Chapter Text
The air reeked of dust and sun-baked stone, of salt and fatigue and overripe fruit, carried in by the miserly breeze wending through the bars which let daylight in. It was the stench of shameful captivity, the humiliation of powerless endurance, which allowed neither the luxury of dignity, nor the relief of mindless acceptance. The sole, mean concession made to pride remained the lack of overt observation from the other occupant of the cellar.
Dora forced her eyes upon the motes of dust floating in their lazy dance. She forced herself to breathe in through her nose as the pain swelled, cutting sharply across her lower back. More than anything, Dora wished she could simply fall back against the pillar whose support she had just abandoned; to lay down her arms, if only for a moment. Her hips trembled, pushed into motion. Her knees screamed in protest. It hurt, from the tip of her toes to the crown of her head. And because it hurt, she could not cease. Her jaw worked against the soaked length of cloth muffling the chattering of her teeth.
The muscles in her right leg seized, contracting against the strain and cruel usage. Dora had less than a moment to ponder the inelegant heap she would make, her face firmly planted against the filthy floor beneath her, unable to rise until her captor deigned to return and lift her. Panic drove her into a desperate swerve. But she was too late. Her bound hands struck forth to break the fall, though Dora suspected the numbness made them useless.
The ground came up to meet her, even as turned her head to the side. Temple struck stone flooring. Pain reverberated through her skull. She winced, her sight wavering and distorting into an explosion of colour. The cacophony of hues settled into dull shades of grey after some length of time which she could not guess at. Her eyes closed against every last bit of torturous sensation. Dora drew in a laboured breath past the protest of her too-tight lungs.
And then she felt it; the last in a long line of humiliations – tears. They stung her eyes even as she turned to blinking rapidly in a bid to dislodge them, or else dry them away.
Brittle fright splintered with the punishing creak of an opening door. Dora fought to raise the head which felt too heavy. Her glare hardened, struggling to put every curse she could not utter into one venomous look by way of greeting.
She froze, eyes widening with new terror.
He’d brought more men. The blood chilled in her veins as her mind, given fertile ground to raise its nursery of nightmares, supplied Dora with the fate in store for her. Her body, already a stranger to her commands, failed to move even as danger approached.
One of the men broke away from the rest, stepping towards her. “Marsac, in God’s name! What is this?” He knelt, reaching both hands out. Dora flinched at the feel of his touch. She wanted to shake him off. But all she could do was bear it. He hoisted her up, the strength in his arms enough to bring her to a sitting position. His eyes darted back to Marsac, who was being restrained by another, a heavyset man. Without looking, her unexpected benefactor began feeling the back of her head for the knot of the mouth gag. “Who is she?”
“Bait,” Marsac sneered, his hateful glance stabbing at her. He motioned with his head to where Dora knew Jean Maurier remained submerged into unconsciousness. “She’s not the important one here. Don’t waste your time on a wench who can’t speak a word of French.” A sound of protest escaped the giant, who, having grabbed hold of Marsac’s shoulder, gave him a firm shake.
The knot loosened and the cloth, with its uncomfortable wet weight, slid out of place. Dora watched the men before her warily, trying to put the pieces together in some semblance of sense. That they knew Marsac could not be in doubt. And they were not moving to set Jean Maurier free proved equally undisputable. Dora tensed as the one who’d freed her mouth returned his eyes upon her. “Vi prego, non mi fate male,” she rasped, past her chattering teeth, her mouth dry with thirst and dread. “Per carità, non mi toccate.” She brought up her bound hands with difficulty, fighting to unclench fingers which had curled in and would not obey her will. Her eyes darted from the man kneeling before her to the others, trying to judge which way the wind blew.
The giant had his hands full with Marsac. The young man by him looked about the cellar with obvious distaste and not a small amount of shock. There was a third stranger, who eyed her with a cold sort of stare. Dora shivered but her gaze instantly swivelled to the kneeling man who’d grabbed hold of her bound wrists. She tried to pull back at the sight of naked steel, but once more her body failed her. The man cut through her bonds with his dagger. Dora could not help a small whimper as the scratchy rope chafed against her raw wrists in its fall.
“Do not be afraid,” the stranger said. “I am Aramis, of the King’s Musketeers. You are safe.” He gave her a soothing smile. A practiced smile.
“Vi chiedo perdono, non comprendo,” she answered carefully, after a moment’s consideration. It would be best not to let on that she understood them. Not until she knew more about who exactly they were.
“She’s obviously in shock, Aramis,” the solid fellow commented. “And no wonder,” he grunted, giving Marsac a pointed look. “You cad, that’s no way to treat a woman.”
Marsac snorted. “She has no one to thank but her lover over there.” He glared at Dora. “Sì, il tuo amante.” He was silenced with a sharp look.
Dora tried to protest, but attention had shifted to Jean Maurier. The man with the cold eyes moved nearer Aramis. “Give her to d’Artagnan; he’ll see her to Madame Bonacieux’s. We’ll question the woman after.”
D’Artagnan, Dora understood, was the young man, for he reacted immediately, not altogether pleased with his charge; he scowled, a counterpoint to the practiced smile she could still see on Aramis’ face as he coaxed into moving alongside him; a brief assurance delivered in what men must take for a soothing tone reaching her ears.
Aramis held her up gently and handed her over, warning his young friend to keep a steady hand on her arm. Dora assumed he’d sensed the weakness in her legs. “The faster you take her, the sooner you can return.”
And that was the end of that.
She moved slowly; her legs unsteady with discomfort. Despite his obvious displeasure at the task, her young companion did not hurry her along, seeming to moderate his pace for her to follow. He did not attempt to speak to her, which was just as well. Dora wondered what manner of place he would be taking her to and who this Madame Bonacieux might be. Her sluggish mind grasped the implications of Marsac’s words at length. She had been branded a lover; a harlot, in other words. She felt a flare of heat; indignation and ire swelled. Her objections, instinctive and quiet, had not seemed to matter in the least. And now she was being taken to only God knew where. Dora had nothing but prayer to rely on, begging, in the quiet of her own mind, that her legs would not falter and that she might find some way to get through this trial as well.
One foot in front of the other, she reminded herself bracingly. The uncomfortable tingling had not stopped, but she was at least beginning to feel the firmness of the ground beneath her. Dora’s eyes, however, were on her surroundings. She had seen little enough of Paris in Marsac’s keeping, for he had arrived by night and shoved her into the cellar with nary a care for her edification. As a matter of fact, Dora only knew they were in Paris because it had been mentioned by Marsac himself.
A soft sigh escaped her lips as they entered a narrow lane lined with dreary looking houses. She could see linens left out to dry and clothing. Though with some difficulty, she judged the make to be fit for the merchant class. Perhaps, after all, her fate would not be as bad as she had feared, whatever questioning awaited her.
In a few moments longer, they were stood on the doorstep of an unexceptional house, with d’Artagnan firm knocks ringing in Dora’s ears. She took a moment to observe the small patch of dirt which served as a yard. It bore a slight air of neglect.
A woman flung the door open, recalling Dora’s attention; the cast of this stranger’s face suggesting irritation. “And who is this; another one of your friends?” Her eyes raked Dora over and something in her expression shifted. Ire gave way to confusion. “What is going on here? Who are you bringing in my house now, d’Artagnan?” Despite those words, she motioned them in, moving aside so both might enter.
D'Artagnan flushed. “I don’t know her right name. She doesn’t speak French.” He turned towards Dora, giving her a long look. “Marsac was keeping her in a cellar.”
The woman Dora supposed to be Madame Bonacieux, given her claim upon the property, crossed herself, a scandalised grasp leaving her lips. “In God’s name! She needs a physician. Look at the state of her.”
Dora resisted the urge to wince as two sets of eyes pinned her. She was well aware she looked a fright; more than, even. Her clothes, which had been quite neat when she had first donned them, bore the smudges of captivity, even as her wrists bore the wounds of rough rope digging into flesh. She was likely flushed as well, for she felt a terrible heat burning through her veins and feared a fever. At least the clattering had stopped and her teeth were finally quiet.
D’Artagnan’s gaze returned to Madame Bonacieux. “We need to question her first.”
The woman’s indignant scoff would have been enough of a response on its own, but the generous Madame Bonacieux did not deprive young D’Artagnan of words either. “You have been keeping that man in my home, comfortable, warm and fed, all the while his victim has been suffering. And now she must be questioned before a physician can see her?”
Their argument went briefly on. But Dora, giving it little heed, used the time to carefully dig her hand into the slit in her skirt, rummaging through the small pouch that held all of her belongings for the time being. She reached her goal, eyes trained on the mistress of the house; her fingers curled around cool metal, feeling her way along the knotted line until she could work the pendant hanging upon it free. She allowed the pendant to slide safely deeper inside the pocket. A golden chain was slowly drawn out from its hidden nest.
“Signora,” Dora called out with some difficulty, her parched throat making the words difficult to produce at such a volume. She held out the offering, speaking quieter. “Non ho denaro. Ma questo è oro.”
“Oh dear, no,” Madame Bonacieux protested, moving past d’Artagnan at the sight of the proposed imbursement. She gave Dora a pronounced shake of the head. “You will certainly not be paying me.” She pointed towards the sole male in their midst. “He will.” Then, she took Dora’s hand in her own and turned it gently, making certain the length of the chain was coiled tightly in its owner’s palm. Madame Bonacieux brought her free hand up, pointing to herself. “Constance.” Then, she pointed towards Dora. “And yourself?”
Though she was quite against the notion of having d’Artagnan pay for her, Dora decided the matter could wait. For the moment, she had to gather herself. And this Constance seemed disposed to offer her the shelter. In return for that kindness, Dora, imitating the woman’s gesture, pointed to herself and said simply, “Dora.”
“Dora then,” the other woman nodded. She reached out and took Dora by the arm gently. “Come, let us get you cleaned and fed.” By way of explanation, she made a laving motion across Dora’s arm. Constance turned to look at d’Artagnan one more time. “What are you still doing here? Have you no other business to attend to?” On that dismissive note, Constance led Dora out of the chamber and up a flight of stairs into what she assumed to be the private part of the house.
Ushered into a small bedchamber, Dora found herself on the receiving end of a careful and compassionate inspection, enduring the scrutiny despite the sharp burst of exasperation at being once more intruded upon. It did not seem to matter that this transgression was born out of kindness. Schooling her features carefully, Dora mentally beat back that uncomplimentary reaction.
She was brought a comb, warm water and a soft cloth, along with a small plate of cold meats and cheese and some wine to drink. “Something to tie you over until later,” Constance offered, making an eating motion for Dora’s benefit. Then she mimed taking her own clothes off and folding them on a chair, before nodding her head to the door. “I will be back.”
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Dora managed a faint, “Vi sono molto obbligata.” In response, Constance gave a gentle nod, guessing the meaning if not the exact feelings.
Dora waited a beat, listening to the door shut in her hostess’ wake, before she set about disrobing. She worked the lacing free, peeling away the first layer of cotton and the bodice under. Her silken petticoats followed. Then Dora untied her purse and placed it near the plate, where she might keep an eye on it. Her fingers loosened the corset next, taking a deep, relieved breath. Her stockings went after. Only her thin chemise was left. She debated completing her ablutions with that final shield of decorum against her skin, but could not bring herself to forgive the remaining vestige of captivity, even for propriety’s sake. Dora pulled the garment off and flung it away from herself, the only release she permitted herself.
She picked up the cloth, dipping it in the warm water and lathering it with soap, her movements brisk. Dora rubbed at the grime with resolve until her skin reddened. She ignored the sting of the soapy water running down her abused wrists. The mild scent, with just a hint of olive, floated up on wisps of steam. Dora frowned. She patted the cloth against the scrapes, continuing with the upper limbs and then the lower ones and then the rest. Wet, rinse, lather and sweep firmly, the same motions repeated over and over again until no speck of dirt, nor trace of acrid sweat remained.
A knock on the door, just as she’d wrapped a drying sheet around her nakedness, no doubt announced Constance’s return. Dora opened her mouth to allow entry, almost switching to French by mistake, “Ve–“ She clamped her lips shut instantly and made a show of clearing her throat loudly. “Entri pure,” she called out, tugging the sheet tighter against her bare skin.
The door opened and Constance peeked her head in. “Ah, you’ve not wasted one moment.” She made her way within, holding what looked to be a clean chemise, petticoat and an outer robe. Dora supposed they belonged to the mistress of the house. Constance deposited the garments on a chair, moving aside both to give Dora some privacy and in order to provide practical aid. “Let me have a look at that bodice of yours.”
The sheet dropped from around Dora’s shoulders as soon as Constance settled into the task of inspecting the bodice. Dora, for her part, grabbed hold of the clean chemise, drawing it over her head and hurriedly shoving her arms through the sleeves. As expected, the hem, which might have fallen about mild-calf on Constance, ran well past that point on Dora. Beggars could not be choosers. She carefully adjusted the neckline for decency. She tied her pouch firmly thereafter as well. The petticoat, clean undyed linen, fastened neatly enough around Dora’s waist. The hem of the skirts needed pinning, if she was to walk about and not make a spectacle of herself by tripping over her own feet.
Turning to Constance, Dora found her holding up the bodice. “It looks fine to me,” the woman commented. “I’ll air it out for you,” Constance went on, nodding the direction of the window and giving the garment a shake before gesturing towards the bed. “Stay here and rest a little.”
Rest; Dora’s eyes moved towards the bed. Its pristine state, the clean sheets and inviting bedding called to her. And yet, with the door once more shut upon Constance’s egress, she could not bring herself to answer the call. Her entire being tensed, despite every assurance of safety her own eyes provided.
No one could learn she understood the French tongue or her life was forfeit. She had almost given herself away; the thought sparked a flicker of anger. To have been brought in such a state was beyond insulting. Under no circumstances could she repeat the mistake. For the time being, at least, the absence of her bodice protected her. It kept the King’s Musketeers, or whatever they had called themselves, from applying too close a scrutiny to her. And perhaps whatever they extracted from Marsac and his captive might prove enough to cast her into the shadow of irrelevance. Dora sighed and crossed herself, muttering a soft prayer under her breath. She reached into her purse and stroked the heavy pendant settled at the bottom.
If only she might somehow manage to send word to her brother. Alas, she could see no way to do so without raising undue questions. Dora neared the window and directed her gaze to the cramped and unkempt square of dirt below. Fate, cruel mistress, had played her once more, placing her heart’s desire tantalisingly out of reach.