12
EMILY
I didn't know it was possible to cry so much. When I'd knocked on the door seeking employment, the girl who answered led me to the office of Lucille, the woman who owned the brothel. The stage was an impossibility at the moment; the amount of coin I'd taken wasn't enough to get to even August Point. My alternative was bleak, but I'd be adept at it from the start.
Lucille had been kind, but wouldn't take to falsehoods. A madame could sense lies readily enough. I stuck to the truth as closely as possible, stating my experience and familiarity with the workings of a brothel. When she'd asked me some very explicit and crude questions regarding my experience and skills I was willing to perform, I'd been able to answer with firsthand knowledge this time, instead of just hearsay. The
