Chapter 4
The next day.
After finishing lunch, Josée, Serge, and the others each boarded their own carriages and began the return journey to the royal capital, Torunie.
Inside Josée’s carriage, the courtesans huddled together, whispering like schoolgirls sharing a juicy secret.
“Josée, you were up late talking with Serge-sama, weren’t you? What happened?”
Josée gave a noncommittal shrug. “Nothing happened.”
“Oho? Were you kindling a romance when we weren’t looking?”
“I told you, it’s not like that.”
But that only confirmed their suspicions. In their minds, that meant Serge was officially a target.
“Serge-sama is the definition of dashing, isn’t he? I heard he’s the second of four brothers.”
“I wonder if all of them could become patrons of Lirondelle~”
“Eh, but under primogeniture, younger sons in noble families are usually broke, right?”
“No surprise he had to go into politics, then. But politicians nowadays are practically powerless. All the authority lies with the Royal Advisory Committee. Apparently, nothing important ever gets passed anymore.”
“That’s just dysfunction. It’s like they’re giving the representatives a monthly allowance to play pretend. Tranlene’s political system is fundamentally broken. They keep copying structures from more developed countries without understanding the core of how they work.”
Josée opened up the morning paper with a flutter, and the gossip came to an abrupt halt.
It was a daily ritual—Josée would read the newspaper aloud to the others, who couldn’t read themselves.
The courtesans leaned in attentively. Most of Lirondelle’s clients were nobles or well-educated merchants, far above the courtesans in both status and schooling. Without staying informed on current events, they wouldn’t be able to hold meaningful conversations. To please high-profile clients, constant study was a must.
“‘Headless corpse murders… Still no leads on the culprit,’” Josée read aloud.
Rocked gently by the carriage, the four women made their quiet return to the royal capital—the hell they called home.
***
Night fell.
Brothel Lirondelle stood in the heart of the capital’s central district, nestled among chic boutiques and elegant restaurants. Its façade resembled that of a noble’s villa, complete with an ornate balcony from which courtesans once leaned out, beckoning to enchanted clients below.
The district was dotted with brothels, spaced just so—close enough for convenience, far enough for discretion. It was a setting that let men transition seamlessly from the mundane to the extraordinary.
The usual flow went something like this: during the day, courtesans would relax in cafés that had become de facto meeting spots. Potential clients would stroll by, scanning for a courtesan who caught their interest.
High-class courtesans never solicited on the streets—doing so was considered vulgar. Independent prostitutes were officially banned, too, in an effort to curb venereal diseases. So any courtesan walking openly through town during the day was affiliated with a brothel. If a man was interested, the courtesan would guide him to her establishment by evening.
Tonight, Lirondelle welcomed guests once again.
The courtesans greeted their clients dressed in outfits tailored to each man’s preferences. For regulars, they sometimes even wore matching themed costumes.
Some men came simply to dine and chat.
Others requested Josée by name, wanting to discuss business or gather information.
But most came seeking a fleeting taste of love in one of the brothel’s private rooms. Some rooms mimicked ordinary bedrooms, while others embraced more exotic themes—like the infamous guillotine room, or the ever-popular chinoiserie suite, lavishly decorated with ornate furnishings. A luxurious, one-of-a-kind space, it had been designed by Lirondelle’s previous owner, Marlène, as a signature attraction. Every brothel competed by showcasing its own unique charm.
Josée’s strength lay in her fluency in three languages, which made her a favorite among foreign tourists. She also maintained ad contracts with three overseas newspapers. Tranlene’s long stretch of peace had preserved its ancient architecture, turning the entire capital into a living museum. A brothel where language wasn’t a barrier held immense appeal, drawing visitors from neighboring nations—yet another reason Lirondelle maintained its edge.
By dawn, the dreams ended and the clients disappeared.
Exhausted, the courtesans stripped off their personas and bathed, scrubbing away the scent of other men. Amid the fragrant steam, Josée counted the night’s earnings.
Their pay system was simple: 10% of food and drink sales, half of all personal earnings, and the entirety of their tips. It was a far cry from the murky accounting of other brothels, which deducted room fees, costume rentals, and décor costs before doling out monthly wages. Josée insisted on daily payments—large lump sums, she warned, only tempted people to overspend. Daily wages kept their financial instincts sharp.
Once the ledger was updated and the earnings distributed, the madam’s morning responsibilities were done.
Josée drifted into sleep under the light of the rising sun.
***
The 23rd arrived.
Frédéric had made a reservation for today. Josée opened the brothel with a quiet tension in the air.
The first to arrive was Serge.
The reception area was empty, thick with the lingering scent of makeup and stale alcohol—a raw, lonely stillness hanging in the air.
When Josée spotted Serge’s awkward expression, she put on a mask of surprise.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Baradur’s esteemed representative. Is this your first time here?”
Serge looked as if he’d just run into a long-lost cousin on the street. Flustered, he forced a sheepish smile.