The town was quaint in the annoying way rich places always are. Cobbled streets, flower boxes, hand-carved signposts with names like The Sober Goose and Elderberry & Sons Apothecary, even though the only "son" looked old enough to pickle. There were two whole taverns, three if you counted the wine bar that didn't serve ale, and more artisanal shops than practical ones. Bread was sourdough. Candles were infused. Everything reeked of rosemary and superiority.
I was in a cordwainer's shop, surrounded by supple leather and the judgmental silence of good taste. The sandals I was currently lacing up were delicious. Sky-blue straps, soft as sin, winding halfway up my calves like some nymph fresh from a forest orgy. Slight heel. A little gaudy even for my whorish taste. Perfect for sauntering into a tavern and scamming men out of their coin. Less perfect for running when things inevitably went tits up.
The shopkeeper, a thin man with fingers like violin strings and the expression of someone who ironed his underclothes, tilted his head.
"Do you need any help, my lady?"
I looked up from my crouch and gave him the full treatment—lashes bared, lips parted just so, baby blues locked in like a predator that hunted wallets. "Call me Princess," I purred.
His throat bobbed.
I stood, did a slow spin, admired the effect in the brass mirror. "I'm on a journey," I said wistfully, as if I'd been summoned by fate and not by a desperate need to find shoes that didn't smell like swamp and regret. "To reclaim what was stolen."
He blinked. "Oh?"
"Yes," I sighed. "I am the long-lost twin of the Princess of Delvida."
A pause.
"Delvida?" he said, eyebrows rising.
"Hidden at birth. Raised among the Centaurs of the Cloudpine Reaches." I lifted one foot daintily, admiring the sandal. "They taught me how to gallop and dream."
He made a polite noise, possibly a suppressed snort.
"Now I return," I continued, "to claim my rightful... patrimony?"
I frowned. "Wait. That sounds... man-ish. Matriarchy? No... matrimony? Is that a word?"
"I believe so," he said carefully.
"Right. My rightful matrimony." I beamed.
He gave me a long, assessing look. The kind of look usually reserved for suspicious meat pies and women who claimed royal lineage while wearing tunics held together with hope and nipple confidence.
"You don't look like a princess."
I gasped. "Raised by Centaurs," I said, as if it explained everything. "No mirrors. Very humble."
"You walked in here barefoot."
"Incognito," I countered. "That's the entire point of the plot. You think I could just waltz through town flaunting my royal arch and impeccable bone structure? There'd be a coup by morning."
He snorted. "Delvida doesn't have a princess. It's ruled by some scrawny old hag with a goiter."
I widened my eyes with practiced pain. "That's the other twin," I whispered. "Poor thing. Rotten from the inside by her wicked soul. She was always the jealous one. While I—" I placed a delicate hand over my modestly heaving bosom, "—was spirited away to the Fairy Realms. Fifty years of eternal youth among the dew maidens and moon druids."
"You don't look fifty."
"That's the eternal part."
He crossed his arms. "You have no coin."
I pouted. "True. But if you insist, I could make it up to you… in other ways."
He stiffened slightly. I stepped closer, letting my fingers trace an invisible line down the soft leather strap of the sandal, then up his sleeve. "Centaurs and woodland nymphs are very… expressive in how they show gratitude. It's all very sacred and sweaty. Lots of cloven hooves and lichen oils."
His eyes twitched.
I leaned in, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial purr. "So if you're the sort of man who doesn't mind locking the door for, say… half an hour…"
I rested my arms lightly on his shoulders.
His Adam's apple bobbed. He glanced at the door, then at the sandals, then—heroically—back at my chest.
"I, uh…" he croaked.
"Yes?" I smiled, wide and radiant.
He took a long breath.
Then said, with the reluctant dignity of a man watching himself fall into a very soft trap, "I'll… fetch the key."
"Attaboy."
Now before you blame me for lewd behavior—clutch your pearls, call the town guard, whatever—keep in mind one crucial thing.
Whorecraft is kind of my thing.
This is what I do. Some girls can bake bread so light it floats off the tray. Some can shoot five arrows into a plum pit at thirty paces. Me? I can coax a blush out of a monk and gold out of a miser, using nothing but my tongue and a well-placed sigh.
And frankly, in this world? That's a divine calling.
I believe in the order of things. The sacred weave of society. Dragons hoard gold. Barbarians terrorize the countryside. Trolls sit under bridges and collect tolls. Everyone has their role.
Mine is to convert wood into gold.
Men's wood. Obviously. Keep up.
So when the cordwainer locked the door and tugged the blinds, nervous fingers fumbling, I didn't feel shame. I felt purpose. My purpose involved a strategically torn tunic, a moan just shy of devotional, and a certain knee-flexing technique that would put a centaur priestess to shame.
He got the ride of his soft little life. I got the sandals.
Fair trade.
Besides, I was doing the world a favor. My thigs deserved better. After spending three weeks being pounded by a troll—yes, pounded, in every sense, and don't ask how he fit—we were overdue for something soft. Something that didn't reek of moss and boiled egg.
And these sandals? Oh. Butter. Like walking on silk dreams. Fit for a sultan's consort or at least a particularly spoiled courtesan.
I exited the shop humming, cheeks flushed just enough to pass for modest exertion, hips swaying like they had their own agenda. The door clicked shut behind me. Somewhere inside, a man was probably weeping into a sheepskin, wondering where the last half hour went.
I adjusted my cleavage, smiled at the sun, and thought:
A girl's gotta walk her path. Might as well do it in style.