"There are always a few," Jane said. "Men who prefer their sins hidden behind doors that don't speak."
Livia's stomach tightened.
"With what I heard," Jane continued, "Nicholas is already selecting bidders. He won't let just anyone in—not for something like this. Tomorrow night, they'll come by to see you first. To decide if you're worth the coin."
Livia looked away again, her jaw tightening as she tried to steady her breathing. A moment passed. Then another. "Can you do me a favour?" she asked quietly.
"Of course."
"Would you tell the man who delivered the book—if you see him again—that I need him to pass along a message?"
Jane's brows knit slightly. "What message?"
"Would you tell him…" she began slowly, "to get a message to Henry for me? Tell him…" she said, "to please bid too."
If she was going to be sold… Then perhaps she could choose the buyer.
"You want him to be your first," Jane said.
"I would like to at least have a choice," she replied. "And he is the only decent man I know." Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of her skirt. "I don't even know if he wants that… with me," she added more softly. "A common thief he met at the market. But I would at least like to try."
"I don't know if Lionel will come tonight, Livia."
"If he does come," Livia said quickly, turning to her, "please… tell him."
"I will, dearie."
The wind moved between them, carrying the sounds of the city below—laughter, shouting, the distant clatter of hooves on stone. Life continuing.
*****
Henry sat on the throne. Stephen approached.
"Your Highness. You called for me."
Henry gave a small nod. Lionel stepped out from behind Stephen with unsettling quietness.
He lifted a knife and pressed it to Stephen's throat. Stephen froze completely, eyes wide, breath caught in fear.
Stephen swallowed as he tried to understand what was happening, what mistake he had made, what treason had been hidden in plain sight.
"Your Highness!" he stammered in panic. "My king! What have I done?"
"You are going to help me with something," Henry said, rising slowly from the throne.
"Of course, Your Highness," he said quickly, words tumbling out in a rush. "I would do anything for you. Lord Ashcroft does not have to threaten me into it—truly!"
"He is not threatening you," Henry replied evenly. His gaze remained fixed on him. "He is going to kill you."
A pause.
Stephen's mouth opened slightly, then closed again. His mind had simply refused to accept the sentence.
"Your Highness," he said carefully, "I do not understand."
Lionel did not move from behind him. The knife at Stephen's throat pressed just a fraction closer. Enough to remind him how thin the distance truly was between life and death.
Henry stepped down from the dais. "If you breathe a word of this task," Henry continued, "to my mother, or to any other living soul…" He let the sentence hang there, incomplete. Intentionally so.
Stephen's breathing grew uneven. "I won't—" he began quickly. "I swear I won't—"
The blade shifted at Stephen's neck, and in that brief motion it caught a lock of his carefully styled hair, slicing it cleanly away.
The severed strands fell lightly to the floor. Stephen made a sharp, involuntary sound and immediately began patting himself down in panic, searching for blood, for pain, for proof that he was still intact.
His hands shook. No blood. Just hair. Still, it took him a moment to steady his breathing.
If Lionel had been of lower station, Stephen might have found the courage to glare. He shuffled a step backward, eyes darting between Henry and Lionel, trying to locate safety in either face and finding none.
"What do you require of me?" he said, shuffling another cautious step away from Lionel.
"Lionel owns a little house on Wood Street," Henry continued. "You will prepare it for me."
"Your Highness?!" he blurted before he could stop himself.
Henry's gaze snapped to him instantly. "Stop talking," he said flatly.
Stephen shut his mouth at once.
Henry continued, unbothered. "You will have it prepared. And then tomorrow night, you will be attending an auction with one Nicholas—" he clicked his fingers once, impatiently.
Lionel spoke quietly from beside Stephen. "Beaumont."
Henry nodded once. "Yeah," he said. "On Pudding Lane."
"What am I bidding on?" Stephen asked cautiously.
"You're not bidding."
Stephen frowned slightly in confusion. "Then… what am I doing there, Your Highness?"
*****
Nicholas Beaumont stared at his work of art. He had never seen anything quite so valuable in his life.
The modiste had truly outdone herself. Livia stood rigidly in the centre of the room, surrounded by fabric, perfume, and the suffocating sense of being dressed for someone else's pleasure.
Her hair had been brushed and arranged in soft waves that spilled over her shoulders. Nicholas circled her slowly, eyes moving over her appraisingly.
He saw value. He saw return. "She is indeed beautiful," he murmured to himself.
Livia stood very still. He looked at her, seeing her properly for the first time. An asset. A product ready for sale.
"Yes," he said quietly.
Clad in a thin ivory chemise, the fabric delicate, translucent in the candlelight that flickered weakly through the room. It was chosen for what it revealed rather than what it protected.
The neckline dipped low, exposing the swell of her growing breasts. Over it, a loosely laced corset had been fastened loosely, pushing them upward.
The skirt had been altered too, split carefully at the sides so that each movement revealed her legs, her knees.
"Smile a little, my dear," he said lightly. "Customers will pay more."
Livia did not give him even the satisfaction of pretending. Nicholas clicked his tongue, amused rather than annoyed.
"I cannot believe I had gold just lying around, eating my food for free all this time," he said with a low chuckle, shaking his head. Her existence had been a clever investment he had only just learned to appreciate.