From beneath the shadow of an exposed beam, a rain-spider ran out. Lizzie lifted an upturned thumb, blocking it from view, but the spider seemed to be attempting to evade her. Wherever she moved her thumb, it would run someplace else.

A knock came at her bedroom door, but she ignored it, remaining transfixed on the eight-legged visitor. “Do you have a name, little spider? A family, perhaps?” She cast her eyes about the room. “Where are they hiding?” She looked over at the writing desk, never used, wood rotting in the damp air. She looked at the broken dressing table in the far corner, chipped mirror and wonky chair. She glimpsed the pile of worn clothes beneath the open window, and thought, yes, that’s more than likely. That will be a fun surprise when I finally pick up my clothes.

Spiders are seldom alone, she knew. They tended to invade homes in pairs, though goodness knew why. In Lizzie’s experience, life was far simpler as a solo venture.

The knock came again, louder and more insistent. “Lizzie,” called a matronly voice. “You’ve another visitor.”

“One minute,” she called back.

She rose from the bed, legs still stiff and neck aching. As she stood, she felt the previous visitor's leavings drip out of her and run down her leg. She grabbed a pair of stockings from the pile and wiped herself clean of it, and then she stood for a moment by the window, letting the cool air hiss through and tickle her cheeks. There was a freshness, as of the breathing of spongy ground after showers, and the smell of pine brought her some peace.

She went to the dressing table and examined herself in the damaged looking glass. Her blonde hair was greasy, almost all the natural curls flattened out, and a scrim of dirt crusted the side of her nose. Where the dirt came from, she did not know; she hadn’t been outside in days. From the kisses of her last customer, she supposed. He had been one of the militia, and looked as though he had come straight from battle without bathing first.

Many of her customers were soldiers these days. Prostitution always prospers at a time of civil war. She could see it in their eyes: they always thought their number was up. They wanted to live, to really live, one last time before the end. Who could blame them for that?

She scrubbed the dirt and grime from her face and went to open the door.

A man greeted her, not a day older than twenty, though his eyes had doubtless seen things that nobody his age should have to remember.

“Hello, my love,” she said. Her standard greeting. She smiled as warmly as she could. “Would you like to come in?”

“I think … yes.”

The poor boy was terrified. He was wearing armour which appeared too large for such a skinny build, and he carried a helmet under his arm. All was stained with dried blood, like rust. His black hair fell limp to his shoulders; his face was smoother than a summer sky. He stepped into the room, breathless, as though diving from a high cliff, but when Lizzie closed the door behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“I wasn’t sure it would be safe,” he said. “After the other …”

“The other whorehouses?” She smiled again. “I understand. Perfectly natural to be hesitant. But as far as the authorities are concerned, this is just an inn like any other. Some know the truth, but that’s because they are regulars themselves. No chance of them giving the game away.”

“So, you’re … not expecting to be raided?”

Lizzie lifted a hand to her ear, pretending to listen out for any noises coming from downstairs, and then smiled wickedly. “Not today. You are safe here, I assure you. They have more important things to worry about. Charles and Cromwell have seen to that.”

“I suppose that is true.”

“Would you like me to help you off with your armour?”

The boy said nothing, but when she came to undress him, he did not stop her. When she took his helmet and tossed it into the pile of dirty clothes, and then began freeing him of his suit, it seemed to loosen him somewhat, and his words came more freely.

“Some of the others in the militia recommended this place. Some even mentioned you personally.”

“Soldiers are our most frequent customers, yes.” She went about unfastening the straps around his breastplate. “It’s the fighting, I think. It makes a man want … well, it makes a man want all sorts of things. Some things I would never have thought about before.”

“And are you comfortable with all of them?”

Lizzie paused. Nobody had ever asked her this before. She hadn’t even asked herself. “Not all of them,” she said. “But most.”

The breastplate was off now, and when she removed the leather jerkin and shirt beneath, she was hit with the scent of stale sweat. But that was not the first thing she noticed. The young man’s chest, hairless and thin, with a visible ribcage, was covered in scars. Not the fresh red scars that one might expect of a body recently dragged through battle. These were the scars of childhood: light pink ridges, permanent, criss-crossed on his sternum like a map of complex roads.

“Oh,” she whispered when she saw them.

At first the boy didn’t seem to notice the reason for her exclamation. But then he looked down at his body. “Ahh, yes. Sorry. Perhaps I should have warned you.”

“No, not at all. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

The young man ran his fingers over the ridges in his skin. “My father,” he said. “I was very young.”

“I’m sorry.” Lizzie felt tears growing and she blinked them back. “I’m sorry he did that to you.”

“Oh, it was a long time ago now. Scars heal over time.”

“I hope so.”

“Do you have any of your own?”

She nodded. “Would you like that, if I did?”

“No, I don’t think I would like it. But I should like to see them, all the same. If you will show me.”

Lizzie removed her clothes now, and she showed him everything. She showed him the marks on her breast where her father his bitten deep enough to draw blood. She pulled back her hair to reveal her left ear, only half of which remained after he had snipped the dangling lobe when she had tried to shield her mother from him. She showed him her right foot, where only three of five toes remained. “He never hurt my jaw, or my lips,” she said. “He said he needed those.”

They lay together, but it was not like the others. The young man obtained his pleasure not from violence, but from tenderness. He seemed intent on giving Lizzie enjoyment in equal measure to his own, and when they were both finished, he held her like a husband would. Her head on his chest, she could hear his heartbeat. It was slow.

His name, he told her, was Charles. “Like the traitor king. The others in my company have a good laugh over that.”

“They shouldn’t make fun,” she said. “None of us get to choose our own names.”

A silence passed, and she thought it a beautiful one.

“How many men have you killed?” She asked.

“Three.”

“Only three?”

“Only three.”

“All in battle?”

Charles paused. His heart seemed to stop for a moment, and then went on slightly faster. “I killed one because he tried to kill my friend. Another because he tried to kill me.”

“And the third?”

“For vengeance.”

She didn’t ask for details. The details were written all over his chest. She simply asked, “Did it help?”

“No.” Charles pulled her in closer, squeezed her shoulder. “Not the same way that this helped. This was … it was my first time.”

“I had a feeling.”

“Was I any good?”

Lizzie lifted her head and looked into his eyes. Quiet and grey they were, and they seemed somehow far away, even up close. “The best I’ve ever had,” she said.

She was not lying.

After he had gone, she found herself thinking of him, more so than anybody else who had visited her chamber before. He became, from that day onwards, the bird on her shoulder, singing her awake in the mornings.

A week later, she discovered from one of the other soldiers that Charles had been slain by a Royalist arrow. He had died quick, and she was glad of that mercy. His death would leave a scar all of its own, but it was okay. She knew it would heal, in time.