The carriage rumbled on through the streets of the dirty city. Brynn Callahan's tear-streaked face peered out from behind the small red curtain to view the noisy goings on outside. A thief was being carted off by police, screaming obscenities about the injustices he had been dealt. Brynn knew a thing or two about injustice. It was the injustice in her own life, in the lives of her family, that led her here.

She turned from the window to once again toy with the lacy white handkerchief in her lap. It was simply embroidered with a white flower, and delicate lettering for her initials, and was the last remaining vestige of her old life. When she'd left, she'd allowed herself one small piece to remind her that it hadn't always been this way. She knew she'd never get back there, but maybe when things were really unbearable, she'd be able to look at the handkerchief and remember why she chose to leave in the first place, and all the good that came of what was sure to be her now-miserable existence.

A low cough startled Brynn out of her reverie, and her eyes met with those of the older woman sitting across from her. Brynn didn't know her well at all, but she doubted this woman owned any handkerchiefs, never mind the pretty white ones of well-to-do ladies of the time. She probably doesn't even consider herself a proper lady, Brynn mused, but soon enough, she realized, neither will I.

“We'll be comin' on it, now,” the woman declared with a nod toward the left window.

She knew better than to tell Brynn to gather her things, for Brynn had none. Everything she'd left back at Blytheswood. There'd be no need for beautiful gowns, jewels and feather pillows. Though she was promised that if she did her job correctly, she could expect “everything to which she was accustomed in her old life.” Forcing herself to think nobly, Brynn asserted then, as she did now as they stopped in front of large, yet nondescript building, “I need nothing, save it be to know my family is happy and safe.”

She was promised regular letters from them, nothing more, but she preferred Miss Lyon – just Lyon, she was told to call her – keep whatever correspondence was sent her way. It would be very difficult for the first little while, she figured. Letters from her family would just end up making things harder.

It was Lyon who was in the carriage with her, now. Middle aged with a look of great fatigue, she appeared to have once been a great beauty. Now the woman with the longest history at Chanson Noir, her duties consisted mostly of accompanying new girls and managing their affairs. Brynn hadn't even met the owner (her owner, she thought with a slight shudder), and it was doubtful she would have much association with him at all. He dealt with the clients, not with the staff.

Brynn stared across at Lyon again. She hadn't really studied the woman since she'd entered the carriage, and that was hours ago. Long brown hair streaked with gray curled in a slight wave around a worn yet pretty face with tired eyes lined in charcoal. A dramatic mouth painted thick with red completed her look, and Brynn knew she'd never met anyone even remotely resembling this strange, proud woman.

The carriage door was flung open and Lyon exited, motioning for Brynn to follow. She nearly tripped on her skirt as she stepped down into the street, surveying the building before her. Larger edifices flanked Chanson Noir on either side. The surrounding area didn't seem like the best part of town, but Brynn didn't know any better, so for all she knew, this was the best part of town. She wasn't worried about the neighborhood. The girls at Chanson Noir weren't allowed to leave.

A large black door stood before them. Lyon paid the driver and muttered a few words Brynn couldn't readily distinguish, and the coach went on its way. Silently trailing behind Lyon, they went inside.