Summer, 1961. Maggie is back at Aynsley Court after a short time away. The building is loud tonight, the men are careless with their wedding rings, and Madame Noir is due on stage in an hour. Some things can wait. Some things can't.
CONTENT WARNING:
This piece contains references to death and dying, grief and mourning, implied past abuse (non-graphic), themes of exploitation and survival, historical misogyny and gender-based power imbalances, mentions of sex work (non-graphic), and moments of psychological tension and unease. Please take care while reading.
The arch yawns wide as Maggie passes the iron gates. A pocket of peace, tucked away in the middle of crowded city streets, begs its visitors to pause and gaze at the sky—but no one does.
Skirts bustle and cobblestones clack under hurried heels. Laughter bounces playfully off the walls that reach to the stars. Women scuttle between groups, excitement palpable in the thick evening air, a night full of possibility in front of them.
Maggie leans on the cool stone of the arch, feeling the evening stretch out before her, already familiar with the pulse of this place after just a year. She understands the order too—when to speak up and when to stay in the shadows. Everyone comes to play at Aynsley Court—not everyone comes to stay.
Her return after a short time away makes the space feel louder, more chaotic, and perfect in the way only Aynsley Court can be.
Stepping into the courtyard, she reclaims her place in it.
A quick hand grasps hers in passing.
“Mags! It’s so good to have you back, I hope you’re feeling better,” Cynthia says, as she flits across the courtyard.
She nods and forces a smile, absentmindedly touching her abdomen, now empty. Her hand rests there a moment longer than she means to, still heavy with the possibility of a different future.
She quickly puts her hand in her dress pocket and continues around the perimeter, longing for the warm evening air on her skin. The summer nights are numbered, so she wants to soak it all in while she can.
A splash from the fountain startles her.
“Get in here, Maggie, we missed you!”
“Not tonight, dear Izzy.”
The men who frequent the club slip in the back with wedding bands stowed in their pockets—all for a night to forget who they are. In a few short hours, they’ll return home and resume their roles as breadwinners and doting husbands.
She watches them. They’re careless, but confident their secrets will remain between these walls. She sees her friends’ composed faces—poised, pretty, alluring—but she can’t ignore their fidgeting feet and trembling hands.
A stranger’s silhouette enters her periphery.
“Hey baby, join me for a drink?”
She catches his gaze, rolls her eyes, and steps around him, letting the clatter of the night consume her.
The crowd begins to thin, filing into The Velvet Siren for the next show—a place for eyes to indulge in fishnets and lace, to be a voyeur for the night, all the pleasure without the responsibility.
Maggie isn’t ready for that just yet. She fades into the shadows she knows too well, stealing a few more moments to herself.
Her hand traces the familiar etching on the blues club door.
This is the place she prefers, a place where women can choose for themselves. The Nightingale is part of Aynsley Court, but it doesn’t belong to it. It belongs to Etta.
She pushes open the door. Smooth jazz rhythms spill out to meet her, calming her. Women fill the room with unbridled laughter and joy. Steady hands bring cigarettes to upturned lips. Stockinged feet playfully lift suited pant legs.
Maggie lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
“Well, I’ll be! Is that Miss Maggie?”
“Etta.” Maggie beams as she’s gathered into a soft, warm hug.
“Go on and get yourself a seat, lemme getcha some food. That Vera ain’t been feeding you enough.” She scowls.
“I’m just passing through tonight, but it’s good to see you.”
“Take care, child.”
Etta turns and snaps the towel from her shoulder at a hand that lingers, unwanted, on a woman too long. The man recoils, sitting bolt upright, understanding his place.
The band brings their set to a close; applause ripples through the dimly lit room, underscored by scattered hoots and hollers.
Maggie slides into her favourite booth, the leather worn smooth by countless patrons eager to hear the latest up-and-comer. The tassels on the table’s lampshade sway in its glow as she settles.
She takes a beat to observe the room. Gloves plucked off. Lipstick reapplied in the dark. Laughter without constraint. Feet tapping to the rhythm of the night.
The seat beside her sags. She looks over—Charles.
Her smile comes easy; her eyes sparkle.
He sets his saxophone on the table and slips an arm around her waist. She leans into him, her head settling against his shoulder.
“Maggie, is he bothering you?” Etta calls from the bar.
“I can handle myself with this one, Etta,” she smirks, calling back. She turns to Charles. “Ms. Vera will be looking for me tonight. I can’t stay.”
He lifts her chin. “Tomorrow.”
She meets his gaze and nods.
Maggie reaches over to straighten his collar and bow tie, and she leans in, planting a kiss on his cheek, and stands.
She weaves her way through the tables, smoke curling around her, the clink of ice in glasses, the low hum of evening chatter. The band is packing up as she slips backstage toward the passage.
She pauses just behind the curtain, eyes raking over the hazy room. Here, she isn’t watched with prying eyes, pulled, or pushed. She exists just as she is.
Maggie descends into the darkness of the underground passage, a wave of unease washing over her. She rarely comes down here, but tonight she lacks the energy to circle the courtyard with a smile forced like a mask.
The lights flicker, casting shadows over the cracks in the wall. There’s a tightening in her chest and the ceiling feels like it’s pressing down on her. The scent of mildew and sweat is suffocating.
She hugs the wall to her right, slick with damp, keeping as much room between her and the row of short doors with tiny mesh screens. The screams echo in her mind and then fade like ghosts.
Eyes trained on the floor she counts them.
One, two, three, four… she hears a moan.
Ahead, a woman leans against the wall, head lolling to the side, a man from The Velvet Siren pressed up against her, head buried in her neck, hand sliding up her skirt—groping.
Her steps echo as she moves closer, panic rising as condensation pools on the floor.
The woman’s face comes into focus.
Izzy.
Maggie’s adrenaline spikes and her heart pounds in her ears.
She stumbles over to her, anger finally taking over as she pries the man off.
“Izzy!”
“Hey! I’m a paying customer!” he shouts.
“Not down here, you’re not—go!” she spits.
He skulks upstairs, swallowed by the noise.
Izzy groans. Hands shaking, Maggie tucks herself under Izzy’s arm, and helps her up the stairs.
Maggie settles Izzy on the couch in her dressing room, sets a glass of water by her head, and covers her with a coat.
Maggie steps to the mirror, makeup lights highlighting the circles under her eyes. She colours her face like an artist on a blank canvas. Then she sweeps her hair into a tight bun.
She moves to the costume rack full of rhinestones, lace, and feathers, and pulls out the number that always gets the loudest applause. She pulls it on—adjusting tights, bolstering her bust, and tugging at the hem of her near-nonexistent skirt.
She turns to look at herself in the age-pocked mirror—unrecognizable. She shakes off the incident in the passage, steadies her hands, and slides on her feathery headpiece.
Izzy’s snoring softly now.
She exits the dressing room and the door clicks shut behind her. Maggie presses her back against it and takes a long, steadying breath.
“Look sharp, Margaret—get out there!” Ms. Vera huffs, striding past. “I don’t pay you to dawdle,” she calls over her shoulder.
You don’t pay me at all, Maggie thinks.
She rolls her neck, sets her shoulders, and steps toward the stage. Worn floorboards creak under her heeled boots. The stage lights catch the sheen of sequins and sweat with every turn across the stage.
Maggie hushes the butterflies in her stomach. It’s showtime.
A booming voice echoes overhead.
“Please welcome—Madame Noir!”
Maggie steps out of the wings and into the spotlight. She slinks around the stage, throwing sultry glances across the room, every eye on her—enchanting.
The music fades and the shadows in front of her erupt in applause, whistles from near and far. She bows, beaming.
There’s a sense of power that Madame Noir holds, a power no one can touch.
She struts back into the wings. When she’s sure they can no longer see her, she deflates—hollow, the power and confidence draining from every limb.
Maggie presses her forehead into the brick wall side stage, eyes closed. For a moment nothing is required of her.
She heads straight for the dressing room where Izzy is now stirring.
“Get changed, Iz, we’ll go upstairs to bed now.”
“I’ve gotta say my goodbyes. You go—I’ll meet you up there.”
“Okay,” Maggie says, wary of leaving her behind.
“Mags?” Izzy pauses. “Thank you.”
Maggie winks at Izzy as she leaves the dressing room. She escapes the darkness of backstage and moves silently through the booths amongst the sound of unsure but flirty fits of laughter.
She hears Ms. Vera calling after her, but she keeps walking—ready to wash off the day and crawl into bed.
Outside, in the courtyard, the air is cooler now. She shivers, pulling her sweater tighter as she crosses the cobblestones to the stairwell that leads upstairs to the common space.
The door groans as she swings it wide. Suddenly the dangerous cocktail of grief, loss, adrenaline, and anger—slams into her all at once.
Her chest begins to burn, head starts to swim, vision begins to blur.
She gasps for air and reaches for the railing, steadying herself. She collapses onto the steps, remembering what Etta taught her.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
And then the tears come hard—like when she was a child hiding while her father swung at her mother again.
She hears her name, muffled through her sobs.
“Mags?” A shake. “Maggie!”
Izzy comes into focus through the blur of tears.
“Come on, doll. Let’s get you to bed.”
First! Looking forward to learning more about the characters and the obvious darkness lurking...