Author's note: this was originally uploaded to AO3, then cross-posted here.
Trigger warnings for this fic: prostitution, dubious consent, coarse language, kidnapping, drugging
November, 1880
Horse hooves crackled across the pavement. Christine stood in front of a boarded-up cafe, her father's violin under her chin.
The steady trickle of jingling coins echoed into her violin case. She tried to focus on the music, even as her fingers numbed with cold, too stiff to attempt a steady vibrato.
She had lived through many harsh winters, but never alone. Her father had kept her safe, kept her warm and fed, always at her side. Now hunger gnawed at her stomach and loneliness at her heart.
Half a year had passed since his death, and yet no time at all. He had left her without a penny to her name, only the promise of an Angel, one she knew never would appear. There was nothing to do but continue begging on the streets, with music instead of empty hands. At least then it didn't feel like charity.
The setting sun cast a pink glow onto the cream-colored bricks. She shut her eyes, trying not to think about where she would sleep, what she would eat, only the music, she only needed the music…
Her eyes opened as a handful of heavy coins clattered into her case. She froze upon meeting two deep-set eyes above a false nose and mustache.
The man was sickly pale and appeared to be, for want of a better description, a skeleton in a suit. He was well-dressed, his clothes pressed, and his shoes shone against the pavement.
His eyebrows rose. She hurried back to the strings, but only made it through a few bars before he spoke.
"You have not done this long," he said.
She stopped. The note hung between them in the cool air.
"I have all my life, monsieur," she replied.
"Then why did you stop upon my presence?"
"No one stops, monsieur… It surprised me."
His dark eyes roamed over the violin. She swallowed and looked down at her feet.
"I've seen you before," he said. "In Perros. I remember."
"Yes, Monsieur… my father and I stayed there for a time."
"Your father, the violinist… and why, then, do you play, Mademoiselle? Did you not sing before?"
"I did… but often people prefer to hear the violin on the street, not a voice."
"Well I do not," he said frankly, and gestured to the violin. "Come, put it down, and sing."
"Monsieur?"
"I will pay, don't fret… Come, what operas do you know? Or do you only sing with a fiddle?"
"I know a few pieces."
"Romeo et Juliette, perhaps?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Very well."
He folded his gloved hands in front of himself. She set down the violin and buried her frozen hands in her skirts for warmth, then sucked in a breath of biting air.
It was an impossible request- to sing Gounod, on the street, in the cold evening air, alone and unpracticed.
It was no surprise when her voice came out a frail, lifeless thing. The vibrato shook in time to her shivering, and her tone wobbled on the key notes. But the man watched, still and silent as stone, until at last the final note flew from her lips.
"You must not be the girl I heard before," he said coldly. "Your voice is a dead thing."
"Monsieur, it is too cold-"
"Only a poor craftsman blames his tools… But very well, you did as I requested, I will give you what is fair."
He dropped two more francs into the violin case. She looked down at the little pile of coins- mostly sous- and when she glanced back to the man, he was gone.
Perhaps she had imagined him. She shook her head to clear it even as she looked back down to see the twin francs, the sign that the strange man had truly been there.
She lifted the violin back to her shoulder and played.
…
February, 1881
Christine tilted her head towards the window. The bed she lay on had a broken spring in the middle, and the divot crushed against her back as her client clambered over her, his breath stinking of cheap wine.
How had she come to be here? She wondered that every night, despite knowing the answer. Her father had died. Music could not buy bread. And in December, when the snow fell, she had found a quiet niche in an alleyway to die. And indeed, she had nearly done so… nearly…
She had been so cold when they found her. Indeed, she could remember very little of it. Flashes of color, a warm cup in her hands, a nod of agreement to the terms…
Perhaps it would have been better to die.
Her client cursed and slapped her across the mouth. She whimpered and turned her head to look up at him. His forehead was shining with perspiration.
"If I wanted to fuck a corpse I would've gone to the morgue," he hissed. "Look at me."
"Yes, monsieur," she managed out.
That seemed to appease him. He resumed his harsh thrusts until he shuddered with a groan of satisfaction.
Then she was alone again in her little cell. There was only a bed within, a little grimy window, and a table and chairs. She slept during the day and awoke at night for whatever men they sent up to her. Most were tolerable enough- and indeed, it was not difficult to please them.
The girls were kind to her. Some she might even call her friends, on occasion. But mostly she kept to her room, waiting for clients to be sent up.
She turned up her lamp and went to the window. The stars were shrouded in dark clouds, and soon rain was coming down the glass in rivulets.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Christine?" came Charlotte's gentle voice. "He wants you to come downstairs. Amelie is unwell."
"Downstairs?"
"It's not too difficult, don't fret. Besides, it's a good thing- they'll pay you better… But be quick about it."
"Just a moment, I'll be down."
Charlotte's footsteps echoed down the stairs. Christine buried her head in her hands for a moment, inhaling shakily.
There was some distance to the act when done in her room, in the dim light. It was manageable. And the men sent up to her were mostly poor and, as such, needed to be quick about it. They did not care to fondle and gawk, only to rut her until they were spent.
She preferred that. She did not want to speak to them, to touch them. She did not want to be on display.
Of course, she had no choice in the matter. If she did not go, the owner would withhold her pay, or beat her, or both.
She slid on a sheer nightgown in dark blue, and headed down the flight of stairs as her knees threatened to buckle.
The owner stood at the bottom of the stairwell, staring at his watch. His lip curled beneath a red mustache.
He reached out to her shoulder and pulled the nightgown back further. She glanced towards the parlor, towards the colored ruffles and bows of the other women as they walked about the men, smoking or drinking in velvet chairs.
"You're bleeding," the owner said.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it on her lip. A bead of crimson blossomed onto the fabric.
She turned to the doorway, and he grabbed her arm to stop her.
"There are some rules, girl," he said sternly. "Don't let them get anything without paying, understood? And don't take them up without permission."
"Yes, monsieur."
"Good."
He released her arm. She handed him back the napkin and he tucked it into his waistcoat.
"Ah, who is this?" a young man called from the corner.
His lips were stained with wine. A woman Christine did not recognize, with dark eyes and dandelion hair, sat on his lap.
"Jehan, where have you been keeping this one?" the man asked.
The owner smiled. "Are you already interested, monsieur?"
Christine's cheeks burned. Eyes prickled her skin, wandering over her breasts, her shoulders, trying to peek through the sheer nightgown. It took all her determination to not to cross her arms about her breasts.
The hum of voices became indistinguishable. One of the women guided her to an older man, perhaps fifty or sixty, who slid a hand into her nightgown to fondle her breast, while his other clasped a glass of red wine.
"Such a tiny thing," he said, rubbing circles about her nipple. "I doubt you would even need to kneel to take me, hm?"
"If it pleases you."
"If it pleases me," he chuckled. "No tease to you, eh, dear? What a dull thing… come, anything interesting about you? Is that why I haven't seen you yet? Only fit for a quick one?"
"I sing, monsieur."
"Sing? Oh? I'd like to hear you sing, dear, with my cock in your mouth."
"That would be rather difficult," she replied simply.
He laughed, "This one can't take a joke, eh? Come, get off, I need an amusing one. Jehan?"
She slid off his lap and went to fetch a glass of water. Her hands were shaking, and as she picked up the glass a few drops spilled over the sides.
She glanced towards the doorway to the stairs, longing for her quiet room, with quiet clients and quick meetings.
Jehan stood there in the hallway, speaking to someone she could not see. He ran a hand through his fiery hair, scratching along the scalp.
She set down her glass and tilted her head, trying to make out the dark figure before him.
"Do you have a preference?" she heard Jehan ask the man, gesturing to the parlor.
The figure turned. Her heart stopped in her chest.
There stood the same skeletal man she had seen over two months prior, in the same false nose and mustache. His eyes were cold in their dark pits.
She ducked her head away. Please don't let him see-
"Christine!" Jehan called.
Her eyes watered. She turned back to the doorway, to Jehan's finger summoning her.
No, no, not this man, please…
She stepped forward on rubber legs, hoping perhaps she might trip on a broken tile and break her nose.
Jehan grabbed her shoulder and pulled her over to the man.
"This one, yes?" Jehan asked.
The man nodded. His eyes were cold and emotionless.
"She'll show you up then, monsieur," Jehan said.
She started up the stairs, and the skeleton-man followed closely behind. Up, up, up, to the dark hallway with one flickering gas lamp, and from there to her door, her little cell.
He entered behind her and shut to door. She sat down on the bed for fear her legs would give out.
His head tilted: a beast sizing up its prey. She swallowed.
"What would you like, monsieur?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"Do you remember me?" he said.
She faltered. Her hands balled in her skirts.
"Yes," she managed out. "Monsieur, I do."
He went to the wall and ran a slender fingertip over a crack in the old red wallpaper. His lip curled.
"I have not seen you here before," he said.
"I don't come downstairs."
"Ah. I see…"
His eyes had a glint to them, almost like gold.
"When did you come here?" he asked.
"January, monsieur… two months ago."
"So you discovered music makes a pauper's living, eh?"
She nodded slowly. He chuckled.
"Do you still have that violin?" he asked in a voice so soft, so gentle, she hardly recognized it as coming from the same man.
"Yes, Monsieur," she breathed.
"Let me see it."
She knelt down on the floorboards and reached underneath the bed for the case. It was coated in a thick layer of dust, and a small pile of rat feces clattered from it to the floor.
"You have not played," he said.
"They have no need of it."
"But you do… there is hunger in your eyes now, I see it. Indeed, the fact you kept the instrument instead of selling it… that tells me much. You would sooner sell your body than your soul."
"Monsieur?" she questioned.
He took the case from her and popped it open on the bed. His fingertips- those pale, spidery digits- reached out to run along the strings.
"Beautiful," he said.
He drew it up by the neck and brought it to his chin. She watched, still numb in surprise at this change in fate. This was certainly not what she had expected.
He began plucking the strings, tuning them one by one. She wondered if she ought to sit, or say something, or if he only wanted her to watch.
The bow was lifted up between his fingertips. He pulled the rosin across the white hair, tinged with gray at the edges. It needed to be replaced…
Then, with a swift, sure movement of his arm, the bow met the string, and the room was filled with sound and light.
She stood before him, breathless with delight as his fingers danced along the strings, pulling forth a long, harrowing melody. Her lips parted in awe. Indeed, it seemed that her own heartstrings were being drawn, to vibrate in time with the haunting notes. Tears were plucked from her eyes and trailed down her cheeks.
The cell vanished from view. Everything did, save the skeleton-man playing the violin.
The last note sounded, aching in her ears. She was pulled sharply from her reverie.
"Lovely," he said.
He set the instrument back in its case. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
"You are such a curious thing," he said in that same, tender voice.
Perhaps it was the music, or his voice, or both, but she found herself suddenly, inexplicably at ease with the man.
"Do you like it here, little dear?" he asked.
"Monsieur, I… I hardly know how to answer."
"Truthfully would be preferable."
"Well, I… no, Monsieur, I do not."
He nodded solemnly.
"What would you do to be free of this place?" he asked.
"Anything."
He repeated, "Anything."
He pulled shut the case and slid it back under the bed, then gestured to the quilted sheets.
"Come, I should get what I came for now."
She went over to the bed and climbed up onto it.
"How do you want me, Monsieur?" she asked.
"On your back- don't undress."
Her brow knitted in confusion, but she slid down to the edge of the bed on her back, then let her legs fall apart. Above her, the crack in the ceiling shone with water. It would begin leaking soon.
She heard the man fumbling with something, but she kept her eyes upwards. He was an exceptionally odd client, but kind, in his own way. She wondered if he would be kind with this, too.
He bent down over her. She continued staring at the ceiling, wondering why he was taking so very long, especially considering how much time had already been wasted.
In one swift movement, he pinned her arms above her head with one cold hand, while the over shoved a sweet-smelling cloth over her mouth and nose. She cried out, but it was muffled behind the handkerchief.
"Hush, it's all right," he whispered in her ear. "Don't struggle. Go to sleep, little dear…"
Black spots appeared in her vision like ink on wet paper. She kicked her legs until her limbs grew too heavy to stir, and the world faded away.