She had never known that abandon. She had never been intimate. She had never allowed anyone’s touch. A complex set of reasons kept her locked in a personal isolation. And although there were many instances she longed to break out of the self-prison, she had never managed it. . . .
The night was getting along. Ranhé set down her empty cup upon the satin tablecloth, left three gold dahr upon an empty pastry-dish, which was more than generous for both payment and tip.
She would never consider hiring an erotene. Never.
And yet, her pulse was racing, her breathing short, and she was suddenly taken with an absolute cold, as she arose from her place and exited the establishment.
Outside, she paused before the door of the Rose Teahouse. Her cloak was drawn about her once again, and she found herself shivering with cold despite the mild night breeze.
In fact, with each heartbeat, her head was becoming like ice, and all seemed to have stilled, become slow-motion. People walked by her motionless form, as Ranhé stood frozen, across the street from the House of Erotene. She stood and stared at the empty entrance, watching one inebriated well-dressed customer exit and descend the steep stairs across the street.
People laughed, loud voices sounded from all around. Occasional slow carriages rolled by the paved street. From a block away, someone had begun to sing, and a female whore’s voice arose in high squeals of laughter.
Ranhé’s gaze was glued upon the colonnade entrance.
Count to three . . .
An equipage stopped right before the House of Erotene, and an older woman customer in a pale silk wrap exited, accompanied by a tall male erotene, and then ascended the stairs to the House, holding his arm possessively.
One . . .
Someone pushed by Ranhé, hitting her inadvertently on the shoulder, shaking her out of the daze. She turned, and the man, seeing her sudden blazing ice-anger, her intensity, quickly excused himself, and was again on his way.
She took a breath. And then, because the ice began to return, to coagulate in her mind, she again turned her eyes upon the building across the street.
Two . . .
Three young men and two male courtesans passed before her, in a swaying crowd, like a single entity, supporting each other at the waists, at the elbows. She watched one of the young men stroke the buttocks of one of the male courtesans, and he was in turn pinched by his other drinking companion.
Three . . .
The entrance doors opened and closed to allow several other forms to pass, going up and down the stairs.
Ranhé’s guts sank in a curdling terror of indecision, then again decision. She focused on extraneous detail, wildly, saw the metal trim of the street lantern across the street, watched the curve of the scarlet orb, the geometric shadow thrown by each of the columns, the swirl of silk and satin in the skirts of the woman passerby. She saw the small flying insects circle the glowing orbs, then land, and upon touching the surface of the orb, burn and go up in a faint milky smoke. The scent of their burning wafted on the night breeze, and then was again gone, to be replaced by the sweet perfume and tea and spice scents of the district.
The first one of them that is male, the first to pass those doors . . . Now. . . .
The ornate doors of the House of Erotene opened, simultaneous with her thought. Two forms came out, both wearing the Guild cloak. The first was petite, a woman.
The second was a man.
Ranhé felt the world go still all around her, and a pang of sickness pierced her innards.
The man, tall and striking, wore no hood. He turned to speak privately to the woman before him, and his long pale hair spilled forward, like the sun. He wore his cloak carelessly, and his hands were without gloves.
A carriage rolled up to the curb, and the woman, turning to him for an instant—Ranhé could see her pale flash of face and a smile—proceeded to go down the stairs, and then entered the carriage.
The man did not go to assist her, only stood watching, and then nodded at her just before the carriage drove away. His arms were folded before him in a confident pose, and he swept the street with his bored gaze.
Ranhé stared at him, mesmerized. And for that reason, because she had been so incredibly focused, so still in the sea of moving people, his moving gaze stopped, and he saw her.
He saw her, a motionless island, across the street.
And he became still.
Ranhé felt herself moving. It was as if a sudden external force was controlling her puppet body from without, as she stepped away from the curb and crossed the street, and at one point was nearly run over by a moving carriage.
“Out of the way, blasted fool! Watch out!” the driver yelled out, taking her for a man.
Ranhé swayed almost drunkenly out of the way, and ignored the angry carriage driver. Like an automaton, she finally crossed to the other side, and stepped onto the walkway at the foot of the colonnade.
The stairs appeared so incredibly steep before her as she stopped for an instant, looking up at the House—it was in that instant a monolithic temple of pale marble—at the burning orbs above her head, the symbol of the spiraling blossom.
And she looked up at the form of the tall man with the sun-hair, who stood like a cruel unattainable god of the House at the top of the stairs, observing her, his silhouette obscuring the light.
There was a madness in her temples. Blood pounded, and yet her forehead was like ice.
Ranhé, moving as though in a dream, felt her feet moving automatically, her knees bending, as she climbed each stair, the longest flight of stairs in her life. When she was at the top, just before him, she stopped, her head lowered.
And then, because she had always been brave fearless Ranhé, she forced herself, like one condemned. She gathered her last remnant of pride, and looked up at him, looked into his eyes.
For a moment, the world fell out from under her feet, and then resurged to meet her. She saw a face, a pair of lazy eyes, somewhat slitted, apparently bored—and yet somehow familiar. Where had she seen these eyes before?
He was striking, just as she expected the erotene to be. And yet, it was not a beautiful doll’s face—rather, he had a quaintness about him, a definite character. His features were imperfect, but they combined into a beautiful whole. He watched her intently, as intently as she looked at him, and she noticed his exceedingly dark brows, unusual for one with such pale hair. That pallid hair was luxuriant, reflecting the scarlet orblight.
“Erotene . . .” said Ranhé, and her voice sounded to herself like a faint terrified whisper, “I—would ask you—that is, I realize that an appointment is normally necessary, but I would ask if you are for hire? For if you are, I would like to—purchase your services for this night. I—would pay you one hundred dahr for your time. . . .”
For a sinking moment, he said nothing. Each heartbeat rang like a hammer against the anvil of her temple, and with a raw inexplicable terror she noticed how smoothly his line of cheek flowed, noticed the immaculately formed lips, the long fine lashes.
And then he spoke, and his voice was deep and somehow familiar. “One hundred dahr,” he said blankly, “is quite more than the set price. The Guild takes only seventy.” And then, his expression changed, and a light almost amused smile passed over his perfect lips, while his slitted eyes never left hers. “Fortunately I am available for this night, so you have my services—lady.” And with that, he gracefully inclined his head to her, and then offered his bare ungloved hand.
Ranhé looked at the proffered hand—strong and chiseled, and strangely expressive—and she almost fainted.
He had said yes . . .
She had expected a rebuttal, albeit a perfectly polite one. In fact, she was so sure that she had been ready to turn around and start going down the stairs, having done the duty to her courage, her personal challenge answered and conveniently denied.
Luckily, he caught her elbow firmly just before she began to plummet backward down the stairs headfirst.
“Careful,” he said softly, holding her closer than she had ever been held before, his face inches away from hers. “These stairs are treacherous, and several of our fine customers have taken an unfortunate tumble. I wouldn’t want you crippled, my lady, before our night is pleasantly concluded.”
“Oh . . .” she gasped, feeling stupid. “I am sorry.”
And just when she was beginning to think he would hold her by the elbow forever, he released her gently, saying, “No harm done. Now then, where shall we go?”
Ranhé was at a loss. Things were out of her control to the point of being so ridiculous that she had ceased having the ability to think, and turned into a stuttering idiot. “I—don’t know,” she was saying, while the red glow of the district bathed her features, “I don’t—”
He stood looking down at the woman before him, at a pair of the most widely open terrified eyes.
She had been far from vulnerable when he had first seen her at Vaeste’s side. And even today, she did not seem so vulnerable at first glance when he had noticed her from across the street, standing at the doors of the Rose Teahouse. Rather, he had expected to observe up close the same calm masculinity that was in all of her bearing, the same sleek manner that his men had reported seeing in her all throughout the day, for she had been followed by them, as instructed.
And now, here she was. Of all the unexpected coincidences, here she was, the aide of Vaeste, right before his very nose, at the Teahouse across the street. He need not’ve ordered two of his best to stay on her heel and report on her progress.
How strange that she had approached him. It was true she appeared to be the loner type, which consequently made it logical that her intimate needs were to be purchased. It was but the strangeness of the timing, him of all people, that she had chosen to approach and solicit him.
And now, as she stood before him, so close, he had been surprised somehow, startled almost, by her face, by a kind of innocence that was there. When he held her by the elbow, he felt through the thin fabric of her shirtsleeve that she was trembling, terrified.
How could she be terrified of him? No matter what his role, no women of his acquaintance had ever been afraid. They had been charmed, all of them, they sought him, they had been instantly attracted.
But not this one. She appeared uncertain, and for a moment he considered if she too was playing some kind of exquisite mind game with him, if she had stumbled onto his game, guessed somehow. . . .
But no, she could not have, for her trembling had been real. And for that, he momentarily felt a pang of genuine pity toward her.
And then he smiled at her lightly, and proceeded with his game.
“I know of a charming place nearby,” he told her. “Where we will not be interrupted.” Saying that, he had been thinking of a certain apartment in one of the local Pleasure Galleries that had been a favorite with him, where he had spent some exquisite moments.
She looked at him with her open gaze and spoke so that he could barely hear. “Take me there, please.”
And that was exactly what he did.
They walked down the colonnade stairs, and then made their way along the Red River walkway, turning after a couple of blocks into a small side street. They stopped before a faintly illuminated villa that was away from the noise and bustle of the River, and he rapped lightly against the metal grate.
All the meanwhile, she had walked silently beside him, never daring to glance his way. He observed her discreetly as she walked, noticed her large build—although somewhat on the thin side—noticed how several baby-fine wisps of hair had escaped her plain braid and now lay against the nape of her neck, how her cloak rested against her strong sloping shoulders.
Soon, a familiar servant had come to open the gates for them, and smiling, he slipped a small discreet purse to the woman. At his side, the young woman walked stiffly, automatically, and she exhibited no reaction to this place, to anything.
He proceeded through the front garden of the villa into the house itself, through several warmly illuminated corridors full of fine china and bric-a-brac, and other feminine frills, into a large quite unique chamber, that in the last couple of years he had practically built himself, for needs of this sort.
In the center of the chamber was a large square sunken shallow pool, with a set of gentle stairs leading down into the water. To the right was a large canopied bed, tossed with silk pillows and various soft coverings, and possessing a set of gauze curtains. To the left, in a tall lampholder, was a soft mauve orb, filling the chamber with a soothing warm glow, not unlike the charm of the Rose Teahouse—for it was in fact the same perfect shade of mauve, and he had made sure of that himself.
A hue most conducive to love.
The servant, knowing well the routine, softly shut the door behind them, and they were alone.
The young woman had entered the room behind him, and now stood, visibly at a loss. He noticed her eyes taking in the luxury of the furnishings, the unusual size and rounded shape of the bed, the sunken pool from which gentle rivulets of warm steam arose and disappeared in the mauve twilight.
Could it be, he thought, that she really doesn’t know what to do?
Instead, he smiled at her, and then neared her, at which point he noted an exaggerated stiffening in her frame.
“May I take your cloak, my lady?” he offered, and his hand moved to undo the laces at her throat.
“No . . . Let me . . . I’ll do it myself. . . .” Her reply was immediate. Her speech was faint, breathless, hurried, and she moved away from him adroitly, and began to remove the cloak. Her hands were shaking.
“As you wish,” he concluded, his own deep voice taking on a soothing softness—the same approach one would have with a wild timid animal—a softness that he could exude so well.
He proceeded to remove his own erotene cloak—the very cloak that had so opportunely landed him into this situation in the first place. He had borrowed it from Iherema at the House of Erotene, a small oversight, and had casually forgotten to return it at the doors, as was his frequent way. (For, underneath he could carry a sizable sword, and to pretend absentmindedness meant not having to explain his true reasons. Even now, he cleverly divested himself of the sword without her noticing, and covered it with the folds of black velvet.) And because he was who he was, such an oversight had been always tolerated with a smile.
Having removed her cloak, she stood before him in her shirt, pants, and tall polished boots, her head lowered. He noticed the shape of her form better, now that her cloak was off.
Pretending not to notice her pause of confusion, he continued to remove his own clothing, first the stiff outer coat of expensive brocade, and then the gossamer-thin satin shirt. When his shirt had come off, he thought he saw her glance sideways at his naked chest, and he was sure that she would be more than pleased with what she saw. He was perfectly well muscled, but not too much, and his absolutely proportioned body even the Regentrix had commented upon more than once, when he lay with her—back when they were still on speaking terms, more or less.
“Wait,” she said suddenly, just as he had begun to remove his belt. She stood and watched the mauve glow slither and caress his perfect chest.
He paused. “Yes, my lady?”
It appeared almost, as though for a moment she truly could not speak. “I—” her words stumbled, “I must talk with you first, I—I must explain—”
In answer, he neared her and stood looking down into her face, watching her earnest eyes widen, her pupils dilate at such a proximity—but not with desire, with terror. “You need not be afraid,” he said, summoning all his charm, all his gentleness, so that she actually blinked and he heard her breath ease for an instant from her lungs. “You are virgin. Am I wrong?”
And at that point she started, and then again dropped her gaze. She was not being coy. He noticed her extreme pallor, and with it, a strange desperate resignation had overcome her. And with that desperation, her eyes swept upward suddenly to look di
rectly at him, and he was almost startled by the intensity of that look—like pure clean burning fire.
“Yes,” she said, staring unflinchingly into his eyes. “That is, no, you are not wrong, I am—”
And at her words, he lowered his face to her, and his voice had become a whisper. “Then I will be very gentle, my lady. . . .”
His voice trailed off, and he was lowering his lips to brush lightly against her cheek, against the corner of her mouth, but in the last instant, she broke away, elusive like an eel, and exclaimed, “Don’t touch me!”
She stood back away from him, wild-eyed in the mauve twilight, her breath catching in her throat. And he in turn watched her, frozen with the moment, startled into surprise.
“Don’t . . . touch my face . . .” she said. “Ever. Don’t try to kiss me there.”
His lips parted on the unspoken question, but he held himself back, and said instead, “As you wish, my lady—”
“My name is ‘Ranhé,’ you don’t need to call me ‘lady.’”
At that, he again smiled and approached her. “I am at your service—Ranhé.”
And then, words tumbled out of her, and she began to quiver with some private emotion that was not fear, not desire, but rather, a tragedy. “Erotene,” she mumbled, “you really don’t understand, that is, you don’t have to understand—I am paying you am I not, so I need not explain—so—”
“May I touch you here?” he interrupted softly, turning skillfully to come up from the back. His hand shifted her thick dark braid to one side, and a large palm was placed against the nape of her neck. And at his first instant of touch, he sensed a tremor run down her back. And for some reason, that tremor evoked a strange twin response from him, for he felt it running down her back, and where he felt it, in his hand, there was an answering pang, a jolt of awareness that traveled like an electrical charge down his own body, and out, somewhere.