Anastazia last posted in long lost loves and broken hearts.

It was a sunny day, and the sky was clear and cloudless. An occurence quite uncommon, but welcomed with open hands. In this part of England, fogs were more often to visit the land than the Sun. That was one of the first and the foremost things Anastazia disliked about her relatively new home. She would so often miss Hungary with its green fields and bright days. Sometimes, she would even miss America, with vast plains and huge plantations and country-houses. Those two were, in her mind, too worthy to be placed in such a comparison with England. Everything was cold and gloomy here for most of the time. Many people, visitors to this society, claimed that English people were too stiff, grim and cool. She shared that opinion, but she also had a lot of understanding. How could anyone be lively and healthy in such surroundings, with clouds constantly hanging over their heads, threating to pour rain over them any moment?

When you added being a lady of the night to all that, it was completely clear why Anastazia Bartos was not among the happiest of Lindebo's inhabitants. Needless to mention, those gloomy people would come to her, and it would be her job to try and revive them for as long as they paid. Sometimes, that was harder than it sounded. When a man of sixty came to her, asking to feel vigorous again, he had to pay a lot of money for her to try. And she needed more than just her body to fulfill his request. However, in some way, her job was relieving at times. On the street, those people would regard her as if she were trash. But there were young, passionate men even among the English...only they were forced to wear masks. Masks they would take off upon visiting her.

Not that Anastazia enjoyed her job. Very far from it. She never had, never would, and never could. It stood against all her principles, it rid her of her dignity, her pride and her honor. Rare were those jobs she wouldn't have chosen instead...had she been able to. Had not that man...that horrible, horrible man...done what he had done...made up those lies about her. Had he not destroyed all of her hopes of ever moving on. But when she had no choice, she preferred those hours she spent with her customers, as disgusted, angry and ashamed with herself they'd leave her, to being regarded like common garbage on the street. What had Doctor Edison told her? That if she was killed, nobody would lift a finger to investigate.

But now, things were slightly different. She dared not hope that everything was truly going to change for the better, but she dared a flicker of hope to tell her she was allowed to try. That she had an ally. Time. Time had passed, and people forgot. People so often forgot, and that was not usually a good thing. Now, though, it was the only thing on her side in her attempt to rise back from ashes. To become someone and cease being something. The only thing she could possibly rely on. That people had forgotten. Even though, as she'd often recall with a painful stab of regret, they shouldn't have forgotten what had really happened. The problem was they had never known what really happened...and they never were going to. Even if she tried doing something, voicing the truth, nobody would ever believe her. At least not yet.

It was too much, but as she gently moved through South Lindebo, she couldn't have helped it-she was already watching the future in her mind. She saw herself, a respectable lady once more, filing charges against that man that had raped her that night such a long time ago, and that had stolen from her any chances of surviving in a decent way. She could already see him hanged, humiliated, destroyed...Oh, how she would've enjoyed killing him herself...tortuiring him before that, torturing him so he would scream for mercy...And she would laugh. She would laugh at him, bathing in sweet revenge. In spite of the fact that she had not even properly begun on her road to redemption, Anastazia already saw the outcome...the end of it. That was a good sign...traces of her old self coming back.

Anastazia walked with her head up high, proudly. After the encounter with Tirzah Grant-Freeman, she had taken a lot of her time to think. She had reached one conclusion; she had nothing to be ashamed of. She'd done what she had to do to survive. And she had survived. There were those who'd been in her situation and had never made it. So she had a lot to be proud of. She'd been strong enough to endure the pain and the humiliation. That was why she breathed now...instead of lying in the slums graveyard, her bones decaying.

Today, she had attempted to dress properly. She'd succeeded-she put on the most demure dress she had. It was a rather wide, black one with a checked sample, with square cuts at the ends, revealing black calico. It did not show massive amounts of decolletage, but it did have a rather low collar, so she had placed a thick, black shawl around her shoulders. There were also dark gloves on her hands and a matching bonnet on her head. Anastazia was rather satisfied with herself. At least with her looks. Her dark hair was in a neat bun and she was certain she could've passed as a respectable lady.

She was headed to a Mr. Langley, who was a widower with two children. He was well-off, and required help raising them. She'd read of this in the Gazzette, and had decided it was worth a try. As hard as she'd tried, she could not have recalled him ever being her customer. The children were a boy of ten and a girl of seven. Anastazia was certain that they were not as well-behaved as the ad claimed they were, but she was not going to have any trouble with that. She'd never been overly strict as a governess, and she had never been a peaceful child herself. If she got the job...this was going to be too easy, she thought as she neared the door. If she didn't...it was going to be expected. And, she thought, realistic.

But just as she was about to enter the small courtyard of the Langley house, she was stopped by a loud yell; "Oi!" She turned around mechanically, and her eyes sought for the source of the sound. When she saw it, she immediately regretted the previous action. It was Emmett O'Brien, one of her customers. Regular ones. How confident indeed. Just what she'd needed. As he approached her, she took in a deep breath; "Mr. O'Brien." But he didn't seem to be interested in conversation; "What're you doin' here, Anastasia?" He never could have pronounced her name properly. Right now, she was not about to heed that, though. Swallowing deeply, she looked into his eyes; "I believe that is my business, Mr. O'Brien." O'Brien shook his head; "You're wrong, girl. It's not your business...'cause only decent people have the right to look for jobs. And I know you're here because of the Langley job." Color drained from her face. How could he have known that? "What makes you so certain of that?" She nearly spat back. Obviously, he didn't take that well. Grabbing her hand, he dragged her into a neraby alley. She tried to resist, and she would've suceeded, but he placed his other hand on her neck; "I'll break it, I swear I will unless you cooperate." All the possible courses of action played before her eyes, and Anastazia resentfully saw that he was right; that cooperation was the best she could do. Her eyes spitefully meeting his again, she spoke; "What do you want with me?"

Despite the question, it was rather clear to her. Alcohol could've been smelled on his breath. She was almost certain he did not know she was here because of the job; he was merely allowing brandy to speak for him; "Anastacia," Her name rolled off his tongue differently again, "I saw you nearly enter that courtyard. But I won't let you do it. Number one," He nearly lost his balance, but the firm grip on her neck was still there. Anastazia cursed herself for wearing so many underskirts; otherwise, she would've hit the burly drunkard straight into his...sensitive place. Now, she could only stand and be silent; "Langley is my friend. And I don't want a whore raising his little Moira. Number two," He moved closer toher, "I like to screw you, Anastasia." A grin appeared on his face, showing his dirty teeth, "And I'll do that right now."

"No!" She screamed, anger, pride, spite, fear mixing within her heart. She tried breaking free, she attempted to hit O'Brien as hard as she could, but it didn't help. Damn the underskirts, she thought. O'Brien had already leaned fully against her, pressing her to the wall. There was no way she could've made the slightest move now. Not with that man's weight.

He was going to ruin everything again. He was going to destroy it all...and send her back to the brothel with her head bent down. Or she was going to die...yes, she'd rather die than go through that...Anastazia tried to scream, but her lungs had barely enough space to breathe. The alley was dark and empty.

Was anyone going to come by?



http://recollections.biz/Merchant2/graphic.../web51007-8.jpg

(OOC Note: For Mads, this thread takes place after Mads’ other thread, Arrangements.)

Mads was out for a stroll through Lindebo, it being a fine and sunny day, and he having nothing else to do. It was far too early to drink, or to do any of the other things he usually occupied his night-time hours with, and he had absolutely no desire to sit in his flat and ruminate on the past. He did not want to be alone, as he was just now, but circumstance had conspired to force him into solitude. It was not yet a late enough time that he could pay for company, and those friends that he might have enjoyed spending time with were either hard at work, mostly in the docks, if they were men, or sleeping in preparation for a good night’s work, if they were women. He had thought about dropping by the relatives that he had in the city, but there were some problems with that plan.

He did not want to bother his brother Nils, because Nils was busy attempting to get a new cargo for his ship: the longer the Ole-Lukøje sat in port without a cargo and without a destination, the more money his brother lost. Nils already had to stay in Lindebo because of some trial, and would have to send his ship on under the command of his mate. Mads would not allow himself to be the cause of any delay—especially since Nils had been wounded by the man whose trial he was testifying at. It made Nils tetchy not to have full use of his hand. Mads also did not want to bother his sister, because she had taken the children to the ocean with her husband, it being one of Johnson’s rare days off. He could have visited his mother without being a bother to her, but he knew that if he did, she would just lecture him again. Even though he dearly loved his mother, he couldn’t quite take the idea of smiling through another sermon on the evils of drink and whores.

So Mads was walking down the street alone, and despite it being a sunny and cheerful day, he was in a piss-poor mood because of it. He hoped that one of two things would happen as he walked: that he would find someone to f•ck, or that he would find someone to f•ck over. Either one would relieve his sourness—but the whores weren’t out yet and he couldn’t just start a random fight with some fellow that didn’t deserve it. That would be unsporting, and Mads was all for being sporting, at least until he actually got into a fight.

It was in this frame of mind that he was going down a small street in South Lindebo, and heard two people’s voices coming from an alley up ahead. As he drew nearer, they became distinct—a man and a woman were talking—and he began to be able to discern words.
The fellow said, “Anastacia, I saw you nearly enter that courtyard.” Whoever he was, he invested the name with a particular roll that suggested a certain intimate knowledge of the woman, and Mads’ ears perked up.
The unknown man continued, “But I won’t let you do it.” Oh, why not? Mads picked up his pace a little, dying to see who it was.
“Number one, Langley is my friend. And I don’t want a whore raising his little Moira.” Well, no one would want a whore to raise a child. But that meant the woman was a whore, Mads realised. His mood worsened. Damn it all, some fellow had found the woman before he had. It was not fair at all. The bloke would have already staked his claim with coin, and there would be no way that Mads could butt in.
And then the fellow continued, “Number two… I like to screw you, Anastasia. And I’ll do that right now.”
Mads grinned as he came abreast of the alley, amused and intending to make some leering comment at the fellow who had enough gall to screw his whore in semi-public, except that just as the man came into view, a female voice—presumably the Anastasia that he had mentioned—screamed, “No!”

Which of course made everything much different. The woman did not want this, and Mads could see at once, now that they were both in view, that the man was pressing the woman to the wall by a strong hand around her neck. The man had not paid her, and was attempting to rape the woman—who, now that Mads could see her, he noticed was not really even dressed like a streetwalker on the prowl. Well, there was going to be a fight after all, Mads thought happily. He would not stand by while a woman was raped. Though he was perfectly fine with the idea of paid sex, forced sex was another matter entirely. He headed towards both of them, scanning his soon-to-be opponent. The man was burly, and looked heavier than Mads, but Mads was taller and he could see that some of the burliness of the fellow was from weight, not musculature.

His hand landed on the man’s wrist, closing about it with an iron grip. He commanded coldly, “Take your hands off her.”

Anastazia had already become fully confident no one would rescue her. Why? Because evidently, no one had heard her scream. And because, she realized with a painful sting to her heart, it was not so uncommon for a man to...take...his whore in public. In an alley. She had screamed once, but she was confident she couldn't do it again without fainting. And if she fainted...she would lose that little...less than little...and less than that...well, the zero advantage she had. She was intent on keeping it. It was her stubborn spirit being reborn from ashes. Anastazia herself was surprised by how quickly it had been resurrected. Only to again be destroyed by this swine whose lips were clumsily moving over her bare shoulder.

Oh, how she wished to kill O'Brien! Not kill...not only kill. Torture. Make him suffer beyond belief, and then mutilate his body completely. Let him call for death, than deliver it with as much delay as possible. And in death...no one would recognize him...not even his own mother...As she thought of that, her eyes filled with passionate hatred. O'Brien did not see it...for he certainly would've been taken aback had he been facing her then. However, he was already slowly taking off her dress, moving towards her breasts. Damn you, damn you... Anastazia had been both raped and made love to for money...she was going to survive another time. But as soon as she had the opportunity, she would make the bastard pay and suffer...

“Take your hands off her.” Her eyes widened in surprise, and darted towards the source of the firmly spoken sentence. The sentence that meant she was going to be saved. The emotion had not yet disappeared from her face, but weakened visibly. The man standing before her, gripping O'Brien's arm, was tall, handsome and dark haired. He appeared strong and composed...but Anastazia, who had learned to judge people well during her...career...could have safely(in her opinion) assumed that there was a wilder side to him. Yet he managed to hide it. He was, the thought hit her, the sort of man that would've caught the young, innocent Anastazia's eye had she passed him by on the street.

O'Brien's eyes raised slowly, from her breasts to his knuckle, where the newcomer's hand rested. Then, he looked up to face the man himself. Unfortunately, his grip on Anastazia's neck did not weaken; "Get away, my friend." O'Brien snapped, "She's my whore today. You can have her tomorrow...or after I'm finished." Now that he moved away, Anastazia could breathe freely again, and her eyes pierced into O'Brien's skull. She was determined to say something now; "He is lying." Her voice was ice cold, "The swine is lying." It was a foolishly daring statement to make. O'Brien certainly was not going to appreciate being called a swine, and the man might decide that he would not rescue her. Still, her fierce spirit had just woken and it had returned to its throne.

O'Brien had not appreciated it. He looked back at her, pressing her throat with more strenght. Anastazia began to feel dizzy, but she was determined not to show it; "You shut up, Anastacia. You don't get a say." Then he turned back to Mads; "And you, buddy, leave. Now. I don't wanna share her."

[[OOC: You can play O'Brien in your next post :) ]]

(OOC: Sweet, I can mod O’Brien! :) Beating time! Oh btw, I know that’s not how Anastazia is spelled/pronounced. :) Just Mads doesn’t.)

“Get away, my friend. She’s my whore today. You can have her tomorrow...or after I’m finished.” The man had stopped squeezing Anastacia’s throat quite so hard at least, but he didn’t actually take his hands off her as he claimed that Anastacia was his today.
Not that Mads had expected that he would. Still, he gave the man one final warning, in the spirit of being sporting. Mads took his hand from the man’s wrist, saying, “I don’t do seconds. You need to leave.”
Just then Anastacia spoke up, her voice frigid and confirming what Mads had already guessed regarding the man’s claim of ownership. “He is lying. The swine is lying.”
Her voice prompted the man to grip her throat tighter, very likely tight enough to leave bruise-marks. “You shut up, Anastacia. You don’t get a say.” He then snapped to Mads, “And you, buddy, leave. Now. I don’t wanna share her.” And with those words, he made up Mads’ mind.
“You don’t get a say,” Mads said calmly, and threw a straight punch at the man’s face.

O’Brien saw it coming, of course. He immediately let go of Anastacia to parry it with a rising arm, but it had never been Mads’ intent to hit the man that way. It had merely been a way to make the fellow let go of Anastacia so that Mads could do what he did next, namely, retracting the punch and bulling into the man so that the fight was carried away from Anastacia. It worked, and O’Brien was knocked back a few paces before he threw Mads off him and into the alley wall. The breath was knocked out of Mads and O’Brien landed a solid punch in Mads’ gut, doubling him over. O’Brien clubbed his hands together and brought them down hard on Mads’ back, fortunately hitting a little to one side of his spine. It did, however, drop him to the ground, and Mads realised through the pain that he was going to be worked over good if he didn’t turn the tables on the man now.

Mads rolled aside to dodge the stomp O’Brien sent towards his head and scissored his legs together on the other man’s, dumping him to the ground as well. Mads half-rose and got in one good kick to O’Brien’s chest before the other man reached up and pulled Mads down again by his coat, bashing him against the wall a second time. O’Brien punched Mads in the face, breaking his nose, just as Mads uppercutted him on the chin: both men were stunned, but Mads recovered first. Close-quarters wrestling on the ground with a man of O’Brien’s size was not a good bet for Mads, because the other man could use his weight to his advantage, and so Mads began to fight dirty. A swift knee to the nuts and O’Brien curled over, allowing Mads to rock the man’s head back with a vicious backhand and then punch him twice, once in the mouth and once in the throat.

O’Brien rolled onto his belly, gagging on his own teeth and gasping for air, and Mads took advantage of the opportunity quickly, grabbing the man’s hair and using it to smash O’Brien’s forehead had against the wall of the alley. O’Brien went out like a light, blood trickling from his split scalp and his mouth, along with a tooth from the latter. Mads let the man’s unconscious body drop, picking himself up off the ground and taking stock of his own injuries. A quick feel of the outside of his jaw revealed no loose teeth, and since his back did not hurt any worse than if it had simply just been clubbed, he figured no ribs were broken. His worst injury, and the most unsightly, was his broken nose. Well, that was all right, he’d been injured to a much greater extent in India, both in actual battle and in soldier’s brawls. O’Brien had not really hurt him that badly.

Breathing heavily, he huffed a satisfied, “Well, I guess she does get a say,” to himself. Kicking O’Brien’s still body over, he leant down and ripped a piece of cloth from O’Brien’s shirt, using it to wipe his bleeding nose. It came away stained red, and Mads dropped it, putting his hands on either side of his crooked nose. He straightened it with a surprisingly loud crunching noise—it sounded as if he was breaking it again. He kept his lips tightly sealed against the gasp of pain that wanted to escape. He did, however, kick O’Brien’s unconscious form in the nuts as payback for it, and then looked over at the cause of the rather extreme argument with the man. He might not have looked exactly the most comforting at the moment, with blood seeping down his face from his nose, but he couldn’t see himself, and so he stretched out a hand to the woman, introducing himself as if he had not just violently beaten a man. “Mads Jørgensen.”

Then he realised that his hand was bloody, the knuckles scraped and splashed with the other man’s blood and the palms with his own from when he had straightened his nose. He retracted it before she had a chance to take it, holding it slightly away from himself so that he wouldn’t get blood—or rather more blood, since some of O’Brien’s was on him—on his clothing. He could hear that his voice was slightly altered from the norm because of the blood in his nose as he said, “Oh. Um, well, nice to meet you, anyway. You’re Anastacia?”

The fight had gone very quickly before Anastazia's eyes. All of a sudden, O'Brien released her, and was a few steps away, his face bloody due to a punch Mads had given him. Instinctively, the firs thing she did was to inhale sharply, filling her lungs with fresh air. Relatively fresh. The alley was quite dirty, she only notied now. It must have been one of those places usually used for activities such as one she'd nearly been forced to engage in with O'Brien. What humiliation that would've been! In spite of the fact that she'd spent the last couple of years f*cking for her life, she still saw rape as great humiliation. She, too, saw a vivid difference between that and paid sex. But it was not such a positive statement. Even though the former made you feel worse, it also brought more dignity along. Because you did not sell your body willignly.

Her dark eyes followed every move the men made. Even though she could not have, due to all the clothing on her, Anastazia would have gladly helped Mads destroy O'Brien. Worse than destroy...mutilate. However, Mads did seem strong enough to do that all alone. Not to mention it would've been equivalent to humiliating him. A woman helping him out of a fight? Most men would've certainly chosen the humiliation of defeat to that sort of embarassement. Her head as high as possible, Anastazia watched the fight. For a few moments, it seemed as if O'Brien was going to win. Still, it did not make her consider that possibility as a realistic outcome. She did not even think of what she'd do if he won. Finally, ater some time, O'Brien was lying in the dirt, unconscious, while Mads was coming towards her.

Mads offered her his hand, and she noticed it was bloody. Impulsively, she reached out to take it, though, but he drew it back sooner. She was thankful to him for that; she still intended on going to the Langley job interview. A bloodied glove would not have helped. Fixing her shawl, Anastazia looked into his eyes as he spoke; ““Mads Jørgensen. Oh. Um, well, nice to meet you, anyway. You’re Anastacia?” Mads Jorgensen. Certainly a foreign name. Well, they had that one thing in common. Even though shock because of the attack was not visible on her, it existed, and now, as it began to subside quickly, she once again allowed herself to notice the man was handsome. However, he'd spoken her name wrong. It caused a small smile to appear on her lips; "Anastazia Bartos."

“Anastazia Bartos,” Mads repeated, rolling the correct pronunciation off his tongue. It was not an English name: neither the first nor the last bore the hallmarks of that language. From her Christian name he would guess her to be Eastern or Northern European. Her surname led more towards an Eastern European background: it sounded as if it were from Austria-Hungary. Providing it was her maiden name, that was; if it was not, then she must have married an Austro-Hungarian. She did not particularly have a married woman’s air about her, he thought, and so by this reasoning he concluded that she must be Austro-Hungarian herself. Anastazia Bartos. She had a beautiful name, and he could see, now that he was looking at her, a beautiful face and figure to go with it. He could see at once why O’Brien had wanted her.

He could not, however, see why O’Brien had called her a whore. She looked nothing at all like a whore. She was dressed in a discreet checked gown and black shawl that covered all the trade assets of a whore. She displayed nothing, and her hair was neither loose nor uncovered, which would have been expected of a scandalous woman. Her bonnet was completely proper, and she had gloves on her hands—which made Mads glad that he had retracted his offered handshake, since it would have been difficult for her to wash blood out of them. All in all, she appeared as he might expect a higher servant of a great household to appear; one of his sisters was a woman of just such employment, and he could not discern any difference between her general style and that of Anastazia. Why had O’Brien called her a whore? Was she really? The curiosity was so great that it lead him to speak.

“Why did he…” Mads cut himself off. He had been going to ask, Why did he call you what he did? The underlying question, despite the slightly more genteel phrasing, was, Are you a whore? Mads was not lacking in wits or in manners, despite that he might sometimes give the appearance of the latter and some people might argue the former. No woman would appreciate being asked if she was a whore, especially if she was not. Since Anastazia appeared to be entirely innocent of the charge, it would be both extremely impolitic and incredibly rude. It would be wrong to even intimate accusation, since she, in fact, appeared to more advantage than he did at the moment, especially as he had O’Brien’s blood on his clothes.

Mads fell back on asking a question to which the answer was fairly obvious to him. He changed his inquiry to, “Did he hurt you? Are you injured at all? If you need any assistance, you have but to ask and I will do my best for you.” He had not asked it before because he was quite certain that Anastazia was whole in body. She gave no sign of having any wound, and her voice was charming and unstrained, not at all like it would be if her throat were damaged. The worst that he could think was that she might be a little rattled. Even that, however, was disputable, for she looked perfectly calm, and not at all shocked that a man had assaulted her, and another had stopped that one and then savagely beaten him in front of her eyes. Nor did she appear the slightest bit discomfited by the fact that she was now talking to a man with blood trickling down his face from a broken nose. Her courage could not be doubted—and he wondered again at O’Brien’s labelling her a whore. She carried herself more like a well-born lady.

He could not contain his curiosity as to her purpose here, though, and so he added to his previous, “I hope he has not prevented you from accomplishing your business. Were you expected somewhere near here, Miss Bartos?” This, at least, might lead to an explanation of why she was here, and indirectly give him the information he was looking for: whether or not she actually was a whore.

He had pronounced her name exactly as at was meant to be pronounced in her native Hungarian, with only a hint of English accent. Perhaps not English on the whole, perhaps foreign...of his native country. Since his name must've come from Scandinavia, it must have been where the accent had come from. Mads Jorgensen. It suited him well, his name did. Some people carried names completely opposite to themselves, their behavior, appearance and everything. For example, she had had the infinite pain of knowing one Roza Szabo, an elderly widow with a manor next to Anastazia's in Budapest. The woman had been nothing like a rose, though...Had it been up to her, Anastazia would've named her poison ivy. She had been a widow, her husband having died in the revolution. That had made her bitter for the rest of her life.

A distant pang of guilt reached Anastazia's heart. Had she truly the right to remember Roza Szabo in such a light? Had she truly the right to be irritated for the old woman's bitter? Had she truly the heart to blame her for being angry at the world because of the loss of the only person she had ever loved? For a heavy irony laid in that. As a younger girl, Anastazia had forsaken Roza Szabo for millions of times, had swore and cursed her for a thousand times more. Now, fate had led her to the same point in life as the old widow. Even now, as she thought of it, Anastazia bit her lower lip...had that been some sort of poetic justice? And then followed a question even more painful to her sould; could she have prevented all the misfortune of her life...James' death first and foremost...by merely being nice towards Mrs. Szabo?

What a stupid, stupid thought, Anastazia. She scolded herself instantly. There existed no such thing as fate. Not in that meaning of the word. Had there been justice in the world, anyy sort of it, poetic or not, it would have punished those two slaves that had murdered James. For it most certainly had not been any of his fault, her past misdeeds. Every person was the tailor of their own fate, she belived firmly. Nothing was written in advance, there was no scenario set for them...it was all about improvising. Those who were not good at improvising fell by the wayside eventually. That is why I am going to be good at it, she said to herself in her mind, I am going to improvise and head to Langley in spite of everything. If O'Brien wishes to tell him of my...past...then so be it.

"Why did he…” His words tore her away from her streaming thougths, and before he even had the chance to speak the last part of the line, Anastazia felt what was coming. Her head bolted up by an inch, as if she was preparing to take the lowest blow one could've given her with dignity and pride. Of course, he had the right to know. He had, after all, saved her. But once she told him the truth, once she said; 'Yes, Mr. Jorgensen, I am a whore indeed', she would downsize to the size of a pitiful rag or a worm in his eyes. Perhaps he was going to feel sorry because he had gotten his nose broken and his clothes torn and dirtied to help a lady of the night. Somehow, that would've hurt her greatly.

But just as she was preparing to answer the unspoken question, to speak the faithful words, his speech suddenly changed course; "Did he hurt you? Are you injured at all? If you need any assistance, you have but to ask and I will do my best for you." The newly phrased question had been closely followed by a very gentle, barely noticeable raising of her eyebrows. Had she been mislead before, or had he truly meant to ask her whether she was a prostitute? If so...and it certainly was so...why had he not asked her? He could've easily requested the answer, calling upon the fact she owed him a lot now.
By not mouthing it, however, he had earned yet another degree of respect in Anastazia's eyes. He was a true gentleman indeed.

"I am fine, thank you." Her eyes slanted along Mad's bloody nose. And Anastazia could not have helped but smiled slightly. There he was, asking her whether she was all right or hurt, while he was obviously in a worse shape than herself. Chuckling ever so slightly, she spoke; "It appears that you are in a worse shape yourself." She was about to suggest a visit to a doctor, but halted herself at the right moment. Men hated having their weaknesses pointed out, especially by women. It was one thing to notice that he was hurt, but to insist he visited a doctor...that would have displeased him immensely. This was more like teasing him slightly.

“I hope he has not prevented you from accomplishing your business. Were you expected somewhere near here, Miss Bartos?” Snorting spitefully, Anastazia allowed her eyes to wander back to O'Brien, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, filled with hatred; "He! Had he cut off both of my legs and arms, I would've died in an attempt to crawl back to my destination rather than allow one such as him to get in my way." Her words were spoken with the full passion of an enraged Hungarian. Needless to say, they sounded very dangerous. Taking in a deep breath to steady her temper, Anastazia looked back at Mads; "I am expected at the Langley household for a job interview. I hope to work there as a governess to the children."

Anastazia smiled slightly and Mads could see her gaze shift from his eyes to his nose as she said, “I am fine, thank you. It appears that you are in a worse shape yourself.” He smiled back. He was, but he had been in even worse, and the nose would heal in time. It had been broken before, and it would likely be broken again, so he wasn’t particularly distressed about it. He could never have afforded a doctor even if it had been something serious, and so he was quite glad that it was only a broken nose and some split skin. He turned his mind to more interesting avenues of thought: it appeared he had been correct about Anastazia’s being unmarried, since she didn’t correct him when he titled her ‘Miss’. She looked contemptuously at the man lying prone on the ground. “He! Had he cut off both of my legs and arms, I would’ve died in an attempt to crawl back to my destination rather than allow one such as him to get in my way.”

Mads half-smiled at the bold statement, the expression midway between amusement at her fierceness and sad recollection of previous times. She was not aware of what she was reminding him of, needless to say, and she did not do it on purpose, but he could not help but feel a little resentful that she would speak so casually of such things. He realised that it was stupid to feel that way, since it was not in any way unusual or improper for her to use such a figure of speech to reinforce her point, but he did anyway. In India, he had seen various arms and legs blown off fellow soldiers, and he had known mates who died after amputations at the surgeon’s table. And that one time, in Sankheri, he had seen the bodies of women, and children, who had died in just the way she described. Arms and legs both cut off, they had died in the futile attempt to crawl out of the hell-hole they had been slaughtered in.

Of course she knew none of that, and he should not feel that she was being irreverent of the dead. She wasn’t. She was only making a point, a vehement and angry point, expressing exactly how determined she was that the man on the ground should not stop her about her business. It was Mads who was blowing it out of proportion and reading things into it that weren’t there. He knew it and it still happened anyways. It was always like that when someone said something that reminded him of the things that he had seen in India. He always got sad, and bitter, and from there self-pitying, which made him feel like a damned selfish man since it wasn’t him that had any of the ghastly misfortunes he had observed. It had been his mates, and what right did he have to pity himself when nothing had happened to him?

Anastazia took a deep breath, looking back at him, and he recalled himself to the conversation. The anger in her eyes and voice faded, not directed at him, and she said, “I am expected at the Langley household for a job interview. I hope to work there as a governess to the children.”
Mads, not having expected that answer, replied, “Oh, you are a governess?”
A stupid question, he realised, seeing as she had just informed him that she was trying to gain employment as such. It was only that her bearing confused him. He thought once again that she carried herself with more class than he would have thought a governess would have.
He hastily added to his unintended question, “Well, I of course wish you all luck with the Langleys. However, if you should prove unsuccessful, my sister, Mrs Johnson, has three children and I know she is looking for a governess for them. If you want, I could put in a word for you.”

Mads looked questioningly at Anastazia, wondering yet again if she really was a whore or not. His sister probably wouldn’t be too pleased if the woman was a whore—if his sister found out, that was, and if Anastazia did not get the Langley job after all. But another thought occurred to him, and he decided to think about Anastazia’s unclear character at a later time. What if O’Brien woke up while Anastazia was in the Langley household, and decided to have a second go at her? But she might think Mads was a mal-intentioned stalker if he just waited about without an explanation, and so he asked her, “Miss Bartos, would you like me to wait for you? This fellow”—Mads kicked O’Brien’s still form, unnecessarily indicating who he was talking about—“may wake up in an unpleasant mood and if you are present and alone, it may not go so well for you.”

“Oh, you are a governess?” Anastazia flinched slightly at the surprise that statement seemed to have brought him. Did she not look like a governess? Had she not dressed respectfully enough? Or, even worse, had he believed O'Brien's words to be true? Her gaze darkened slightly, but her mind refused to give up, and she refused to show any sign of faltering. If he doubted her to be a governess, a gentleman, by the looks of it, then everyone else was also going to. To avoid being repelled form the society, she had to stand her ground firmly, with her head up high. It was what her pride told her to do anyway.

“Well, I of course wish you all luck with the Langleys. However, if you should prove unsuccessful, my sister, Mrs Johnson, has three children and I know she is looking for a governess for them. If you want, I could put in a word for you.” A huge weight fell from Anastazia's chest. If he was ready to put in a good word for her with her sister, for her to watch over his nephews or nieces...that surely meant he considered her decent enough for it. Or maybe, that worm of doubt that was ever present bit on her slowly, maybe he was simply trying to appear polite. For a moment, she considered saying yes, just to see whether his offer was genuine. But she decided to give it a try at the Langleys. She had, after all, made an appointment with them. Now, if the appointment was to be unsuccesful...she would consider his offer, of course. That worm of doubt was already imagining Mads coming up with excuses not to employ her, but she didn't care. If he did that, she would merely take the 'yes' back gracefully and continue on her way.

"That is a very generous offer, Mr. Jorgensen, and I am very thankful to you. We shall see, after the meeting with Mr. Langley is over." The more she thought of it, the less likely it appeared Langley was going to give her a job. If O'Brien truly was his friend, he was going to let him know of her true background sooner or later, and then her reputation would once again be completely crippled. A whore trying to pose as a governess...almost as bad as a governess sleeping with her employer.

Anastazia suddenly felt a core instinct that told her to draw back. Her pride fought against it, all right, but reason prevailed. If she went forward now, her pride was going to be the one to suffer for the following few years...or for the rest of her life she would then spend as a whore. If she went into that house now, she was going to get the job. But O'Brien was soon going to point the finger of accusation at her. And then all was going to fall into the water.

No, I must not go to that interview.

Yet turning to Mads and telling him that she was rather going to take his job right away, instead of going to her previous appointment, would appear suspicious. Too suspicious to risk it. She had to think of something better, and she had to do it quickly.

Just as she thought of it, Mads spoke again; “Miss Bartos, would you like me to wait for you? This fellow”—Mads kicked O’Brien’s still form, unnecessarily indicating who he was talking about—“may wake up in an unpleasant mood and if you are present and alone, it may not go so well for you.”

That was it! Silent for a few moments, Anastazia nodded her head in agreement. Usually, she would have refused it, certain that she was capable of walking back...home herself. But she was not going to let him accompany her home at all...she couldn't affor having him see the brothel. She was, however, going to accept his job as soon as she left the Langley house. Inside of which she was going to make sure she got no job. Smiling politely at Mads, she said; "Thank you. If it is not any trouble for you, I would like that."




Half an hour later, Anastazia appeared at the door again, escorted by a maid. As soon as she door closed, her eyes sought for Mads and she neared him.

She had 'apologized' to the Langleys, claiming she could not take the job because she had gotten another offer that was more plausible to her both by location and salary. The Langleys said it was no problem at all, and insisted she remained long enough to drink tea with them. Of course, that was not going to be the story she was going to serve Mads.

"Well, it appears the Langleys have found someone else for the job. An older woman, more experienced." The mask of disappointment on her face was well set.

Anastazia thanked him for his offer, saying she’d have to see after the Langley interview, and Mads nodded. He had expected that she would say something of that sort; one didn’t go about ignoring prior appointments just because one got another offer. He asked if she wouldn’t like him to stay around and make sure she was safe afterwards, and she replied, “Thank you. If it is not any trouble for you, I would like that.”
It wasn’t, as he had nothing in particular to do, and so he said, “Sure thing.” He nodded affably and watched as she walked away, noticing (now that she was turned and would not see him ogling) that she was a very pretty piece indeed. Her hips were quite wide, and swayed slightly from side to side as she walked, and an appreciative smile formed on his face. She disappeared into the house, and Mads was left by himself.

There was no convenient place to sit outside the alleyway, and he did not want to attract attention to himself by standing around for however long it took Anastazia to finish her interview at the house. He retreated back into the alleyway—but there were no boxes or crates or other convenient sitting-places there either, and of course he did not really want to sit on the ground because of the thin film of wet sludge there. His eye fell on O’Brien’s recumbent form and the issue was solved; he went over and sat on O’Brien. He reflected that it was a good thing that the street was so quiet at this time of day, otherwise someone might have passed by and been inclined to be curious as to why he was sitting on an unconscious man. He sat still for a moment, examining the split skin on one of his knuckles, and then spat on it, rubbing off some of the drying blood on O’Brien’s trousers.

Already somewhat bored though it hadn’t been even thirty seconds since Anastazia had left, Mads looked about and spotted the source of the sludge that covered the alley floor. There was a leaking pipe running up one of the walls; where there was an L-bend in the pipe a rivet had come loose and was allowing water to trickle out. This trickle of water was combining with the normal dirt of any alleyway and forming the sludge. Mads promptly went over to the pipe. Patiently cupping his hands underneath the drip, he waited until he had enough to splash over his face and clean off some of the blood. He repeated the procedure until the water that came away from his face was clear, not caring that it took a deal of time to fill his hands for each splash—in India, he’d learnt to be patient with slow supplies of water. Once he was free of blood, he went over and sat back down on O’Brien.

When he did, O’Brien moaned and shifted slightly underneath Mads, possibly objecting to being sat on. Mads leaned down and asked him, “Comfortable there?”
O’Brien groaned again.
Mads smiled and patted the man’s head sharply. “It’s your own fault, you know. I ain’t the sort to stick his neb into another man’s business, but what you were doing just ain’t on. You hear me? It ain’t on.”
O’Brien mumbled something like, “Urshgoonaregess.”
Mads said, “What’s that? Speak up, I can’t hear you.”
O’Brien tried to move, causing Mads to lurch in his seat, and Mads shook his head. “Never mind,” he said, and thrust a heavy fist down at O’Brien’s head. The other man stilled, but continued to moan, and so Mads clocked him a couple more times, until O’Brien was unconscious again.

He settled back on his seat again, leaning back against the wall of the alleyway, and began to whistle army songs to pass the time. He’d gotten through Over The Hills And Far Away, The British Light Infantry, and was halfway through Oh Death! when he heard the sound of voices at the door of the house around the corner—they were clearly audible in the quite street. Cutting himself off at the part that would have been I’ll fix your feet so you can’t walk, I’ll lock your jaw so you can’t talk if he had been singing instead of whistling, Mads stood up and came out of the alleyway. He was correct in his surmise: it was Anastazia returning, having been escorted out of the house by a maid. He smiled as she came towards him, but it faded away as he saw the disappointed look on her face. Obviously, she had not gotten the job.

She confirmed this as soon as she was near enough to speak. “Well, it appears the Langleys have found someone else for the job. An older woman, more experienced.” Mads shook his head sympathetically. He knew what it was to be without work.
“It’s a damn shame,” he said. There was a pause, and then he added, “I know my sister ain’t got anyone in mind yet… she’s always home. If you’re not too…” Mads made a vague motion to include O’Brien and the Langley house, since he could not find a word to describe what he meant. “… by all this, I’m sure she’d be willing to meet you today. If you want.”

Anastazia had already forgotten how good she was at using manipulation, lying and deceit to reach her goals. However, she also was, and always had been, skilled at discerning when it was truly necessary to use such measures. To her, they were the last resort. She was straightforward and honest, always the one to bring things out in the open. Maybe her fierce temper was responsible for that; she was mostly too impulsive to hold back long enough to give the matter at hand a good thought. When situations called for it, as now, she could make an exception.

She had always been objective, all right, but she couldn't deny that objectivity had gained on its sharpness a lot since she had lost James. Since she'd become a mere whore. It was as if all the nice things that existed in life erased themselves, being instantly replaced by their pessimistic versions. Anastazia's objectivity had begun to dangerously border with self-disrespect...even self-humiliation. Sometimes, she would dare not dream, dare not see the future as bright, for if anyone had experienced disappointment and seen their dreams burn, it was her. And it had taught her it was far easier not to dream at all than to endure any of that ever again.

Now, there was a visceral opportunity before her. In spite of the fact she had not gotten the Langley job...even if she would have had difficulties getting a job anywhere in the city, Mads' sister might have employed her..with some enticement from her brother. By the way he treated her, she judged he'd believed everything she'd said and that he considered her to be a decent lady. Of course, this Mrs. Johnson would surely request for her background, see if she carried along any recommendations and such. Anastazia had a well-prepared story; she had come from America after the tragic death of her fiancee(the truth). Her Aunt had left her a small flat here, in the slums, where she'd lived and been a governess for very small amounts of money to extremely poor people. After spending the last couple of years like that, she'd begun to wish for more in her life, so she'd decided to look for a job in better parts of Lindebo.

Nobody was going to ask for the names of the faimilies she'd worked for before; nobody from the upper classes or the middle classes really cared for their opinions. There was a good chance they would not accept her exactly because of such a background and such experience...but it was her best shot. Coming to the house and saying; "Hello, my name is Miss Bartos, I used to be a whore, now I wish to govern your children." was the sole other option. Her standing was too low so she had no contacts, now wires she could've pulled so someone would've testified for her. Faking anything more serious was out of question. Anastazia had thought of sleeping with a man and then asking for his recommendation, but that wouldn't have worked while she was still a whore; why involving himself in such a scandal when he could easily come to the brothel and sleep with her simply paying with money? Those who couldn't afford to pay like that wouldn't have been of much use anyway.

“It’s a damn shame,” he said. How right he was. She'd already forgotten about the Langleys, she was(on the inside) referring to what her entire life had shrunk to, “I know my sister ain’t got anyone in mind yet… she’s always home. If you’re not too…” He waved his hand at O'Brien and the house, obviously searching for the right word. He didn't find it. “… by all this, I’m sure she’d be willing to meet you today. If you want.”

Of course I do, Anastazia thought, but tried her hardest not to betray it with a single action. She went completely silent for a few moemnts, biting slightly on her lower lip as if debating. Then, she turned around, giving the house and the dirty man O'Brien in the dust a disdainful look. When she finally turned to Mads, her blue eyes were full of sheer determination; "I would like that very much, Mr. Jorgensen." Then, she added; "Thank you, once again." She truly was grateful.

(((OOC: Sorry it took this long. Feel free to write the two of them going to Mrs. Johnson))) :)

(OOC: If you mind that I said she waited in the parlour, just let me know and I can fix it however you want. :) )

Anastazia bit her lip for a moment, looking like she hadn’t quite decided her mind yet, and Mads watched her teeth move against them; her lips were quite beautifully full, and were a lovely shade. Mads wondered what it would feel like to kiss them. This was not an unusual thing for him to wonder; he often thought about such things regarding women, which was not to say that he would actually try to find out, or would even mention it. It was simply the physical appreciation that he had for women. He noticed when they were beautiful and it translated directly into a natural attraction, just not one that he felt the need to shout from the rooftops or even whisper in the gutters. Anastazia seemed to make up her mind then, glancing at both the Langley house and the man lying in the alley muck, and then back up at him determinedly. “I would like that very much, Mr. Jorgensen. Thank you, once again.”

Mads smiled and shrugged, brushing off her thanks with a casual, “Ain’t no trouble.” It wasn’t that he didn’t acknowledge or appreciate her gratitude, it was just that he preferred not to make a big issue of his actions. They set off together towards Haverford, where his sister’s house was. Mads was careful not to touch her, even by accidentally brushing her, the whole way there, and their conversation, though not particularly animated, was not awkward either; Mads simply allowed Anastazia to direct it, answering anything she asked. They came to the house, a tall, thin affair seemingly crushed between two others that were very nearly identical on either side. It was, however, not in one of the bad districts, and bigger on the inside than it seemed on the outside, if without much of a view except for dull houses across the street and with only a small courtyard in the back. It exactly fitted his sister’s status as the wife of a very minor man in trade.

Arriving at the door to the house, Mads did not hesitate to let himself in, possessing a duplicate key to the house that his sister had given him. He held the door for Anastazia, waiting until she had walked in before closing it. “My sister would probably rather that you wait in the parlour,” he said.
Anastazia nodded and he showed her to the room in question, a small but not uncomfortable one just off the entry-way. It was fitted up appropriately for such a room, but an observant person might note that the furniture was very sturdy and functional; it was a house with small children, where delicate things were only asking to be broken. Mads checked to make sure none of his sister’s kids were in it before saying to Anastazia, “I’ll just go and find her for you, then. I’ll be back before you can catch a wink.”

He smiled and left the room, forgetting to close the parlour door behind him. At the foot of the stairs, he called out to the rest of the house, “Gretchen? Are you here?”
The reply was shouted down from the second floor, accompanied by the sound of his sister dumping a load of her son’s toys back in their box. “Yes, Mads! I’m in the nursery!”
Mads went up the stairs, his feet thumping heavily on the bare wood. “I’ve got someone here to meet you!”
Abruptly all noise stopped from the second floor, and then there was the sound of his sister hurriedly coming out of the nursery. Her voice was much more hushed now, but because Mads had left the parlour door open, Anastazia could probably hear her anyway. “Mads, don’t yell when we have visitors!”
Mads smiled and rolled his eyes. Gretchen was always particular about that. “You were doing it too.”
“I wouldn’t have if I had known you brought someone with you,” Gretchen insisted as she came into view at the top of the stairs.
“Undskyld, Gretchen,” Mads said somewhat cheekily, not quite repentant but not quite unrepentant either, speaking in Danish because he knew it would disarm her, as he usually spoke to her in English these days.
“Skidt være med det. Din næse!” she replied, seeing his face.
Mad’s shrugged. “Eh. Den er bare knust. Vi kan tale om det senere.”
Gretchen gave him a look that said that they not only could but would talk about it later, but started down the stairs, saying, “Hvem har du med dig? Det er ikke en drukket bekendt, er det?”
Mads protested this unfair assumption as he squashed himself against the wall to let her pass and then fell in behind her. “Nej! Hun er en—”
“En kvinde!?” Gretchen’s voice was full of curious insinuation. Mads never brought the women he associated with to her house, and so that he should have a woman here to see his sister now was intensely interesting to Gretchen.
“Ja, ja!” Mads hurried to forestall any unwarranted assumptions about Anastazia that his sister might make by completing his previous sentence, only in English this time. “A governess.”
“Oh. That is different then,” Gretchen said.

They were at the parlour door now, which Gretchen noticed was partly open and shot Mads a dirty look for. Mads shrugged and opened it all the way for her, ushering her into the room. Gretchen smiled at Anastazia, and then at Mads in a pointed way when Mads didn’t introduce her. Mads hurriedly said, “Gretchen, this is Miss Anastazia Bartos. Miss Bartos, my sister, Mrs Johnson.”
Gretchen said pleasantly, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Bartos. My brother informs me that you are a governess?”

(OOC: The meaning—not necessarily the literal translation—of what Gretchen and Mads were saying is as follows [thanks for the help, Kris :) ]
Sorry, Gretchen.
Never mind. Your nose!
Eh. It’s only broken. We can talk about it later.
Who do you have with you? It’s not a drunken friend, is it?
No! She’s a—
A woman!
Yes, yes!)