“Listen,” said Mr. Mastricoli, pausing halfway up the wooden staircase. He pushed his hat back a little and Violet could see the sweat beading underneath its brim. “I don’t know what your husband told you about this place, but it’s better if you let me talk to them. You understand?”

I’ll speak when I speak, old man.

Anger simmered beneath Violet’s skin, but she held her tongue for now. Samuel had told her nothing of this place and even less about the debt they apparently owed. If her husband hadn’t left for Beaconsfield this morning, only an hour before Mastricoli came knocking, she would probably still be none the wiser.

Violet peered up into the hallway, at the candlelit red walls, at the polished oak beams, the ostentatious candelabra. Fury washed over her again.

A whorehouse. Damn you for a misbegotten fool, Samuel.

She wondered how often he had been coming to this place instead of working on their new home in Beaconsfield. Her sweet, loving, hard-working husband was quick to laugh, eager to please and — apparently — helplessly randy.

“Do you understand?” Mr. Mastricoli insisted. “I’m risking quite a lot in bringing you here, girl. The club has a reputation to uphold. As do I.”

“I don’t care about your stupid club,” she muttered, almost too low to hear.

His lips pressed into a thin line and his hands squeezed into fists, as though he wanted to seize her shoulders but didn’t quite dare. A droplet of sweat dripped down his temple.

“This stupid club owns your husband, girl. Which means they own you. If you can’t even show me respect, then I’ll need to reconsider my association with…”

“I apologise, Mr. Mastricoli. I will follow your lead.” She ducked her head with a submission that belied her fury.

Nobody owns my family, you greasy coward. She would tell them herself soon enough.

He grimaced. “Then keep your eyes low. And your mouth shut. Come.”

The opulent hallway was straight and long. Enormous oil paintings, darkly lavish and uneasy on the eye, hung in heavy gilded frames. A plush red carpet matched the colour of the walls. Two tall men waited at the far end, their huge shoulders packed into spotless grey suits, their eyes sharp above identical scarlet neckties.

Without breaking his stride Mr. Mastricoli removed his hat and nodded to the enormous men. One nodded back, his expression never changing, and they stepped aside. Violet kept her back straight and her eyes forward as she passed beneath their gazes.

There was another set of stairs leading up to a plain wooden door. At the bottom step, Mr. Mastricoli paused again, studying Violet. The old man licked his thumb and, without warning, reached out to clean her cheek with it.

“Get off me!” Violet shoved his hand away, disgusted. “I’m not one of your… girls!”

He shrugged nervously. The two giant men were watching them.

“Listen to me Violet, you mustn’t…”

Violet pushed past him and stomped up the wooden stairs, shoving open the door.

A dozen unfamiliar faces turned Violet’s way as she swept into the room. Her steps faltered.

The men — they were mostly men, older men — were dressed in fine black and charcoal suits. Their collars were white and crisp, their faces grey and nondescript. There were two women in the room, elegantly poised in expensive dresses with long glittering necklaces that draped almost to their knees.

They were gathered around low round tables, sitting in black armchairs or standing with drinks raised. The walls were dressed in rich red curtains that hung from floor to ceiling. At one end of the room, a bar was being tended by a short, dreadfully thin man who wore an ill-fitting red vest. At the other end was a wooden stage bracketed by three short steps on either side. On the front of the stage, a small key hung from a nail.

One of the women wore a tight cloche hat of woven gold sequins that glimmered in the dull light. She was smiling at Violet, a tight, approving smile, as she stood and approached with her hands spreading wide in welcome. A gold ring topped with a smooth black opal gleamed as she reached for Violet’s hand.

“Ah. The builder’s wife.” Her eyes cut to Mr. Mastricoli, who had quietly slipped the door closed and was heading towards the bar, his work apparently done. “Violet, I believe?”

Violet frowned at the woman’s hands, wrapped warmly around her own. “Do I know you, madam?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure.” There was a titter from the shadows.

Violet pulled her hand away. “It’s a pleasure I’d be most pleased to deny myself, if it’s all the same to you.”

There was another titter, but the woman’s smile faltered a little. “You are educated.”

Presumptuous sow. “Educated enough.”

The woman laughed, a dry and calculated sound. “Educated and proud. The simple builder’s housewife, not so simple after all.” She tilted her head, waiting, openly appraising.

Violet tried not to scowl. That cloche would be worth more than my entire wardrobe. She resisted the urge to cross her arms in front of her body.

“My Aunts taught me to read,” she muttered.

“Good. Education separates us from the beasts.”

“Not all of us.”

The woman stiffened. “Indeed,” she said, her voice quieter. “And your husband, Samuel? Perhaps not as refined as yourself, might I suggest? Not quite as well-read? Perhaps more… of a beast?”

There was another dry chuckle from elsewhere in the room. All eyes were on them.

“My husband is a good man,” Violet said, her chin raised. “And even good men can be led astray.”

“Indeed,” the woman said again, disinterested. She plucked a brandy balloon half-filled with amber fluid from the bartender’s wooden tray, then leaned over and spoke in the gaunt servant’s ear, too low for Violet to hear. Then she sipped her drink and smiled . “A good man. A very good man, one of our favourites in fact.”

There was nodding around the room. Violet glanced around nervously. Some of the men were smirking. The other woman chewed her bottom lip, her eyes shining with barely contained excitement. Only the bartender wasn’t looking Violet’s way.

“And it is always difficult when a very good man, when a very good friend, does a very bad thing.”

Violet narrowed her eyes. “I had no idea my husband had such distinguished very good friends.”

“Well, he doesn’t, actually. Not anymore. Now… now he has creditors.”

A small door opened behind the bar. A young woman emerged — a girl, really — dressed in a diaphanous blue robe that clung to her slim figure and left little to the imagination. The girl closed the door and walked slowly through the room, ignoring them. She drifted aimlessly over the plush red carpet, not meeting anyone’s gaze.

Violet felt her spine stiffen and her head swim. You knew it was a brothel.

You knew it was other women, what else could it have been? But she was a prospector’s daughter and a woman of the world. She had seen the working girls at the tin mines in Derby and the brothels by the docks at Georgetown. She would not be manipulated by this harlot.

“My husband has the same weaknesses as any man. Especially when plied with fancy drink and fancy words. If he has unsettled accounts, then I…”

“He certainly did develop a taste for the… fancier things.” The woman’s grin was a leer now. “In fact, I believe he would be enjoying a taste of something rather fancy even as we speak.”

Violet shivered. “What do you mean?”

“You see, builder’s wife, your builder has apparently convinced one of my finest girls to abandon her trade and leave this fine establishment of ours.”

“And why would he do that?”

This time it was more than a titter — one of the shadows actually laughed, low and mean.

The woman shook her head. “Oh Violet. You see… some men will do almost anything for love.”

“What?” Violet’s voice was a rasp. “Nonsense.”

“I’m afraid not. After several… visits… he became quite taken with the girl. Decided to make an honest woman out of her, I believe. Sweet, really.”

Eyes downcast, the girl drifted past them, her blue robe shimmering. The woman in the gold cloche surreptitiously cleared her throat and the girl stiffened, then turned towards the stage. Some of the men watched her approach it with blooming smiles.

“Not my husband. Not Samuel. He never did.”

“Oh but he did.”

“You’re wrong. My husband is a good man. A married man. He would never… never…”

He would never do that to me. She couldn’t say it. She felt like throwing up.

“A good man. A good man. A man of such… such… girth.”

There was more laughter.

The girl had climbed onto the stage, her sapphire-clad skin shifting in the dim light. Some of the other men were standing up now. Raising her arms to either side, she turned a slow practiced circle, her face raised to the roof, the planes of her shimmering figure reflecting the chandelier’s glow. When she had finished, she simply stood and waited, her head down, her feet apart.

“I don’t believe you. You’re a liar and I don’t believe any of this. ” Violet’s breathing was under control. Barely. I need to get out of here. “I would know if he was… he was… Samuel would tell me. He’s a hopeless liar and he’s no creeping coward.”

“No. Samuel is a good man. He seems intent on doing well by her.” The woman leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I believe he mentioned a little cottage in Beaconsfield. A white cottage, with a plum tree in the front yard.”

“What?” Violet’s stomach churned.

“Yes, that’s right. She’s been bragging about her new claw-foot bathtub, the one that’s right next to the fireplace… she’s been going on about it quite a bit. Tedious, really.”

That’s my bathtub. I chose that bathtub. A tear spilled over her cheek, unnoticed.

“Oh Violet,” the woman said, opening her arms, apparently offering to comfort her. Violet stepped back quickly, glaring at her, glaring around the room.

“I’m leaving. Whatever debt you think my husband owes you, you can take up with him. After I’m done with him.”

The woman cleared her throat. “My dear, Samuel is in Beaconsfield, isn’t he? Left this morning?”

Violet stared at her.

“He’s not coming back, and why would he? He’s watching that lovely young lady soak herself in her claw-foot tub right now, I don’t doubt. He’ll be polishing his drill, hammering away with his hammer, all those kinds of things.”

One of the men had joined the girl on the stage and was peeling off his expensive jacket. Violet’s breath caught as the man picked something up from the back of the stage — an iron chain with a manacle cuff. She looked away horrified as he closed the manacle around the girl’s bruised, slender ankle.

At the other end of the room, the bartender was busy filling glasses with ice and sharp liquor.

“As to his unfortunate debt… I’m afraid he took something that I owned. Something that belonged to me.”

“He rescued her.” It felt like the floor was falling away from beneath her feet, but she was steady. Sweet, foolish Samuel. “He saved her from you.”

The woman cocked her head, surprised, and when she laughed it was with genuine humour. “Rescued her? He bought her. He knew the price, knew it well, and paid it without complaint.”

Violet tried to swallow again. “He paid it? Paid it how?”

The woman grinned. “My dearest, sweetest Violet.”

Thank you for reading the prologue of Encore by Zane Pinner! Comment below, or c lick here to get the complete novella

Robin loves his job. Living at The Majestic Cinema, his uncle’s movie theatre in the heart of Launceston, means endless free movies and a lifelong career. Even the quiet, lonely nights seem to be over when he meets a budding actress, the vivaciously romantic Evelyn.

But the Majestic has a secret, sordid past that refuses to be forgotten. On one terrifying night, Robin and his friends discover a debt must be paid — a reprisal of blood, fire and death.

A night at the movies — who will survive?