Courtesan's Lover by Gabrielle Kimm

woman and the child. Maybe that’s what made him think about it tonight. What do you think?”
    â€œWhether it was or not, just write all this down, Signora,” Modesto says. “Get your pen out and write down every last word.”
    â€œI will, I promise. And now could you come upstairs with me and help me into some dry clothes, caro ? I am still a little damp.”

Seven
    The next few weeks pass in something of a blur. Now that I am juggling three regular patrons, two of whom wish to see me at least twice a week, I have almost no time to myself, and, as well as being tired for much of the time, I am becoming increasingly worried about how seldom it seems to be that I can manage to spend more than snatched moments with the twins.
    The money I am making is reassuring though. And I suppose that’s the thing: I must just keep putting away safely everything I earn and storing it up. Because I have to: I cannot for a moment contemplate the thought of my girls whoring—even the idea makes me feel sick. I’d rather die than see them doing what I do. Unlike me (I discovered this life late, compared to most), most courtesans are born to it—born into harlotry—like that little snake, Alessandra Malacoda, who, if I am to believe the Neapolitan gossips, was introduced to the delights of the bedchamber at the age of ten by her pimping whore of a mother. No doubt La Malacoda has made her mamma proud of her. And she plans, so I have been told, to be just as proud of her own daughter. Hoping she’ll be kept in luxury in her old age, no doubt. The child is four. God! The very thought makes me retch.
    Beata and Isabella have no concept of what I do when I am not with them. I have spun them indeterminate yarns about my activities, which seem to satisfy their undemanding, childish curiosity, and both Ilaria and Sebastiano know that I would dismiss the pair of them instantly if they ever breathed a word of the truth to either girl.
    What I am to do when the girls reach an age where they will start to ask more demanding questions, or to search for answers for themselves, I don’t know. I cannot allow myself to think too hard about it; my fears for them almost suffocate me when I let my mind dwell for too long upon what might become of them in years to come. I shall have to find them husbands, I think, and to do that, I will need money. They’ll need dowries. So, whatever I feel about it all and however tired I might become, I must just remember why I am doing it.
    And there are recompenses, after all. I have a veritable treat in store this evening—it’s been awhile since I had the pleasure of bedding a virgin.
    Whatever the challenges and rewards of one’s more experienced customers, it makes a refreshing change to deflower an innocent. I haven’t had the chance very often. There is something quite charming about seeing a boy’s clumsy attempts gain in confidence as he follows your instructions, though I suppose there is one thing to consider: It has to be said that it is something of a responsibility. More than just ensuring that he enjoys the occasion, there is another, more far-reaching consideration: that the experience he has—literally— in your hands may color the attitude he will bring to any other woman he beds in years to come. With every move you make, you might be setting a standard by which he will judge women for the rest of his life. For myself, I have found that the future happiness of those other, unknown sisters weighs just as heavily on my conscience as the present customer’s immediate pleasure. You must simply “tread carefully,” I suppose you might say. Nothing too alarming. Let him glimpse the possibilities, but do nothing to encourage the sort of vices you—or others—might regret in encounters to come.
    Those will come later, with or without your help.
    ***
    It was a most unexpected commission. I had turned away from the