"Fontaine."

The glaring smile plastered over the whore's face was made all the more garish by her overly-rouged cheeks and heavily painted eyes. She patted the shoulders of the little mite of a girl standing in front of her, then swooped a precarious lean from the top of her stool to snatch a bloom from the vase on the dressing table.

"People read a name 's'much as a face; can't well have a rose for one and a thistle for the other."

Frannie Greulkin pinned the half-wilted flower to her daughter's frock, fluffing the lace on her collar and patting the mottled green of her sleeves smooth.

"Now," beamed the buxom mother, cleavage bulging at the front of her ribbon-laced bodice, "Sing like a nighting-gale, love. Sing like a sweeting nighting-gale and we'll have our fortune fixed before Darkfall."

Inside her head and behind the placid face fronted for congeniality's sake, the girl's thoughts whirred. Yes, she could sing. And yes, she finally had a shot at making something out of the pinch of talent the gods had given her. She had no intention, however, of floating her mother out of the Severn Street brothel and on to brighter and better horizons. There hadn't ever been much love lost between the two, despite the woman's present gregarious manner, and remedying the situation wasn't on her list of ambitions.

"Arely!" A plush white hand shook the girl's frame. "Pay attention!"

Arely blinked.

"I heard: Lost to the Seas. Don't worry, I know it backwards and frontwards and sang it for Lord Blanbury last time he was in."

Her hands picked up, flipping dark curls out of her eyes to strengthen their bold stare. Mother had swapped a favor and gotten the first half of the evening off. It was going to be a long night.