Kalolin was given a silk dress the next morning. It was exquisitely made, she assumed. It felt different on the skin than the shirt she’d worn the day before, and it was shinier, with an almost glassy finish. The sky blue dress was long, and cut close to the body. It was slightly too tight around her hips, forcing her to walk with short, staccato steps, but she counted herself lucky to be dressed so nicely after last night's dressing-down. The neck of the dress rested across her bosom, held up by narrow straps around her upper arms

She had been given no shoes, and she didn't think her red ones would match the dress, so she was barefoot when she made her way downstairs.

Other residents in the house were beginning to wake and clean up the previous night's mess. Soft-bodied keptmaids tidied their clothes and fixed their makeup, except for a beautiful, short-haired girl who looked like she had hardly slept the night before. A few of the women walked in and out of the kitchen, serving hungover men the brine of pickled root vegetables that cooks had portioned into glasses. The men drank the concoctions with pinched noses, and then began to talk trade.

Kalolin knew little of what they spoke, but she tried to listen anyway. Some spoke of ships, the building of them, and the hiring of ‘good, hardworking crewmen,' of which there were apparently too few these days.

Her stomach had started to growl by the time Ainjrejeu and his small retinue strode down the staircase into the main hall. Today, he wore a deep blue shirt with square patterns embroidered around the edges in silver, and a matching silver circlet upon his forehead. He swept his eyes over the main hall, and those gathered there hushed in deference. When they met Kalolin's, his eyes paused to linger over her and a smirk sprung to his lips.

The one glance ruined Kalolin’s appetite. Her internal organs felt like they were melting into hot goop. Her hearing and vision started to go fuzzy, everything around her becoming distant. Everything but him.

He passed by, flanked by three woman and two armed guards. Kalolin stepped in beside Miar, the woman who had brought her clothing that morning, as they exited the building. She could feel the eyes of other women prickling across the back of her bare, sturdy shoulders as she did so, but Miar turned to her with a smile as warm as ever.

With a bare minimum attempt to return the smile, Kalolin let herself drop back behind Miar by a couple steps, trying to squeeze over onto her other side without colliding with the guard behind them. Miar watched the ordeal over her shoulder with a bemused, almost patronizing smile before intentionally moving to the side, ceding her spot beside Ainjrejeu. Kalolin shot the tall woman a brief, appreciative look as she claimed it.

Kalolin was mostly safe, outside of the light of Ainjrejeu’s gaze, but standing this close to him made her head buzz, like her brain was cooking itself inside of her own skull.

Rather than following the curving, paved path that connected the front of the house to the Crimson Deer restaurant, they cut straight across the lawn. The cool grass felt odd against Kalolin's bare feet, but she breathed a sigh of relief to see that even Ainjrejeu walked without shoes. She had no idea how he kept his feet so clean.

When they reached the restaurant they were ushered into a dining room on the second floor of the building. The room was large enough to make the main hall of the private house look cramped, and it had a beautiful view looking out over the city. Resisting the urge to press her face against the window, Kalolin walked dutifully behind Ainjrejeu’s right shoulder as he headed to the longest table in the room. Ainjrejeu took the chair at the end and dragged it away, putting a few paces between it and the table.

Kalolin, Miar, and two other women arranged themselves at the four seats around him. They had pulled out the chairs to sit down when Ainjrejeu spoke.

“You!” he snapped his fingers. They each froze where they stood and looked over at him. “What's your name?” he demanded, eyes locked on Kalolin. The other women took their seats while Kalolin answered.

“I am Kalolin Bwlanke, uh...sehr.” She bowed her head deferentially.

Ainjrejeu shook his head, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “How can I be expected to remember such a foreign name? How about Lylia? That's a much better name for a dog.”

“As you wish,” remarked Kalolin, letting what might have been an irritated sigh be merely a calming breath. Annoyance pulled Ainjrejeu's lips into a frown for no more than a moment. He let Kalolin take her seat, pulling down the uncomfortable bunching of her skirt as she did so. Then he spoke again.

“With everything that I packed for this trip, I somehow forgot to bring a footrest.” He looked around at the women, as though they were an audience to his performance. “Lylia, won't you be a dear?”

Kalolin tried not to let her confusion show on her face, though it was plain on some of the other women's. He was really smiling at her now.

“Of course,” replied Kalolin smoothly, getting up from her chair and hoping fervently that she was understanding him correctly. She moved toward him, and Ainjrejeu gestured to the empty floor space between himself and the table. She took her time getting down on to her hands and knees, convinced she was making a complete fool of herself.

It was both a shock and a relief when she felt the weight of Ainjrejeu's feet placed upon the small of her back. She stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye without moving her head, and found him grinning broadly, pleased with himself. The tension in the room was audible, the other women shuffling their feet uncomfortably on the floor.

The silence didn't last long, as wealthy tradesmen entered the room, excited for a chance to dine and network both with the heir to the largest company in Sarnai (probably the whole world), and also with each other. As men came up to greet Ainjrejeu, they grew quiet, put off by his unusual accommodations. Still, they forced their laughter and fawned over the young man as much as they could bear before seating themselves at the tables.

Kalolin's hands had become sore against the hard tile within minutes, and her knees followed soon after. She distracted herself by instead thinking about the shameful tightness of her dress against her backside, and how obvious and on-display it must be to all of the most important people of Hanzo. It was more funny than anything.

Crimson Deer servers in red uniforms poured expensive wines for the gathered tradesmen, the room filling with chatter and laughter. One of the men in Ainjrejeu's company repeated his spiel about how hard it was to find good crew for ships, to a chorus of approving grumbles at his table. Ainjrejeu's keptmaids, being the closest to Kalolin, should have been the easiest for her to listen to, but they were unusually subdued compared to the previous night.

When breakfast was served, the sweet and spicy aromas of fine local food made her mouth water, reminding her that she had missed dinner the night before. Rice porridge was the breakfast of choice for most in Hanzo, but if it was being served now, it was only as a fraction of the meal. For someone as rich as Mister Kaelkarim, every meal was a feast.

The smell of deep-fried octopus and river fish got to her the most, and she could almost taste the hot, salty oils on her tongue. The pain in her stomach was only made worse by the pain in her back, where one of Ainjrejeu's heels dug uncomfortably against her spine. She was glad, at least, that he was such a slight man. Rather than standing and reaching over Kalolin to grab food from the table, Ainjrejeu beckoned for one of the other women to deliver it to him, giving Kalolin not a moment of respite.

She watched her long, black hair dangle down to the floor, almost brushing it. Ripples flowed along the strands like water in a river as the muscles in her arms trembled with fatigue. She amused herself by singing crass rhymes in her head, the kind her younger brothers were always bringing home from neighboring farms.

Kalolin was already determined not to move, look up, or cry out when she felt the weight on her back gradually increase. It was an exaggerated weight, as though Ainjrejeu was balancing just so to move more of his weight onto her and off of his chair. Her entire back was now hot with soreness and tension.

“Much of our land already has warehouses built on it,” a deep voice was saying from the other side of her. “The price of the land would include those buildings. That not only means you will be saving costs on the labor and materials required to build new warehouses, but you will also be able to generate profits from the land much sooner than unbuilt land around the city.”

The voice paused expectantly. In the silence, Kalolin could not ignore the pain that radiated to her hips as Ainjrejeu shifted his feet around in the arch of her back.

“Mister Kaelkarim?” the voice asked. “Are you...listening?”

“Of course I am listening,” Ainjrejeu snapped harshly. “I will relay all details of your proposal to my father. Is there anything else?”

“No,” the voice replied, disappointment dripping from the single syllable.

When the weight lifted from Kalolin's back, she almost collapsed to the ground with relief. The sudden lack of pressure was somewhere between dizziness and numbness, but she didn't dare move, sure somewhere in the back of her mind that she was being tested.

“I have important preparations to make before we leave the city,” Ainjrejeu announced, standing up forcefully from his chair. His warm hand stroked the top of Kalolin's head gently.

“Good girl, Lylia,” he spoke softly to her. “I'll see you here again at lunch time.” His tone was mocking such that she could hear the smirk upon his face, but it made her feel euphoric anyway.

After he left, Kalolin could hear the shuffle of feet, the other tradesmen leaving the dining room a few at a time. The room was mostly quiet except for the dishes clinking as the servers began to clear the tables.

A warm, sand colored hand reached down into Kalolin's field of view, with short nails polished in bright white. Kalolin took the hand with hesitation, and was helped shakily to her feet. The owner of the hand was a shorter, curvaceous woman with full, pouty lips and high arched eyebrows. Her velvety black hair cascaded in loose waves down to her chest where impressive breasts were held high by a tight bodice encrusted with shining white jewels. 

“Sorry,” she grimaced. Her voice had a rich, husky tone. “He isn't usually like this.”

“What is he usually like?” chuckled Kalolin in disbelief.

“Well…I suppose he is always a little like this,” the woman replied with a soft smile. “I'm Nykol, by the way.”

“I'm Kalolin, but I guess you can call me Lylia.”

Nykol led Kalolin around the empty dining tables as staff from the kitchens below began to clear the array of used dishes. Together, the women plucked stray food-stuffs from the serving trays, trying a variety of foods vaster than every meal Kalolin had ever eaten combined. The fried fish was just as salty and satisfying as it had smelled, and it had probably been even better when it was still warm. She dipped it in a tangy orange sauce and let the flavors mix delectably in her mouth. It made the previous hour worth it.

As they reached the far end of the room, Kalolin grabbed one last, fluffy bun from the table, the kind filled with a smooth, sweet cheese.

When they returned to the private house, Kalolin was prepared to take her scavenged meal with her upstairs to the small closet she'd been put away in, but Nykol grabbed her gently by the wrist and led her to a low table in the main hall where five women were playing a rousing game of cards. Nykol sat down on a nearby couch to spectate, and patted the cushion beside her with her hand. Hesitantly, Kalolin took a seat.

“That's Pryskel, Shanjra, Goendholin, Nesha, and Britja,” Nykol pointed around the table. “Do you know how to play Queen's Court?” she asked Kalolin.
 Kalolin shook her head.

“It's simple,” began Nykol. “Each round, everyone chooses a card from their hand and plays it facing down on the table. Then, everyone flips their chosen card at the same time and the player with the second most powerful card gets to add all of the round's cards into their hand. Once a player has won all of the cards, she wins the game.”

“Why the second most powerful?” Kalolin questioned.

“The most powerful card will be crowned King, of course,” Nykol chuckled. “But everyone knows it's the Queen who wins in the end.”

Kalolin smiled and let herself sink back into the couch, gratefully resting her aching body. She watched the other women playing, in fierce competition, until Shanjra announced her victory with a howl of excitement. The tall woman was slim, with well-toned muscles under skin that was a deep, warm, brown. Her curly hair was worn freely, the black coils as bouncy and energetic as she was. She had intense golden-brown eyes and a smirk that was all confidence and superiority.

“Ready to lose again?” she goaded, her smug gaze circling the table.

“I am done,” answered Britja, a straight-nosed Sarnain woman with olive skin and a long, black braid. She had been with them in the dining room earlier.

The other women nodded their agreement. Shanjra put the deck of cards away in a small wooden box as the rest took a chance to stretch their legs.

“Why did you bring her, Nyki?” The pale-skinned Northlander, Pryskel, asked flatly.

“Why shouldn't I?” Nykol crossed her arms over her chest.

“I thought she was supposed to be given service work,” added Nesha, whose honey-brown hair was the same color as her tan skin. “But she isn't dressed like it, either.”

“So Britja hasn't told you yet?” chuckled Nykol. “Sehras, meet Lylia,” Nykol gestured grandly to Kalolin beside her, “the best dressed footrest East of the Kaenykyn.”

Raised eyebrows spread about the group of women as though contagious.

“You jest,” accused Nesha playfully.

Nykol turned to Britja, who nodded confirmation.

“Ainjrejeu used this poor thing as a footrest for the entire breakfast,” Nykol explained. “Seems he’s decided to be creative with what he calls ‘service work’.” She shook her head with a crooked grin.

“It really wasn’t very difficult,” said Kalolin.

“That’s ridiculous,” Nesha ignored her. “Human furniture certainly isn’t in my contract.”

“I’m quite happy to do whatever Mister Kaelkarim—”

“It isn’t about whether it’s in your contract,” said Britja, “but whether your contract explicitly prevents it, which I doubt. It seems exactly like something his father would do.”

Pryskel grimaced. “I’m Ainjrejeu’s keptmaid precisely because of how much I despised his father.”

“And I’d do it again,” Kalolin said, clearly more for herself than anyone else.

“You're overreacting,” Goendholin, a ponytailed Fenlander woman, said coolly. “This girl isn't a keptmaid, she's a prisoner. Ainjrejeu is punishing her for the offense of interrupting his procession, nothing more. His methods may be unusual, but they are surely needed against someone so poorly bred. The fact that she is unfazed only serves to prove the necessity of unusual measures.”

The other women at the table nodded synchronously, convinced. Except for Nykol, who shrugged, but did not argue.

“So where are you from?” curly-haired Shanjra sat down on Kalolin's other side.

“Here in Hanzo-gal,” Kalolin admitted. “Just outside the city.”

“Is it true that you threw yourself naked to the ground in front of Mister Kaelkarim and begged for your life?” asked Nesha from the other side of the table. Her disbelief had turned to curiosity.

“What? No,” Kalolin shook her head. “I did not beg.”

“She was only half-naked,” Britja corrected. “And she begged for a job, not her life.”

“I didn’t beg,” repeated Kalolin, though they hardly seemed to be listening.

“I heard she offered sexual services, right there in the street,” Pryskel piped in.

“So she's a whore,” Goendholin remarked.

“You're a whore, too, Goen.” Giggles traveled around the circle of women.

Kalolin waited with a dead-eyed glare for a chance to speak. “I did not beg,” Kalolin reiterated. Her displeased tone earned her a few odd looks so she took a breath to soften it. “I offered myself up for service to Mister Kaelkarim, an offer he has evidently accepted. And though I did expect to be made a keptmaid, it isn’t strictly necessary.”

“There are surely less dramatic ways to get into service,” chuckled Nykol.

“Indeed,” said Kalolin. “And were my goal to simply get into service, I might have done differently. However, this is only the first step in my grander plan.”

“Some sort of scheme? Do tell,” Nykol leaned in closer.

“I'm going to marry Mister Kaelkarim.” 

A stunned silence split into raucous laughter.

“No, you're not,” said Shanjra, between wheezing breaths. 

“Any woman would be proud to marry Mister Kaelkarim,” Kalolin pouted, “so why not me?”

Their continuing laughter said they were as unconvinced as her cousin had been. 

“I've actually put quite a bit of thought into this,” she argued.

“Because,” said Shanjra, breath caught, “everyone knows he's going to marry Lhanna.” Several of the other women nodded. “He hasn't even taken another woman to his bed in over a year.”

“What?” Kalolin's shoulders fell. “It’s the first I'm hearing about it.”

“You aren't the only woman to throw herself upon his mercy,” Nykol said. “Though that's really Lhanna's story to tell.”

The buxom woman peered over her shoulder. “Speaking of, where is Lhanna? Maybe you haven't met her.”

Though she was not yet hungry, Kalolin picked at the sweet bun in her hands and stuffed the small pieces into her mouth, letting them slowly dissolve into starch and sugar as a way to keep it occupied. The conversation among the keptmaids changed to the sights they had seen in the streets of Hanzo. They spoke of rich foods fried in oils, sweet local apple wines, women dressed in loose linen trousers the same as the men.

It was strange to hear such familiar things gawked over, and Kalolin wondered whether she would still think of Hanzo-gal as home once she, too, was living a pampered life in Sarnai. Would she even want to stay there if it was only as a keptmaid? 

She looked up as long-legged Miar entered the room. She waved Kalolin over to her quietly.

“It is time for you to attend to Mister Kaelkarim,” she said.

“Lunch, already?” Kalolin grimaced. She followed Miar to the restaurant, a deflated version of the her from that morning. Mister Kaelkarim ate in the same dining room, but the long tables had been moved in favor of several low,

Sarnain style ones. Ainjrejeu sat alone at one of them, lounging across silk-covered cushions. Other brown-skinned Sarnains sat at each of the other tables; she assumed they were all members of his company.

There was no way to serve as a footrest in this arrangement, so Kalolin stood awkwardly beside him in silence. He wore the same outfit as earlier, but with even more adornments. Heavy-looking silver chains hung from his ears, and several silver and jeweled bands shifted about his wrists as he picked over the dozen dishes laid out just for him.

“Sit down,” he said after a moment.

Kalolin knelt down on an ivory cushion beside him and waited politely, hoping she would actually be allowed to eat during this meal. It was likely the best manners she had ever displayed.

“Stand up,” he said instead. He was leaning with one elbow on the table, his copper hair almost to the floor behind him.

Kalolin rose curiously.

“Sit down,” repeated Ainjrejeu.

Kalolin plopped down with a huff.

“Something wrong?” He grinned evilly.

“No,” she said. “Just...a little thirsty,” she lied.

“Good,” he said, grabbing the glass of water from her side of the table. He began drinking it himself, despite his own full glass.

“Stand up.”

By this point she understood the game. She stood up without complaint, though she crossed her arms over her chest.

“This doesn't end until I grow bored,” he looked up at her pointedly. His hazel eyes were big and bird-like. “Sit down.”

He let her sit for a few minutes as he ate from the array of fresh harvest vegetables. “Stand up,” he continued. “When I grow bored of this, I will find something even more unpleasant for you to do. Sit down.”

Kalolin was less frustrated now, and more interested in what he had to say.

“Things can only escalate so far. From uncomfortable, to painful, to dangerous, to fatal. Stand up.” He gestured purposefully with his fork.

“If you notice the escalation in time, you might escape with your life, if not your dignity. Sit down. Just going home won't work, second daughter of Benjheming Bwlanke of the Rhomeili Apple Orchard. Stand up.”

“If you had a legal contract, you would have to have that contract terminated by council. It would be a long and arduous legal battle, one in which I might spend a great deal of money to make it very unpleasant for you. Sit down.”

If her legs hadn't been burning before, they were now.

“Unfortunately,” he shrugged, “you don’t actually have a contract binding you to me. But, no matter. I could instead pursue you for repayment of debts owed, such as food and housing costs incurred by me on your behalf. As long as you owe me some sort of debt, I could send agents to collect you and there would be nothing you or your family could do about it. Stand up.”

“This is assuming I could prove the debt, of course. I don’t have any records of it yet, but I am about to watch you eat a meal that I have paid for and take note of exactly how much you cost me. Sit down. Unless you were to...return your borrowed clothing, turn around, and march out that door, I’ll have a good starting number, at least. Your family wouldn’t be able to afford to pay off even that much. Stand up.”

“Without the money to pay off your debt, you would have to agree to some favor to appease me instead. Something uncomfortable, or painful, or dangerous, or fatal. All that work, and you're right back where you started.” He looked up at her expectantly.

“Well, I'm standing a little to the left, actually,” she replied. That would have earned her a backhand from her father, and she knew it.

Ainjrejeu laughed. “Perhaps you're more the type to stab me in the back out of spite. I'll keep that in mind. Sit, eat.”

Kalolin hadn't been hungry when she got there, but she was now. Ainjrejeu waited until she was inhaling food a little slower to speak again.

“Do your parents know where you are, child?” he asked.

Kalolin almost spat out her food. “I'm not a child,” she protested. “I'm nineteen already. It's why my parents are so eager to marry me off.”

He nodded. “That is over the Hanzo’an Age of Citizenship, at least. If you lived within the city limits you'd be a voting citizen by now.”

“You know a lot about laws?” Kalolin took the opportunity to change the topic.

“It's one of my areas of expertise,” Ainjrejeu grinned. “What's legal to have where; duties, taxes, and fines; employment and slavery laws. To be good at commerce I've got to be able to exploit all of them.” He turned, leaning his back against the table. “Do you have much interest in trade?”

“Some,” shrugged Kalolin. “My family has worked for Farmer Rhomeili since before I was born. I've always thought it must be more interesting to own a company than it is to work for someone else's.”

“Perhaps,” purred Ainjrejeu. “But if you dislike servitude, you have done a terrible job avoiding it.”

“I didn't say I disliked it, I said it was boring.” 

The young man bit his lip and narrowed his eyes. Kalolin could feel him thinking about her and it sent a shiver down her spine. Whatever thought he was having was interrupted as something behind her caught his eyes and sent them wide as saucers.

Kalolin looked over her shoulder. A petite, Sarnain woman had entered the dining room and was walking purposefully toward them. She was both short and slender bodied, as dainty as a fei creature. Her light skin was a golden beige, and her short, black hair was a halo of night around her beautiful face.

Kalolin was wrenched to her feet painfully, Ainjrejeu’s fingers digging into her shoulder. He dragged her to the side of the room and she struggled to keep her footing.

Though he kept close to the wall, Ainjrejeu was still several feet from the exit when the short-haired woman intercepted them.

“I thought you were lunching alone today,” she said. Her voice was soft and breathy, like a whisper that was more audible than it should be. Though her tone was gentle, there was tension to it.

“I am,” Ainjrejeu said coldly. “She's just a dog.” His nails were pressing hard into Kalolin’s skin, and he held her in front of him like a shield.

“I know who she is,” the woman replied. She cast a brief glance at Kalolin, looking her over for only a moment before deeming her inconsequential. The woman’s golden-brown eyes were large, almost fearful. “Send her away so that we may speak alone.”

“You won't like anything I have to say,” Ainjrejeu growled. Keeping Kalolin between the two of them, Ainjrejeu pushed past and out the door of the dining room.

He finally released his grip on Kalolin when they were clear of the building.

His angry march into the private house drew wary stares, but no one dared to approach him. Kalolin followed him to a study upstairs, where every open surface, include a few places on the floor, was covered in books, scrolls, and papers. He closed the heavy door behind them and let out a breath he had been holding. It allowed Kalolin to let out her breath as well.

“I don't suppose you know how to read?” Ainjrejeu asked, sitting down at a large, wooden desk.

Kalolin shook her head.

“Of course not. Can't have the poor escaping poverty, can we?” he sighed. “What is it you even do, then?”

“Um…” frowned Kalolin. “I pick apples, when I can be bothered.”

“And when you can't?”

“I like to explore the woods, or talk to sellers in the market until they grow tired of me.”

“That can't take up much time,” he chuckled. "So it seems you are holy without utility, propriety, or intelligence. I'm not sure exactly what you are even expecting me to do with you."

Kalolin rolled her eyes, trying not to let him get under her skin. “That girl was Lhanna, wasn’t she? The one everyone says you’re going to marry?”

Ainjrejeu turned to her sharply. “Start spreading around silly rumors and I'll have to wash your mouth out with soap,” he scolded. “You might not know better, but everyone else knows I have made my position on marriage abundantly clear.”

He turned back to his desk in a huff and started sorting through ledgers more loudly than was necessary. Kalolin leaned up against a wall behind him, satisfied with having derailed the conversation.

“So you aren't going to marry her, or are you not going to marry at all?” Kalolin asked.

“I have no intentions of marriage,” he replied without looking up.

“All men need a wife,” stated Kalolin. “You're all hopeless without one.”

“Thank you,” he said sarcastically, fiddling with his silver chain earring.

“Without a wife, who will take care of you when you are sick?” Kalolin asked.

“Miar,” he replied easily. “And when she no longer wishes to do so, she will be replaced by some younger servant.”

“But who will keep you on task, and keep your do-ings organized?”

“That's Tareuk's job,” he replied.

“I guess you also have servants for cooking and cleaning,” thought Kalolin out loud. “And plenty of whores.”

His shoulders twitched, as though that rankled him a little.

“But you'll need a wife to bear your children,” she insisted.

“I have no intentions of fathering children,” he said.

“What?” Kalolin shook her head in disbelief. “Who will take over your company if you don't have children?”

He turned round in his chair and draped an arm over the back of it. “Coming from my balls doesn't qualify someone to run a shipping company. With enough time, I could take any orphan boy off the street and teach him how,” he smirked. “Hex, if it was legal in Sarnai I bet I could even teach a lazy, petulant girl like you.”

Kalolin laughed incredulously. “You'd give this all away to some orphan off the street? How could you be sure they'll take care of you in your old age?”

“How could I ensure my son would? Sarnain law does that for me,” he explained. “Whoever I chose to inherit the company would not do so until I pass away. Up until then, I could name a new Heir Appointed at any time if I was not satisfied with the treatment of the current one.”

Kalolin sighed. “Well, even without children, you'll still need a wife.” 

“So you keep saying.”

“A wife is…” she thought, tapping a finger against her lower lip. “You'll need someone to blame for things that go wrong in your life. Someone to yell at when you're angry, and beat when you're drunk. All men need a wife so that they can think of themselves as the better half.”

Ainjrejeu raised a copper eyebrow. “That...is an interesting theory.”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. When Ainjrejeu didn't immediately answer it, a man's voice came from the other side. “I know you're in there,” the man chided.

Ainjrejeu cast a disgusted glance at the door and put his bare feet up on the edge of the desk.

“Answer it,” he commanded.

Kalolin opened the door to the study hesitantly and found Ainjrejeu's mustached musician on the other side. He had shiny black hair that fell in swirling waves, mostly combed to one side of his face. His mustache was carefully waxed to curl into itself at the ends.

He looked at her for a moment with his big, hazel eyes.

“Well?” Kalolin demanded.

“Insolent little thing, aren’t you?” He scrunched his eyebrows together. “They really do give their women too much rein here.” Then he shrugged and shouldered past her, unaffected.

“I am not so easily distracted,” he announced. “Lhanna told me—”

As soon as he began talking, Ainjrejeu clapped his hands over his own ears.

“Don't be a child,” the musician huffed, kicking at a leg of Ainjrejeu's chair with the ball of his foot. “You need to learn to solve your problems like a man.”

“I've already made my decision, Kalem,” Ainjrejeu replied, proving that he could still hear the other man even with his ears covered. “I will not tolerate being questioned any further.”

“You've got to at least give her a justification.” Kalem crossed his arms in frustration.

“You know why,” said Ainjrejeu bitterly. “But you won't tell her for the same reason that I haven't. Just let this go. It'll be better for everyone that way.”

Kalem grumbled to himself. “Whatever. I can see you're determined to remain unreasonable. Just don't come crying to me when you regret it.” He swept out of the room and let the door slam shut behind him.

Ainjrejeu returned to his work, muttering under his breath.

The sky began to darken through the wide window above the desk, changing from crisp blue to a dusky purple.

“Lylia, be a dear and fetch a candle,” he waved a hand at her without looking up from the papers on his desk.

“As you wish,” she said as she ducked out of the room.

She returned a couple of minutes later, carrying a lit candle carefully into the study, the small orange flame wavering as she moved. Bringing it over to the desk, she leaned slightly over Ainjrejeu's shoulder. There was plenty of writing on the page; dark, black ink scrawled into squiggly lines and harsh vertical slashes that she didn't understand. Much more interesting to her were the swirling lines filling the margins. She picked out leafy vines and blooming flowers, precise enough that she could even identify some of them.

“I can't speak to everything, but those apple blossoms are really well done,” she remarked, holding the candle down so it illuminated the page.

“Thank you.” He turned to meet her eyes, but got stuck making eye contact with the thin layer of silk over her chest instead. This close, Kalolin could see the tops of his ears flush a deep burgundy before he cleared his throat and stood up.

He was maybe an inch taller than her (and she was not a particularly tall woman), but standing straight-backed, with candlelight dancing on his silver jewelry and casting shadows under his owl eyes, he looked every bit the villain that he was.

He held out a hand to take the candle from her. Rather than place it on the desk, as Kalolin expected, he worked the base of the candle out from the bronze holder. Returning to his seat, he placed the holder on the windowsill and pressed the off-white candle back into her hands.

“Hold this right...here for me,” he instructed, tugging her wrist down until it was at the desired height.

Stunned into silence, Kalolin clutched the burning candle with both hands, bent slightly at the waist beside him. He continued ‘working', meaning he turned over the thick paper and started filling in the margins on that side as well.

When her back started to ache (which was immediately, considering all it had been through that morning), Kalolin tried to straighten it out and bend her knees instead. She switched back and forth between the two uncomfortable positions, but Ainjrejeu didn't complain about the unsteady light. In fact, his own body cast enough of a shadow on the paper that Kalolin bet he didn't need the candlelight at all.

A drop of hot wax snaked down the side of the candle and landed on Kalolin's finger. She hissed pain through her teeth.

“If you hold it steady, the wax will burn rather than run over,” Ainjrejeu said impassively, not bothering to turn around.

Of course, how simple. Kalolin kept her sarcasm internal.

She tried to hold the candle still, but the pain in her finger made it even less steady. She gave up and angled the candle toward her injured finger, guiding the wax down the same path as before. The first drop had hardened on her skin, insulating it a little from the second. Eventually, a small river formed, flowing down through the gap between her first and second finger and dripping onto the smooth wooden floor below.

A knock came at the door and Kalolin jumped a little, almost dropping the candle.

“Kalem, you wretch, I already told you—”

The door creaked open gently and Ainjrejeu bit off his words.

“My apologies, sehr,” came an unfamiliar male voice from behind Kalolin. She didn’t dare turn around for fear of shaking the candle.

“Am I interrupting something?” the man asked.

“No, of course not,” Ainjrejeu sighed relief. “This is...just a little Fen dog I picked up.”

The man must have stepped into the room; Kalolin heard the door swing shut behind him.

“I saw Kalem stomping around out there. You two fighting again?”

“Not again, but still,” Ainjrejeu used an elbow to lean sideways onto the desk.

“And that’s why you’re holed up in here, moping?”

“What?” Ainjrejeu frowned incredulously. “Brooding, perhaps, but moping?”

The man stepped closer, still in Kalolin’s peripheral vision. It made her back tense up uncomfortably.

“Keep making a face like that,” the man lowered his voice, “and I may just do something very out of standing.”

Ainjrejeu whispered in response. “If you value your employment you won’t say such things.”

Kalolin’s limbs trembled with readiness, and she began to turn, slowly, aware that the flame in her hands could be as easily a weapon as a tool.

“It might be worth it.” The man reached out a hand and tugged at one of Ainjrejeu’s silver earrings, untangling the chain.

If they had been back in that dining room downstairs, Kalolin would have expected quite a scene. Perhaps Ainjrejeu wouldn’t use the same choice words as he had used for her, but he would surely have some colorful ones. Up here, though, with no audience, no personal guards, would it be different? She knew if it were her she would be frightened. She was frightened.

Ainjrejeu’s face stopped her where she stood. He looked up at the other man through long lashes, bit his lip, and giggled.

Kalolin was used to men looking at her with hungry eyes that spoke of carnal urges. As a woman, it was something she was supposed to bear, regardless of the bile that crept up the back of her throat. She would bear it the same way her mother bore the slings and insults from her father, the same way her sister bore all the aches and pains of young motherhood. But if those men’s eyes spoke of sex, Ainjrejeu’s eyes somehow sang of it.

The candle wobbled in her hands, the flame sputtering, and she let out a tiny gasp.

“I delivered the letter, like you asked,” the man continued on as though nothing had transpired.

“And how was the show?” Ainjrejeu smiled.

“It far exceeded my expectations, just like you said it would.”

“Am I ever wrong?”

“I think you’re really going to like that tightrope act,” the man said pointedly.

“Well, then, I’ll ensure the Stadium has room for a spectacular tightrope.”

“Hey, I only delivered the letter, I don’t have the answer yet.”

“What?” laughed Ainjrejeu. “Do you really think they’ll say no to Heir Kaelkarim?”

“I guess not,” the man chuckled. “I know I wouldn’t.”

The air in the room was left lighter than it had been before the man arrived, and Kalolin didn’t think it was just because of his good news.

“Shocked, little kriishak? I suppose you don’t know much of Sarnain culture,” Ainjrejeu leaned back arrogantly against the desk, arms spread wide.

Kalolin sniffed indignantly. “I know enough. I know it is common for Sarnain men to lay with one another. Your people engage in all sort of depraved practices.”

“True, true,” he purred. “I am an expert in an array of debaucherous delights.” He chuckled, amusing himself.

“Is that why you will not take a wife, then?”

“Your people do have very funny ideas, don’t you?” He snorted. “If you were to ask me whether I prefer to lay with women or men, I simply could never give an answer. It’s quite a treat that I am entitled to both.”

Then he shrugged, turning in his chair, and returned to his papers spread across the desk. “I’m actually considered rather old fashioned in how I go about it, myself.”

Kalolin wasn’t sure how a man slept with men in an old fashioned way. In fact, she wasn’t exactly sure how it was done in a new fashioned way, either.

She made a valiant effort to imagine it, though, and her face flushed hotter than the candle in her hands.

Ainjrejeu sneezed violently and a loud snap came from the desk.

“Hex!” Ainjrejeu huffed. The point of his wood pen had broken off, leaving a useless, splintered writing end in desperate need of sharpening. Worse, a black smear of ink now marred half of a pretty lily. He tossed the pen angrily down on the desk, and it retaliated by knocking over the short jar of ink beside him.

“Keutjage!” he swore, clambering out of his chair and hurriedly sweeping papers away from the oncoming flood of ink.

Lit candle still flickering in her hands, Kalolin turned and hopped up onto the desk, using her rear end to dam the ink swell. She could feel the cold wetness as the ink was pulled up into the fabric of her skirt.

“I...I'll go get something to clean up with,” Ainjrejeu stammered before darting out of the room. In the few minutes it took for him to return, Kalolin's wax river had deposited a little pond on the front of her skirt. The sky blue dress was now doubly ruined.

He brought back cleaning rags that he used to smear the ink around on the expensive wood of the desk until it had dried into an unfortunate looking but no longer paper-threatening mess. He took the candle from Kalolin's hands with his own ink-stained ones and returned it to its holder with a sigh.

“So, according to you,” he said, “I just make this your fault and then start feeling better about myself?” With the arrogant veneer broken, Kalolin was struck by how young Ainjrejeu really was. He was only a man as much as she was a woman.

“Exactly,” Kalolin laughed. She had picked at the wax on her finger until she was able to peel it away and was now poking at the minor burn beneath.

With a hand on her shoulder, he turned her so he could examine the extent of the damage.

“Er, you really are filthy.” He said it like he meant a different word.

Kalolin jumped slightly as Ainjrejeu's hand slid down her back.

“I’m sorry, Gwaixhem.” Flustered, she defaulted to a Hanzo’an form of address. “I could...get out of these messy clothes if you’d like.”

He said nothing for a few moments, but she heard him swallow hard behind her.

Her blood ran cold while her skin grew hot. This is what I want, she told herself. Her feet twitched, ready to flee out the door, down the stairs, maybe all the way back home. She refused to let herself. Instead, she closed her eyes shut tight.

Any woman would be proud to marry Mister Kaelkarim. Any woman would be proud to marry Mister Kaelkarim. Any woman would be proud to marry Mister Kaelkarim.

After a minute Ainjrejeu took his hand away from her and Kalolin turned to face him, a picture of serenity once again.

“Alright, then,” he clapped his hands together behind his back and shifted his jaw side to side uncomfortably. “Remember that this is our last night in the city.” He met her eyes intentionally.

“Go see Miar about some new clothes. While you're at it, tell her I won't need you to accompany me for dinner.”

He nearly shoved Kalolin out through the door of the study. As the warm, grainy wood swung shut between them, she paused for a moment, completely out of breath.