Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Warning: Contains implied underage sex. This chapter is slightly long and more than slightly screwed up. I know the ending is awkward, but it will tie in with the next chapter.

Viridiana Elisabetta Gianina. Ten years old and small for her age. Sent by her father to stay with his brother's family. Distinctly irritated at seeing them discuss her fate in front of her face.

"Silly for a girl that little to have such a long name. Best call her Anna, you think?"

"Make it Annina, so's not to confuse her with Anna Maria."

"I still don't see why we need have her here at all. Gianni runs off to marry, then expects us to take in his brat once things go wrong..."

"Hush, you. His wife's just died; leave him be. We can at least take in the child until things are going right for him. At least she's an only."

"That's how Marietta died, y'know, trying to remedy that."

"Where's the girl going t'stay, eh? We haven't the space."

"Put her in with Mama; they can keep each other company."

Knowing laughter ended the conversation, and Viridiana Elisabetta Gianina—Annina from then on—was swept into a life she had yet to comprehend.

She was the only girl child. There were her aunt and uncle, naturally, and their five sons; the two eldest had married and the youngest was a good eight years her senior. At first she registered no names save that of one of the servants, who was of course called Anna Maria.

It was the other servant who picked up her scraped suitcase and introduced her to the quilt-swathed creature of scales and sandpaper who was presumably her grandmother. "Your Nonna Viridiana," the maid said unceremoniously. "She sleeps, mostly, so you'll have to be quiet."

Nonna Viridiana did more than sleep. In time, she became the family member the girl felt the most at ease with. When the old woman produced an intricate pack of cards one day and asked if she wanted lessons, Annina dubiously agreed. She had no idea what Nonna Viridiana meant by lessons, but she acquiesced partially to humor the old woman and partially because they filled her spare time.

"This one means hope, but also change and despair; this one stands for sadness and forthrightness; this one for passion..." And so on for what seemed like hundreds of cards. It was nothing if not time-consuming; Nonna Viridiana could spend hours tangentially discussing the facets of a single card. Annina was frustrated at first; they all seemed to contradict each other. In a way, it was the challenge of it that caused the lessons to become more than the diversion Annina had anticipated.

Time passed swiftly; days, weeks, months of Annina's tiny doll-like hands turning the cards, flinging them down; of Nonna Viridiana, whose own withered hands were almost as small, and whose wavering eyes were those of a madwoman, reproaching and reminding and haphazardly teaching the girl French. "You'll travel," she announced once, "so you might as well know another tongue, and this is all I have to teach." It was half-mad French she learned, as Nonna Viridiana's mind was subject to lapses of its own and the old woman had never actually picked up more of the language than books and French peddlers had to offer.

"This isn't a good place for you," she said another time, shooting out a skeletal arm to grasp her granddaughter's wrist. "There's a long time coming before you find one that is good; you'll be moved about, but not of your own accord. You'll travel soon, did you know?" Her voice grew thick and aimless here, as it sometimes did, and Annina didn't bother replying that yes, she knew. In spite of her grandmother's state, it never occurred to her that the woman's expertise with the cards might be questionable.

So she slept in Nonna Viridiana's room, learned to answer when they called her Annina, and gradually felt somewhat a part of the household.

But Nonna Viridiana could be infuriating, once remarking, as her granddaughter came in with her supper, that Annina never seemed to mind fetching and carrying for her.

"Everyone else has other things to do and it's no trouble for me," Annina answered, certain the old woman would approve of the pious reply. But Nonna Viridiana shook her head with a brittle laugh. "No, it's because you're the most expendable," she said glibly. "It would matter the least if you were taken ill—better you than part of the real family."

"I am part of the real family," Annina retorted, miffed, "and they wouldn't want me to die."

"Of course they wouldn't wish it on you, but there's no doubt you're the one they'd mind losing the least. They take you in and feed you and treat you well, but there will always be a barrier. Your father made them angry and some of that anger has seeped into what they feel towards you."

"Then I guess you're not a part of it either. They sit around and wait for you to die, not even brave enough to visit you all that often. I bring you your food, I keep you company so they don't have to."

"I'm terribly old, sick in the mind, just ask anyone. I won't be long in going. Take the cards and see for yourself."

Annina scowled, wondering why she had brought the old bat any supper at all. "If you're so smart, I don't have any reason to doubt you."

And as always, her grandmother was right. She was dead before the week was out. Annina clutched the cards as the rest of her relatives filed into the tiny room.

When it came time for the funeral, they had a letter from Annina's father informing them he would not be home for it. She heard angry voices through the walls, before her uncle stormed outside, snarling, "He'll find out what it's like to have your family turn on you," with a vehemence that sent a strange apprehension shooting through Annina like lightning.

It was cousin Calvino who did it. She trusted him the most and thought nothing of it when he offered to take her on a trip. "You're twelve now, aren't you?" he teased, tossing her in the air like a rag doll. "Ready for anything, isn't that right? Even France?"

She had laughed and nodded, thinking only of France and the chance to try out the language in its native land, hardly hearing him as he declared, "Good. Then you're coming with me into Grenoble, for I need to make a trade."

She had been stupid to believe him, and she rebuked herself for it often. In corners, beds, doorways; alone, fingers or fists stuffed in her ears or mouth; wanting to disappear or at least lose her mind, leaving nothing behind save a gutted girl who would have no such memories to bear. Expendable, as Nonna Viridiana had said, and so, so stupid... This was Grenoble, then. She had caught only a glance of it before going with Calvino to eat supper and whatever else had been in it. She woke up in the shadows and remained wrapped in the same dress for days afterward. They must have pawned the contents of her suitcase after the "trade" was finalized. It was torn and filthy in no time by her struggles, but the cards, at least, were still in one pocket. In that shadowy nowhere, surrounded by figures who seemed extensions of the shadows themselves, she turned them to stay sane, seeking comfort in the familiar skulls and stars.

She wasn't the youngest one there. Some of the smallest still came back from their engagements crying.

That was what they were called, engagements. You, I want at least three more engagements this week or no meals. You, you're wanted for an engagement at half past one. You, haven't you had any engagements yet tonight?

There were sometimes those who preferred tears. It made them feel more powerful or some such thing, Annina guessed, something she could almost find funny at times. It didn't take much power to make a child cry. The first time, the realization of her predicament hadn't fully registered and she spent the night biting through her lips and sobbing into her fist when if was over. And so on, until she became so accustomed she stopped crying at all. It was the only thing that truly scared her, that she had gotten used to this.

Outside of the engagements she sometimes wrote to occupy herself, scribbling down fading memories and snatches of poetry in her native Italian or garbled French. But mostly it was the cards that made for good entertainment. She read for the others and scarcely glanced at the cards, either lying through her teeth and haltingly telling of wonderful things to come, or turning it into a joke and predicting horrible things to befall their keepers or clients.

Then it was back on the job with the rising of the moon. The older ones painted the faces of the young, then did their own and stepped out to work, androgynous as a procession of dolls in their ribbons and curls. A stream of pretty faces with their networks of hairline cracks cunningly concealed with powder. The progeny of a master craftsman. The fanciful metaphors stretched on and on. Some of them had been in the trade a long time; there was one hunchbacked girl with a face like a martyr, even without makeup—she no longer needed it by this point, really—who was extremely popular. Annina went out with the rest of them, hair swept back from her peaked face, lips reddened, looking like a carnival mask. Tiny but tough, the keeper claimed; she can take anything. True enough; there were ten-year-olds larger than she was, and her only tears were the ones she inked on when she fancied playing a pierrette for the night.

Occasionally she would be kept out longer than usual and given a good meal as coins changed hands. Then it was off for a long carriage ride, more coins would change hands, and she would find herself in the same situation but in a different location. It would stay that way for a while, the duties the same as before. Sometimes she never knew the name of the city; all of those are the same as well, when one only sees the underside. And after being sold and traded through a string of similar boxlike operations, she gave up keeping track altogether. Conditions were better in some, worse in others. One place lacked even beds; the children curled together on the floor like half-grown rodents. She remembered that one because it was there that she first caught the chills. They kept her in bed—or rather, on the floor—for a good three weeks, shivering ceaselessly and eating rarely. No doctor, naturally. By the time it was over, she was too emaciated for anyone to take an interest in. At fourteen, she was also old, even if she didn't look it.

Annina was done away with without ceremony. When she came to one morning she was convulsing on the street instead of the floor, left with nothing to do but seek out a floor of her own. After two years, she even had a bed to go with it.

That was how she met Elénore. The girl, assuming Annina's flat was unused (which was understandable, given how bare it was) had decided to spend the night there. Annina had the chills again, worse than usual after the long day and the cold, and nearly fainted when she saw the form in her bed. Once it was established that Elénore had known no better and that Annina's nosebleed would stop as a matter of course, the two of them reasoned they might as well share the room as it was.

They got along well enough to develop a friendship, although Elénore baffled her roommate at times. She was a wispy dreamer a few years older than Annina and often reminded the latter of tragic heroines in the cheap romances sold by street venders. She had been married repeatedly and spoke often of her hope to marry again, something Annina could never comprehend.

"Love is all there is to live for," Elénore would profess with an ardor any bohemian would envy, prompting a grimace from Annina. "You mean to say you've never thought of marrying?"

"Not really."

It wasn't entirely true. She had memories of such things, of Nonna Viridiana nodding at her, saying, "Here, do the cross spread—no, the wedding spread, and try to get it right this time. What sort of man will you marry, Annina?"

As always, the answer was the same. "I won't."

Marriage had never been one of Annina's concerns. As a girl, she had fantasized every now and then about marrying a wealthy baron and living in luxury, but she was rational enough to see the silliness of it. The cards' reply to that particular question never bothered her, but Nonna Viridiana seemed disconcerted by it. Now it appeared to make perfect sense.

No matter how magnificent Elénore professed love to be, Annina could never help but respond to the declarations with more than a sigh and a shake of her head. Love seemed to her more an annoyance than anything else. There was trouble enough surviving on one's own; why add another person into the equation and double the difficulty? Annina also noticed that for someone so intent on attaining and glorifying love, Elénore was subject to impressively intense bouts of depression. Mentally, she pegged her flatmate as something of a failed idealist.

And then she found out why: Elénore fell in love at the drop of a hat. Literally. Annina had once seen her go out of her way to catch a gentleman's hat that had blown off, had seen the rapture shining in the girl's eyes when the fellow thanked her and kissed her hand.

In a way, it was pathetic. Elénore would give herself to anyone, always with the hope that she would have her own needs met in return. And that itself was difficult enough. Annina overheard many heartfelt arguments between the other girl and the men she brought home—always consisting of tearful exclamations along the lines of, "I don't want your pity, I want you to say you love me,"—and each time reasserted her own vow never to succumb to such desperation herself.

Yet Elénore never stopped rhapsodizing about how love was all there was to live for. Annina wasn't so cruel as to point out that Elénore didn't seem to have much to live for if that was the case, but she did carefully mention that such susceptibility was hardly an auspicious trait for a woman of their profession. There was something pathetic about a whore falling for her clients, yet that was exactly what happened. Day in, day out, Elénore came home with her makeup smudged and her eyes swollen.

Inevitably, once Elénore found out about the cards, she requested readings. Every time, Annina would say she didn't need a card to tell what was in Elénore's future

"There is a man," she said without bothering to deal. "You worship him. You expect to be married soon, but the one you hope to marry is indifferent, though he never says so. He either takes you for granted or doesn't care. You're always the one to say you love him and then you unfailingly have an absurd little argument because he won't say it back unless you drag it out of him."

Peering with ice-blue incredulity at Annina through a fall of pale coppery hair, Elénore blinked. "You're a cynic, did you know that? But really, have you ever been in love?"

Annina gave her a grimace and a shuddery shrug. "I'd like to keep my head, thanks, not lose it to someone."

"That's losing your heart, you mean," Elénore corrected.

"No," Annina said seriously, "it's your head."