Painted Ladies by Danielle Beach

The house was so still. The only noise to be heard was that of the ancient stairs squealing in agony with every step I too. I clenched the banister and continued to take slow, deliberate stops. Descending from the stairs I looked about me into the great room.
Great room. What a name. That room was filled with vivid flashbacks that smothered me as I crossed the mahogany wood floor to the small, draped window on the far wall. I swept the curtains away from my view and peered out into the street below. I opened the window, and an influx of cool air spilled into the room. The musty, leathery, dry smell settled into the large rug in the center of the room. I had grown accustomed to the lingering presence of the smell, as one would a client who has worn his welcome, but the memory of when I first opened that window and smelled that air never failed to creep into my mind.
I remained idle in front of the window for some time. Men busy with their morning tasks passed by beneath the window: the shopkeepers, the cattle herders, the miners, what have you. I would see, however rare, a woman stroll by, sometimes alone, sometimes escorted by a hopeful male companion looking to catch her eye. Either way, these women carried themselves with poise. Perhaps they held their heads up high, chins pointed nearly straightforward, because they were proud of their stature; perhaps they were proving that they were more refined and poised then the other women. Perhaps their corsets were drawn in too tight.
Nevertheless, they wanted nothing to do with our kind. They would never come right out and say it, but they thought of us as the scum of the earth this side of the Mississippi.
Why, then, were their husbands our prime clients?
I shut the window tight, crossed the room, and crept back up the stairs to wake the girls.