Copyright© 2003 Kenny N Gamera

Prologue
London
Sometime in the 1830s

The driver pulled over to the side of the street and brought the carriage to a stop next to the woman. She had her red hair done up in imitation of the current style among the ladies. Her pale face held two piercing green eyes. They lit up together with the smile on her red lips. The man in the carriage pulled the cord that caused the curtains to spread aside. The girl came over and looked up to his face.

"What can I do ya for, sir?" she said with a voice thick with the accent of the street. "I can do ya a lot if ya'll let me."

"That depends Miss." He reached into his suit coat and pulled out a heavy and over stuffed purse. "Are you free for the evening?"

She stared at the money. "Evening?"

"The whole evening. Until morning at least. I have an important... um... client who wouldn't be interested in just a few moments of your time." He smiled his best politician's smile at the girl. "So would you be available?"

"For that," she nodded her head to the money, "a gentleman such as ya would be able to get yerself a real lady not some whore like meself."

"He has particular tastes. And we are buying more than your services, we are buying your silence."

"Silence?"

"Silence. I wouldn't want this in the press. Certain... ahem... papers would be interested."

"Oh."

"So," he asked the girl drawing out the word.

"Okay," She looked at him and smiled a very professional smile. "Let's go."

The other girls at the corner watched her step into the gilded carriage. Some with a little envy. Most with merely bored momentary interest before turning back into their night's search and wait. They never saw her again.

London

She was a young woman. She wore an outfit meant to resemble a girl's school uniform. Rather than displaying her youth, however, it displayed her age, making her appear older than early twenties that she must be. Still, she stood out from the others on the street. There was something about her that he found, not so much appealing, but somehow of interest. Seifert decided that she would do for the night.

"That one, the school girl."

The driver pulled over to the side of the street and brought the car to a stop next to the woman. She had her red hair done up in pigtails. Seifert touched the stud on the door handle, activating the small motor that lowered the window. The girl came over and leaned against the car. Her pale face held two piercing green eyes. They lit up together with the smile on her red lips.

Not yet burnt out on this, thought Seifert. He smiled to himself; she would do quite well.

"What can I do you for, sir?" she said with a voice betraying her Irish roots. The brogue wasn't heavy. Instead, it lent a charming lilt to her voice. "I can do you a lot if you will let me."

"That depends young lady." Seifert reached into his suit coat and pulled out a stack of pound notes. "Are you free for the evening?"

She stared at the money. "Evening?"

"The whole evening. Until the morning at least. I have an important... um... client who would be interested in more than a few moments of your time. " He smiled his best politician's smile at the girl. "So? would you be available?"

She licked her lips, but her gaze never left the money. "Yer not... ?"

"No, young lady, I am not on the constabulary. Even if I were, it would hardly be a fair cop at this point now would it?"

"For that," she nodded her head to the money, "you would be able to get yerself a real lady not someone like me."

"He has particular tastes. And we are buying more than your services, we are buying your silence."

"Silence?"

"Silence. I wouldn't want this in the press. Certain... ahem... papers would be interested."

"Oh."

"So," he asked the girl drawing out the word.

"Okay," She looked at him and smiled a very professional smile. "Let's go."

The other girls at the corner watched her step into the black car. Some with a little envy. Most with merely bored momentary interest before turning back into their night's search and wait. They never saw her again.

"What is your name, young lady?"

The man reached into his coat pocket.

"Megan, sir." She could hear the unease she felt in her voice and hoped that the gentleman next to her hadn't noticed, that it was only her nerves causing her to hear things. She tried her best to keep it under control when she did this, but she always felt the fear build in her when she went into a car. No one she knew ever disappeared, but there were stories. And some of her friends had been beaten and left somewhere with nothing to show their pimps, not even money from their earlier tricks.

Nothing would happen this time. Nothing ever happened. Don't worry, she told herself in her thoughts. But in the back of her mind, every time she entered a car, something always reminded her that there must be a first time.

The man's voice turned not cruel, but something different than the nice it had been. Cold, bored, uncaring.

"No," he said in that new voice, "what is your real name?"

"What do you mean, sir?" Her heart began to race.

He grew angry. "Listen, I don't care a rat's arse what you call yourself to the guys you whore your bleeding arse to. I want your bleeding real name."

"Sir? I... "

He slapped her across the face, hard enough to turn her head. Before she could reach for the burning flesh of her cheek, he took hold of her wrist. He slipped a bracelet from a pair of handcuffs over it. Taking advantage of her shock, he placed the other bracelet over her free hand, and snapped both tight in front of her.

He grabbed her lower jaw and pulled her face close to his. His grip distorted her face with the pressure. She looked less pretty, ugly even, with the smear that her tears made of her heavy make up.

"Listen, you bleeding whore." He brought his face close to hers. His breath smelled sweet, like the mint candies some of her clients would use. "I need to know your name. The real one. The one you were born with."

She sobbed.

"Now, are you going to tell me?"

She nodded her head as best she could with the hold he had on her head. He released it. She jerked her head away. The window was too dark to see the streets outside. They would be too dark for anyone to see her. As if anyone would notice her, just another street whore. She choked on another sob.

"Marguerite Katherine O'Neil."

"Good, that should help us, but just in case... "

He reached to the floor and pulled up a case. From the case he brought out a pad of ink and a sheet of heavy white paper. He took one of her hands and forced each finger into the ink. Then the fingers were pushed onto the paper. Once the impressions of her fingerprints had been made, he tapped on the tinted glass dividing them from the driver.

The window slid open. A hand reached through and took the card. Before it closed, the man gave whoever was behind the glass a few terse instructions. He turned back to her and smiled, she didn't notice. She just stared at her hands, her mind in a numb state beyond fear and caring.

His pleasant voice returned, he asked "So, do they call you Maggie."

Maggie nodded.

"You're from Ireland?"

"Yes." She told him her hometown. Seifert wrote it down on a sheet of paper he passed to the front

"I'm sorry about this, Maggie. I really am." He touched her cheek. "But some very important people need someone like you to do a very important job. It won't be pleasant for you, even the people who need this done know that. They wish there was some other way, but there isn't."

Maggie looked up. She tried to make her face defiant and snarl a few choice words at the man. Instead, tears ran through the paints around her eyes and carried it through the powders on her cheeks. She kept her mouth closed to save at least that much of her dignity.

"They've tried to find a way for a long time, Maggie. There isn't one." The man placed a hand on her leg. The gesture was meant to be comforting not sexual, Maggie knew in a way she could feel. "But I think you can do this. I need you to be strong Maggie.

"My name in Seifert, Maggie. If there is anything I can do, please tell me."

She swallowed and sighed. "I want to go home."

"That, Maggie, I am afraid will never happen."

Maggie woke up in a dark room. It was a dark like she had never seen before. Always before there had been some light somewhere so that she could eventually get some sense of where she was. Here, she saw nothing.

The last she remembered was in the car. With the man. Seifert. He had taken a cloth from his pocket and placed it over her mouth and nose. It smelled like chemicals, maybe a little like the vodka that she remembered drinking once, before she faded into the sound of her tears. She heard nothing and saw nothing. She felt herself on her back on a soft bed. She still wore her clothes and her arms and legs were spread eagle in that well-remembered, classic position. She tried to count the number of men who had her this way in the past two years. Faces came to her mind, and a few names, maybe real, but most likely not.

She tested the ropes, and felt more than the accustomed give to them. She could move her limbs enough to prevent cramping, but no further than that. She sighed and felt the dryness in her throat. She swallowed, but the small volume of saliva that had gathered in her mouth failed to calm the demands her body made.

"Mr Seifert?"

Her voice echoed, but only slightly. She called again. The sound of a doorknob turning rewarded her. No light entered the room as the hinges of the door creaked slightly. She heard the soft tread of shoes on a heavy, wooden floor.

"Mr Seifert?"

"Yes, Maggie?"

"I'm thirsty. Can I get something to drink?" She made a try at playing the game she found herself in. "Master."

"Yes, you may." He chuckled to the sound of pouring water. "But I am not your master. I am a mere servant."

"A servant?"

"Yes." He paused a moment, then continued, "of the Queen."

"The Queen?"

"Yes."

He sat on the bed next to Maggie, causing the mattress to sag in his direction. She felt his hand over her wrist undoing a knot. When the rope came loose, he grasped her wrist with one hand and held it. With the other, he pressed a plastic cup into her palm.

One swallow after another, tilting the cup in a higher and higher angle she drank until it was empty. When she was done, he took the cup away and placed it a table that was next to the bed. It made a solid thonk as it hit the wood.

"How can you see," she searched for something to address and settled on "Mr Seifert?"

"Night vision goggles. A wonder really. It was so very difficult in the dark before they came up with these."

Maggie felt him reach over her body. He began tugging at the ropes on her far wrist.

"Why not just turn on the light?"

"There are no lights in this room." The rope came loose from her arms. He bent back to her feet. "His Highness dislikes electric lights. He usually brings his own."

"Prince Charles?"

"No. Not Prince Charles. Someone else who once had a claim to the throne, before Charles."

"Who?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. In any case, you would've never heard of him." He swore softly in distracted voice as a knot fought his efforts to loosen it. "He can sense the circuits in a room. We found it best to have all the surrounding rooms without electricity.

"Damn. It's almost time."

"Time for what, Mr Seifert?" Maggie felt uneasy and afraid. Very afraid, but also unsure of this strange man and what was happening.

"You will find out soon enough." He grunted and the knot came undone. He sat up. "Just try to be strong through this. Once it is over you will be a very rich young lady. And far away from here, as well. That cannot be helped.

"Just stay strong."

Seifert stood from the bed. Without a word, he walked with his soft steps across the wooden floor. The hinges squeaked. There was a click of the latch, and the room returned to silence.

Maggie sat up and rubbed her wrists. She turned and placed her feet on the floor. She sighed.

I should have run, she thought. Everything about the situation felt wrong, but Seifert had found ways to make her feel reassured and if not at ease, at least safe. Like a lover, almost. But very much like a master.