HOW TO ESCAPE A "CHIVALROUS" LIEUTENANT

A skinny brag in a long brown coat stood by himself at the bar, looking down at an untouched drink. He was one of the youngest men here. Aster was just about to approach him when another girl reached him first, leaning easy against the counter. 
Damn it. 
Aster turned away, searching desperately for someone else she could corner. Then, she spotted him: a man hovering alone by the piano, near enough the front door that Dex was sure to come running at her distraction. The brag wore the faded gray uniform of the Arkettan forces. Glory to the Reckoning, the words beneath his stripes said—the national motto. Like lawmen, armymen were offered a reduced price at welcome houses. They were always eager to find someone to listen to their stories about the dustblood rebels they’d helped capture. 
Aster started towards him, slicing through the crowd. 
“Looks like you could use some company,” she said, slipping in at his side and trailing her fingers along his arm. Aster was never usually this forward, and for the first time she found herself wishing she had Violet’s skill in effortless flirting. 
The armyman squared up, his eyes glassy and unfocused from too much drink. “And what’s your name, miss?” he asked thickly. 
“I’m called Aster. See?” she teased, turning to show off her favour. She managed a sweeping glance of the room as she did so, but there was still no sign of Violet. She swallowed around the knot in her throat. 
“Well, Lieutenant Carney, at your service, Aster,” the armyman introduced himself, clumsily tipping his slouch hat. He eyed her up and down slowly, a half grin spreading across his face. A daybreak girl passed by with a tray of bright cocktails. He swiped two. 
“Sweet drink for a sweet girl?” he asked. 
Aster thanked him demurely, taking the glass. She looked past him to the stairs. Where was Violet? 
And then Aster spotted her, swaggering down the steps with surprising confidence. Her long hair had been tucked away underneath the brag’s hat, her feminine figure hidden by his knee-length coat. She’d wrapped his silk dustkerchief around the bottom half of her face. But it wasn’t these things that made her look the part. It was the way she carried herself, the natural authority and obvious sense of entitlement. She showed none of the fear that she surely felt. 
Aster’s blood raced. She wet her lips. 
“Wander well,” Carney said to her cheerfully, raising his glass in a toast. 
She turned to the armyman, fighting to keep her calm. “Wander well,” she replied with a forced smile, and she drained her drink in three swallows. 
The alcohol lit a fire down her throat, sticky sweetness burning on her tongue. She coughed violently. Braced herself against Carney’s shoulder as her head spun. 
Carney rubbed her back, laughing. Her skin crawled at his touch. 
“Easy!” he said with disbelief. “You dustblood girls really are tough as drygrass.” 
“Well, we aim to impress, Lieutenant,” she replied airily. “Though I’ll confess I’m feeling a bit faint now.” She straightened up but let herself sway where she stood. 
“Nothing a chaser won’t fix,” Carney said with too much eagerness. 
Aster looked past him again. Violet had made it to the foyer. She was next in line to leave. 
Carney persisted. “Here, I’ll take you to the bar—” 
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Aster said quickly. “I just need to sit for a spell.” She took a few wobbly steps, let out a dramatic wail, and collapsed to the floor. The piano music cut off. A collective gasp went up around the room. 
Aster remained on the floor, eyes closed, as chaos erupted around her. A jumble of voices filled the air: girls calling her name, a man calling for help. The floor vibrated under her cheek with the thumps of footsteps as a crowd gathered. She could hear Mother Fleur pushing through them and apologizing for the disturbance. The smell of cigar smoke in the rug turned her stomach. 
“Keep back, she’s with me,” Carney ordered. 
Aster fluttered her eyes open. A tangle of legs stood between her and the front door, but she could just make out Violet, striding outside. Dex was lumbering towards the growing crowd, forcing calm upon the guests with his mental influence. Aster’s relief, however, was her own. 
Violet had made it out. 
Then a cold realization trickled down Aster’s spine, chilling her brief rush of triumph: What if Violet simply ran away? What if she didn’t wheel the cart around for the rest of them, just used the brag’s hand to make her escape and leave them for dead? Maybe she’d only wanted to use them, maybe that had been her plan all along. 
No choice now but to see this through. 
Aster looked up at Dex, whose lip curled to reveal yellowed teeth, and Mother Fleur, whose mouth smiled but whose eyes flashed with fury. Aster’s sloppy behavior would reflect poorly on the welcome house. Normally that would mean she’d spend tomorrow having her mind pulled apart by one of the raveners. 
But by this time tomorrow, Aster would either be free or dead. 
“Are you all right, Aster?” Mother Fleur asked, her voice dripping with false concern. 
Aster took Carney’s hand and stood up slowly. “I’m fine now, ma’am. Just got a little lightheaded. Sorry for causing a stir.” She didn’t have to fake the quaver in her voice. “I think I had better retire for the night, though, with your permission.” 
“Of course,” Mother Fleur replied. “And the lieutenant here would like to come along and make sure you’re okay, and spend a little time with you.” She turned towards the brag and smiled. “The Aster Room is at the end of the hall on the right.” 
Carney stepped in closer as the rest of the crowd began to dissipate. 
Aster’s panic doubled. “Actually, I’m not sure—” she began. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you,” he promised. He draped his arm around her and guided her towards the stairs. 
Aster’s heart thudded against her ribcage. This wasn’t part of the plan. She couldn’t bring him into her room. Clementine and the others were probably climbing out of the window right now. Or, if Violet had abandoned them, they were trapped there with no escape. 
She made herself stumble on the first step. 
“Careful, now,” Carney said. “Don’t want you taking another nasty tumble.” 
“Seems I’m too weak to go upstairs just yet,” Aster demurred. She’d hoped to stall for a moment, give everyone time to get out, but Carney simply scooped her up and started up the stairs. 
“No problem at all,” he said gallantly. 
Aster mouthed a curse. Of course acting helpless would only encourage him. 
He smiled down at her as he continued to talk, and Aster began to feel ill in earnest. And then there was the usual fear, too, the one that took hold of Aster every time she climbed these stairs with a brag. Bone-cold dread rose up to drown her. It didn’t matter that Carney seemed to think himself chivalrous. The end result was always the same. 
They reached the top of the stairs. Carney set her down. Aster made a slow gallows walk to the end of the hall. She drew in a tight breath as she wrapped her hand around the knob. 
Please, by the Veil, don’t let me find anyone behind this door. Let them have escaped. Please. 
She opened the door. 
And exhaled. The room was empty, the window open. She strolled over to it, pretending to simply close the curtains. She glanced down and saw the hay cart waiting below. 
Clementine had gotten out. They’d all gotten out. 
Then Carney closed the door behind him with a thud, dropping Aster’s heart. She couldn’t jump with him standing there right behind her. 
You’ll just have to fight him. Knock him out. 
A trained soldier? She didn’t like her chances. 
“Well, then, where should we start?” Carney asked, his words slurring slightly. He stepped in behind her and circled her waist with his meaty hands. 
Aster’s throat swelled. Her eyes burned. She could already feel herself sliding into that place of numb detachment where she went every night, her mind floating farther and farther away and leaving her body to fend for itself. Her breath was overloud in her ears, and her limbs grew so heavy she might as well have swallowed a whole week’s worth of Sweet Thistle. 
“I’m sure you’ve heard us all talk about Sweet Thistle before, Clementine,” Violet continued, “but words don’t really do justice to the feeling it gives you. It’s like letting your mind sink into a warm bath. Outside the welcome house there’re people clawing at each other for just a taste, but now that you’re a sundown girl you’ll get it every night. The cap is an eyedropper, see? One drop under the tongue will do. Mother Fleur will refill it for you every week.” 
Aster had only ever used her Sweet Thistle once, on her Lucky Night. She could understand why some girls liked it, but it left her limbs sluggish and her mind foggy in a way that had only made her feel more helpless, and the crushing hollowness it left the next morning had been worse than any natural hunger. Another dose would have sated it, but Aster knew that if she gave in, she’d be lost to Sweet Thistle for good. Even girls like Violet, who had only been taking it for a year, became fatigued and forgetful from its influence, and many of the older girls’ minds had melted away completely.
Sweet Thistle.
That’s it. 
“Let’s get you out of that dress. Help you breathe a little easier,” Carney said. She spun around to face him, still in his grasp. 
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to try for a while,” she murmured into his ear. “But I’m not sure you’re up for it.”
“Oh?” 
“Let me see if I can find it.” 
Aster disentangled herself and retreated to her vanity, where her small brown bottle of Sweet Thistle sat nestled among the jewelry and hairbrushes. 
She wet her lips, a flare of anger burning through the fog filling her mind. Every week, Mother Fleur had expected her to be grateful for this Sweet Thistle. Her parents had expected her to be grateful for this home. Lieutenant Carney probably expected her to be grateful for his restraint. As if any of those things changed what this place was, what it had almost done to Clementine. What it had already done to Aster and a thousand others. 
“You’re beautiful, you know,” Carney said idly. “Most of these dustblood girls . . .” He just shook his head. “But what else can a man expect from the Scab? Glad I found some good luck here after all.” 
I should crack a mirror over his head. 
Slit his throat with a shard of the glass. 
Let him bleed out like a pig.
But no, she couldn’t. She had to control her anger just as she controlled her fear. It was the only way she would make it out of here alive.
“What’ve you got there?” Carney continued. He had snuck up behind her, surprisingly light-footed. 
She swallowed and showed him the bottle of Sweet Thistle. “Just a little pick-me-up leftover from a former guest,” she said brightly. “Interested?” 
Carney raised an eyebrow. “What exactly does this pickme-up do?” 
“It’s an extract of a rare flower from the peaks of the mountains,” Aster lied. “Said to open your mind and senses and unlock your deepest potential for pleasure.” 
“That so?” 
She nodded. “Just a drop under your tongue. And the more you use, the stronger the effect. Not every man can handle it, though. Most can’t manage more than a dose or two. But an armyman such as yourself . . .” 
“Hand it over,” Carney said roughly. Aster obliged, watching, tensed, as he unscrewed the cap and ran the bottle under his nose. If he recognized the scent of Sweet Thistle, he would know Aster was playing him. But he just filled the dropper all the way to the top, opened his mouth, and emptied the liquid under his tongue. 
“See? No problem,” Carney said, his slur growing even more pronounced, the drug beginning to work its magic. “Now you just come over here and we can—we can—” 
He sat heavily on the bed, muttered a low curse, and fell back. Aster hurried to his side. His eyes were half open but unseeing, his words faint and incomprehensible. If he wasn’t already asleep, he would be soon. 
Aster moved quickly. 
She ran back to the window. The hay cart was still there, mercifully. And the sluggishness that had taken over her limbs just moments ago had lifted completely. Aster brimmed with energy, equal parts fear and anticipation. How many nights had she imagined an escape? It was finally happening. 
But not if she didn’t hurry. Every second she wasted was a second the other girls might be discovered in the stables. 
She lifted first one leg then the next out the window, the iron sill biting into her palms. She was certain that if she lingered even a moment, someone, something would come to stop her. A heartbeat later, she sat on the window ledge, legs dangling over open air. The distance between her feet and the hay cart seemed to yawn wider, now that the moment to jump was here. Go, she told herself. Jump. 
But instead Aster turned and looked over her shoulder— at the room that had been her prison for so long, at the man who would have used her like so many others already had. Nothing short of the death of a brag had given her this chance to escape, and she knew it was a chance that would come only this once. 
Aster made a decision right then. Even if it meant her life, she would never come back to this place or any place like it. 

Charlotte Nicole Davis 
(standalone girl-power-themed cattlepunk, just translated and released in Spain)