Chapter 3: SMOKE IN THE BALCONY

The House of Solace never truly slept. It exhaled in velvet sighs, breathed in the perfume of desire, pulsed with laughter that was always half a lie. But at night—true night, when the guests thinned and only the devout or the damned remained—it shimmered in its rawest form.

Jasmine stood on the balcony above the central courtyard, barefoot, one hand resting on the iron railing carved with climbing roses. Her cigarette burned low between two fingers, the ember a small, smoldering heart. Below her, candlelight flickered across satin sheets, mirrored walls, bare skin. Music curled upward like incense. A violin. Slow, haunted. Always just on the edge of moan.

The rain had stopped, but everything still glistened. The cobblestones were slick. A single streetlamp outside the gate flickered like it was deciding whether to survive the night. Jasmine took another drag, lips wrapped around the filter with lazy elegance. Smoke curled through her lashes. She didn’t blink.

Behind her, the doors to her suite remained cracked. Heavy curtains swayed in the night breeze, revealing glimpses of silk sheets and a half-dressed silhouette in the bed.

“Are you going to stare all night or come enjoy the show?” a voice murmured from the covers. Male. Polished, practiced. Hired.

Jasmine smiled, slow and dangerous, but didn’t turn. “I’ve seen better.”

Laughter echoed from somewhere below. Not the light laughter of women pretending to enjoy themselves, but the rough bark of a man whose wine had finally begun to wear down his edges. The sound pleased her. She liked knowing exactly when the mask slipped. When want made people honest.

A pale girl in green silk knelt between a merchant’s legs in the west wing window. Her eyes were closed, lips soft, fingers steady. A ritual. A transaction. An art.

Jasmine exhaled a ribbon of smoke toward the moon.

A door creaked behind her. Bare footsteps. The weight of someone brave—or foolish—approaching.

Sarah.

Of course.

She came wrapped in a sheer robe, plum-colored and threadbare at the seams. Her hair was pinned up with a golden comb shaped like a serpent, but wisps had fallen loose around her throat. Jasmine didn’t have to look to feel the heat of her. Sarah always carried too much fire for one girl. It leaked out of her skin.

“You didn’t sleep again,” Sarah said, settling beside her. Her voice was low, like a hand brushing silk.

“I slept,” Jasmine said. “I just didn’t dream.”

Sarah leaned forward, elbows on the railing, face tipped to the wind. Below, someone moaned loud enough to echo. Neither of them flinched.

“I saw what you left on the mirror,” she said, after a pause.

Jasmine’s gaze didn’t shift. “Then you know I’m not in the mood for games.”

“It wasn’t a game. You wrote your name in lipstick. Jasmine. Just that. Nothing else.”

Jasmine turned, finally. Smoke curled from her mouth like a kiss denied. “It’s mine. The name. The face. The blood. I’m claiming it.”

Sarah’s mouth twitched. “Elora won’t like that.”

“Elora can choke on her silence.”

Down below, the green-silk girl finished her task and rose like a priestess from prayer. She pressed her fingers to the merchant’s lips. He kissed them like they were relics.

Sarah watched, her jaw tight. “You ever wonder what they think of us? Really think?”

“They think what I let them think,” Jasmine said. “Which is more than most of them deserve.”

Silence again. Jasmine dropped her cigarette into the garden, watched the embers die in the wet soil. Her hand drifted to her thigh, where the skin still bore a faint mark—a scratch, a bite, or a memory. Hard to say which. Pleasure and pain had a way of marrying in this house.

“I don’t like the way you’ve been watching the sky lately,” Sarah murmured. “Like it owes you something.”

“It does.”

Sarah turned to her sharply. “What?”

“A sign,” Jasmine said. “An omen. Something to say that all of this—” she swept a hand toward the house, the candles, the perfumed corridors “—isn’t the only story I’ll be allowed to tell.”

“You’re not a prisoner.”

Jasmine laughed. It was not a kind sound. “We’re all prisoners. Some of us just decorated our cages better.”

Sarah stepped in close, her hand catching Jasmine’s wrist. Her eyes searched her. “Don’t do this. Don’t romanticize pain. You’re not broken. You’re not cursed. You’re just...you.”

Jasmine’s lips twitched, not into a smile, but something heavier. “Exactly.”

Below them, a man collapsed onto the cushions with a sound somewhere between agony and bliss. One of the girls—Mira, maybe—licked her fingers and turned her face to the sky like it had blessed her.

“Do you think wolves ever get bored of howling?” Jasmine asked suddenly.

Sarah blinked. “What?”

“They howl and they howl, and for what? Territory? Mates? Attention?” Jasmine tilted her head. “Maybe they’re just screaming into the dark because it’s the only thing that screams back.”

Sarah frowned. “You’ve been reading your mother’s books again.”

Jasmine didn’t deny it. Somewhere in her suite, under silk and secrets, those books still breathed. Some in languages even Elora wouldn’t recognize. Some with pages that pulsed faintly under her fingers. All of them inked in grief.

Jasmine’s eyes tracked a shadow moving across the far wall. Just a shadow. But her spine stiffened. The house whispered when it thought no one listened.

“Elora said something, didn’t she?” Sarah asked, softer now. “Something about the full moon?”

Jasmine didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

The moon was already rising. Full, gold, bloated with something unsaid. It hung over the House like an omen with teeth.

Sarah exhaled. “You’re going to leave.”

“I’m going to see what’s out there.”

“Out there is full of monsters.”

Jasmine looked at her, and her eyes glittered. “So is in here.”

A door slammed somewhere on the lower floor. Laughter followed. Drunken, slurred, edged with something mean.

Jasmine moved toward the edge of the balcony, her silhouette sharp against the lantern glow.

“I’ve spent my life being touched and not seen. Desired but not known. Do you have any idea how lonely that is?” she asked, quiet.

Sarah didn’t answer.

Because she did.

They stood like that a while, sisters by choice, forged in the heat of survival. Jasmine’s hand drifted to her hip, where a long silk sash was knotted tight. Beneath it, hidden from view, a blade glinted.

Small. Sharp. Ceremonial.

Not for men.

For monsters.

For memory.

Sarah leaned her head against Jasmine’s shoulder. “Whatever’s calling you out there...make it bleed before it bleeds you.”

Jasmine turned, kissed her temple.

“I plan to.”

Inside, the violin faltered. A string snapped. A girl cried out, not in pain, but release.

Jasmine’s robe whispered as she turned back into the shadows of her room. Her silhouette paused in the doorway.

“I want them to remember me,” she said.

Sarah looked up. “Who?”

Jasmine’s smile was nothing human.

“The ones who sent me the letter.”

Then she vanished into silk and smoke, and the balcony sighed in her absence.

Below, in the gardens, something howled.

And it wasn’t a man.