint friends and lovers, and says he wants a beauty to match the one in his bed.

We leave tonight to complete a survey of France. Because clearly there are not enough whores in Paris.

[Nice]

Tonight, I am a powerful princess ruling a queenless kingdom. I lament my circumstances, but soon a dark-skinned soldier comes to comfort me and teach me the ways of the world.

The reality of the scene causes me to cry on stage, even as I dance. Thankfully, as my mistress glares from behind a smoky screen, my partner turns it into part of the dance. The silly people in the audience are probably aroused by the vulnerability. Fools.

It is a good turnout, tonight. Rumors have been circulating the city of a master painter scouring the city for a new whore, and all the madams are flaunting their assets. I have more jewels on tonight than I have worn since royalty was in town.

I am getting old. Yes, I am only touching on my third decade, but, for a life such as mine years are delicate. My mistress can no longer cast me into the role of the young and nubile maid serving a handsome, strong king. Not that she ever did, really.

Still, my youth is reaching the end of its shelf-life.

I can tell that my mistress hopes that soon a man will come to her and declare himself my patron, allowing me become something more real. We all have dreams of becoming actresses and the like, but I would settle for being a private whore.

My power is dwindling.

I watch the audience carefully; I am not certain what I think I will see, but I have a feeling that something will happen soon, and I do not want to miss it. It is a tingle down my spine, and the feeling of knowing eyes watching my back.

After our performance, I quickly disappear behind the screens.

We are not permitted to shed our skins after the show, as some lonely rich man may want a second look or a private dance. I sit on a simple wooden stool as innocent young whores gather around me as ladies-in-waiting. Starved for any affection I may give them, they gently fix my hair and pull my clothing to rights. Tonight, I smile gently at them. As the oldest woman here, and one of the oldest in town, I am a mother to them as much as Madam is. They look to me for guidance and advice.

Just last week one confided in me that she believes herself in love with the farm boy who delivers our produce.

I refrained from confiding in her that he prefers to watch the men.

Why crush such delicate hopes before their time?

The girls hush around me and I turn to watch the entrance. My mistress stand there, her eyes locked on my. Quietly, slowly, she beckons me toward her.

I fear I cannot breathe.

A/N: When I speak of Gemma as being old, I hope you understand that by the standards of her profession, she is. She is not a famous dancer or courtesan who may be able to care better for herself and heal the natural damage, and her lifestyle has taken a toll on her body. Besides, both she and Felicity feel old far beyond their years due to their pasts.