An Introductory Note from the Author: After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!

'Flowers' revealed so far: Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa; Lily - Historia; Poppy - Sasha.

Chapter 8: Give & Take

(Erwin Smith)

Smith watched Kirstein be seated by Mercedes on one of the chaises, and reflected on his decision to suggest Kirstein come with him. He had only been half-surprised by the other young man's subjugation of the pecking order – while he hardly expected any of the others to stand between him and his choices, there had been signs over the years that Kirstein might be the one to butt heads with him one day, and here it was. Interesting though it was that it would be here of all places, Smith couldn't help but feel excited by the prospect of turning this to his advantage.

He smiled, watching the scantily-clothed Spanish girl toy with Kirstein a little more. She was doing an artful job of relieving him of his dinner jacket. Let him have his fun, for a moment anyways, he thought. Soon it'll be my turn.

"Sir?" Cyrus queried, reminding Smith of the task at hand.

Smith nodded. He spoke softly, "As I've mentioned, I anticipate this to be my last visit. Of course, that also means that our bargain will reach its final stages. I trust you're prepared?"

Cyrus looked dismayed; he lowered his flat blue eyes and shook his head. He shrugged and held his arms wide, nervous laughter crackling his low voice as he said, "I'll have to be! I'm not the type to go back on my word, no matter what kind of establishment I run. And besides, you've settled the debts – I'm merely a roof at this point. But erm…" he looked to one side at Mercedes. "This one. Should I anticipate…?" he trailed off. His face was back to reluctance.

Smith also looked. He passed his gaze down her body, following the sinuously-draping lines of the gold chains from her hair to her shoulders to her torso, and down to the garters around her thighs and farther still, right to her ankles where the coins on those chains jingled as she unconsciously flexed her feet. Normally he was in the habit of waiting until afterward to settle things with Cyrus, believing that business often spoiled the fun, but considering this was the first time he would actually participate in buying the maidenhood of one of the Carousel's girls – not to mention the other pricetags that hung from her – things would have to be handled a little differently. However, he was fairly confident that the return on investment wouldn't be an issue. And even if, by some strange stretch of the imagination, it wasn't, it was the last night after all.

Smith smiled at Cyrus, and fished into the inside pocket of his jacket to procure a heavy, velvet drawstring bag. Cyrus' eyes lit up at the sight of it. "I believe you should anticipate everything," Smith said. He handed the fist-sized bag over to the older man.

Cyrus' stubby hands untied the drawstring and wormed into the sable-colored folds. With a pinch, he pulled out part of a coil of large pearls. He made an exasperated, amazed noise. They vanished almost as quickly as they'd emerged and Cyrus looked around furtively.

"Do take a few minutes to inspect it, if you must, but I trust you'll find that token satisfactory," Smith said. "The jeweler's certificate is also included – South Sea, gold luster, smallest at nine millimeters, largest at twenty."

"Smith," Cyrus began.

"I believe that will cover your asking price for her virtue, and more. Of course, if you agree, I'd like the occasion to give it to her myself. She should be able to wear it for at least one night."

After a moment's pause, Cyrus handed over the bag. Smith replaced it in his pocket. He looked up at the entry of both a waitgirl and a large African man in Arabic costume, presumably a eunuch. The waitgirl carried a tray complete with two bottles of champagne and two flutes.

"Well, I take this as my cue," Cyrus said, the joviality and volume returning to his voice. "Enjoy your champagne, gentlemen!"

Smith returned his attention to the Emerald Suite – true to its name, it was decorated lavishly in the style of a harem interior, with deep emerald green fabrics complimenting the mahogany furniture – four chaise lounges set in an angled square around a low table, heavily-carved Moroccan screens softening the corners – and matching the leaves of the orchids printed on the wallpaper. Amber-glassed pierced lanterns hanging at various heights above the center of the room were the only light, but they helped Mercedes stand out in an impressive way, as if she were covered in gold dust.

She was approaching him now, in fact, her kohl-lined eyes focused on his own. "About that 'earning of names'," she said. She stopped in front of him and ran her hand down his tie, untucking it from his waistcoat, "Shall we get on with it?"

He smiled at her, inhaling deeply the chypre scent on her skin and letting it linger in his nose when she walked away again to begin uncorking one of the champagne bottles. Smith made himself comfortable on the chaise next to Kirstein's. A casual glance in the other man's direction showed him still focused on the woman and not yet made uncomfortable by Smith's presence.

"Would either of you like a drink?" she asked. The champagne cork popped into the air and she set the bottle back on the tray, taking the entire thing from the waitgirl, who left.

"Why not," Smith agreed.

Mercedes and the African man moved through the chaises until they stood beside the low table. Smith watched with interest as the African wordlessly knelt in the middle of the table and she set the tray beside him, and then climbed onto it herself. With the African's help, she wrapped her legs around his waist and lowered her body until she hung outward, perfectly horizontal, with her loose hair cascading off the table and so nearly touching the men's knees. With one hand she swept aside the coin-chains away from the smooth part of her ribs just below her brassiere. She then placed the two champagne flutes in this small space, keeping them still with two fingers on their bases. Her other arm remained outstretched, touching nothing.

The African poured champagne into the flutes and once they were full, Mercedes carefully removed her fingers. Similarly, the African no longer held her aloft – he raised his hands and kept his eyes diverted. Though Smith could detect the tremble in her muscles by the way her hair quivered and the fact that he could see her pulse creating ripples in the champagne, the glasses did not topple with her breathing.

"Impressive," he said.

"Quite," Kirstein agreed.

Her red-painted lips curled into a satisfied smile, and the men retrieved their glasses. She gracefully lowered herself and withdrew from the African who, trick over, retreated from the room. Mercedes reclined on the table and watched them sip. "So, two of you. Am I in for a treat or a rivalry?"

Underneath the playfulness of her voice Smith detected that it was a genuine question. Whatever these women did now, they were still women: they'd come from a variety of backgrounds and just as any non-working-girl had concern for her own wellbeing, they did, too. And whatever it was that men like him sought from them, it was no excuse to deny them honesty. This didn't have to be a world of purely 'take'.

"The former, I'm sure," Smith said, hoping she would pick up on the genuine attempt at assurance in his voice.

But he knew he had to return his attention to Kirstein; he could feel his eyes on him and indeed, when he turned to his left, they were staring at him over the sip of champagne that so matched them. He tried to figure out what was behind them – was it exclusively judgment, or was there also curiosity?

"As I told you, Jean, I like to share. I do. You've known me on the battlefield and since then, as a friend. I'm sure your opinion of me wasn't so different from that of most – upstanding citizen, the epitome of honor – and equally, I'm sure it's changing now. I won't attempt to deny that change. We all have our vices – some just take longer to discover theirs."

"And yours…yours is this?" Kirstein asked.

Smith smirked as he confessed, "I was unfortunately slapped with numerous varieties of 'this'." Images ran through his mind of all the things he'd been introduced to and enjoyed over the years, the things he'd researched surreptitiously in his spare time, the fantasies he'd had. "However, though I like to share," he beckoned to her and, cautiously obliging, Mercedes slinked across the gap between table and chaise to sit half-beside him, half-on him, "there is one thing you must understand. There are some things I like to keep for myself." He trailed his fingertips up the smooth plane of her exposed thigh, catching on the chains that formed the delicate garter there and following the one that acted as harness ever-upward, parting what little silk remained around her waist in the process. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement that suits us both."

Kirstein's eyes rose from following Smith's hand on her thigh. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and then took another sip of champagne. Smith smiled knowingly to himself. "You mean you'd like to be first," Kirstein surmised quietly. His eyes went back to Smith's hand settling into the crook made by her thigh and hip.

Smith sipped his own champagne and set the flute aside on a side table. "Yes, though you've hardly much choice in that regard, since I'm the one who paid Cyrus' asking price."

In the pause that followed, his and Mercedes' eyes met. Understanding washed over her face and slowed her movements; her eyes lowered, and she glanced at Kirstein ever so briefly before gently rising and rearranging herself to sit astride Smith's lap, facing him. Smith procured the drawstring bag again and pulled out the long, heavy rope of pearls before tossing the bag aside on the table. The lariat cascaded from his palm and through his fingers between them into their laps; it was likely nearly as long as she was tall and he doubled the single strand before taking both ends and holding it above her head. With a sort of reverence Mercedes took hold of her hair at the nape of her neck and lifted it away; Smith hung the lariat around her neck and passed the loose ends through the loop he'd made, letting the remaining length tumble down her back. The golden luster of the gems warmed further as they lay against her skin.

To her curious face, he said gently, "Though it did cover his asking price, I hope you consider it a gift that may go some way to covering yours." His fingers ran down her spine; the pearls tapped along his nails in tandem.

She reached behind her and drew one of the lariat's tails in front of her, running her fingers over the larger pearl at the end. Smith intuited that she had some idea of how much money was around her neck and that she'd likely never touched anything as valuable. Her sanguine lips parted; her breathing was deep and even.

"A payment is a payment," she murmured, "a physical thing traded for a physical thing. It is only immaterial gifts that can be traded for something as intangible as virtue. And how ironic that you would pay for such a transaction with pearls, a stone of purity and innocence."

Smith nodded once. "Then you both misunderstand and understand me, without realizing," he said. "Money may have bought it, yet it is ultimately but a symbol of what will be given later."

"Then I suppose I'm obliged to say you've won your prize," Mercedes said. Her fingers released the tail of the lariat and it slipped over her shoulder. Her hands were then smoothing up his chest, catching the lapels of his jacket and drawing them back.

He hummed a little, thinking of what was to come. "Or perhaps it's you that's won yours."