Slowly, luxuriously, Ash floated through layers of dream to gentle wakefulness. The knowledge of where he was filtered into him bit by bit. A smell of food and soap and cosmetics. Mildew and chemicals. A mattress beneath him that was wide and soft, though a ridge where a rip had been repaired dug into his hip. Golden light and a growing warmth, approaching the threshold of unpleasantly hot but not quite there yet. He was clean, wrapped in cotton sheets worn soft with age. Under the sheets he was wearing only a too-small robe of yellow silk with frayed cuffs.

He was alone. For the first time since his trip in the jail car, he had a space entirely to himself. It was a narrow, peaked room, painted white with thick, gloppy paint. There was a small window at one end, admitting bright sunlight. His bed was a mattress on the floor, hemmed in by battered trunks and crates overflowing with dusty clothing. A fly beat itself against the upper part of the window. The lower part was open. Midday, from the way the light lay on the floor.

He remembered Kieran's assurance of last night, and was able, for the moment, to believe it; that though he'd been left alone in this room, he was not alone in the world. He wanted to think that his sense of Kieran's presence was empathic power rather than wishful thinking.

He threw off the covers and examined his body. He was thin, his hipbones standing out like knives. All the little cuts and scrapes that had annoyed him so much yesterday were scabbed over now, and no longer felt like anything. His feet were a mess, cracked and blistered. There were streaks and patches of sunburn on his arms and hands, pink but not painful or itchy, just a bit warm. He knew from experience that these would fade in a day or two back to his usual whiteness, their only lasting effect to increase the general profusion of freckles.

Adjusting his borrowed robe for maximum modesty, he cautiously opened the door. A smell of food and faint sound of conversation drifted up from the stairway at the end of the hall. He followed it.

Downstairs, the soothing white walls gave way to garish flowered wallpaper, the whole decor pink and gold like a girl's bedroom. Which was probably the point. There was a hallway lined with doors, each door labeled with a flowered plaque: Kitta, Darcy, Jeri-Lou. The hall was L-shaped, and at the corner of the L was an open room furnished like a sort of parlor; he put his head in and saw a piano, several couches, a cheap rug, a lot of dirty dishes and empty bottles. The occupants of the house had not yet cleaned up last night's debris. Not early risers. Understandable, he supposed.

Overlaying the perfume and spilled beer he smelled a delicious waft of coffee. He let it lead him to another stairway, this one opening out into a large area a bit like a shabby gentlemen's club, with deep chairs and bare wood floors, a bar occupying one corner, brass-bound kegs gleaming. This, he supposed, was how the house pretended to be a legal operation -- though he guessed that there were a few bottles of bootleg hard liquor around here somewhere. A door beside the bar stood open; the streak of light that fell from it was eclipsed by a moving shadow, and he heard a clank of dishes and a grumbling female voice.

When he appeared at the kitchen doorway, the three women in the room stopped what they were doing and stared at him. Kieran wasn't there, just these women. One, a handsome woman with skin so black it looked almost dusty, like a plum, burst out in loud laughter.

"What are you supposed to be?" she said. One of the others, a plain brunette, gave a chuckle. The third woman was Ami, who looked a bit sulky, and didn't smile.

The brunette gestured to his bare legs with a coffee spoon. "You look like a chicken," she said in a lovely, smooth voice. "Is Shou-Shou hiring boys now? Is that the deal? I thought she had an agreement with that place. What's it called."

"Cat and Peaches," the black woman filled in. "They're going to make a stink." She had a faint Prandhari accent, though her skin marked her as Paiwaar. A world traveler. "Isn't that one of Ami's robes?"

"Er." Ash didn't know whether to challenge their misunderstanding or not. "Can I have some of that coffee?"

The black woman shrugged. "Help yourself."

While Ash was busy with finding a cup and wrestling the huge kettle, Ami spoke, sounding more apprehensive than sullen, though she still looked pouty. "Where's Kieran?"

"I don't know."

"Are you his boyfriend?"

"I don't know." It didn't seem odd to be asked that question so bluntly here. Maybe rooming with whores wasn't such a bad prospect. He sat down next to her, giving her a crooked smile. "You sound like you know him. But last night you didn't look like you did."

"Didn't recognize him." Ami looked like she was going to say more, but thought better of it.

The brunette leaned over the table, looking eager. "This sounds like gossip. Who's Kieran?"

The black woman, checking something on the stove, turned with a gunky spoon in her hand. "Before your time, love. You ever hear Shou-Shou talk about a girl named Rasa?"

"The one who died in Pinkie's room?"

"That's the one. This wasn't such a nice house then. It was before Shou-Shou took over. Run by a man at the time, and you can guess what that was like."

The two white girls wrinkled their noses. Ash did arithmetic in his head and realized the black woman must be a lot older than she looked.

"Anyway, she had a kid already when she came here. Boyfriend ditched her or something. Most of the girls liked the kid, but the owner didn't want him around. Kept bugging Rasa to get rid of him or put him to work. Finally just pimped him out without telling her. She found out and tried to leave. There was a big scene, and the owner kicked her in the stomach, and she died the next night. That was what made Shou-Shou take over the business, but by then the kid was already gone."

Ash drank coffee to cover his discomfort; it burned his tongue. "How old was he when this happened?"

"Nine or ten, I guess." She looked at him more closely. "I bet you are his boyfriend. You're just his type."

"I am?"

"You sure are. You got eyes like big blue china plates. Bet he couldn't tell you 'no' if his life depended on it."

In light of yesterday's events, that was almost literally true. Ash wasn't sure that was a good thing. "I don't think he's happy about it though."

She chuckled. "Typical." Then, to the brunette, "Anyway, he used to come around sometimes. When he got too beat up or hungry. Never stayed long, though. He's like one of those cats, you know, come around to eat but never let you pet them. He was turning tricks, of course, and Shou-Shou would've let him do it here but he wouldn't. Never liked to have a closed door between him and the desert. After a while he stopped coming around."

"I know where he was," Ami blurted. "He was killing people." Then she looked past Ash at the door and blanched.

"We don't need to talk about that," said Kieran's voice.

Ash turned with a slightly pained smile. The pain went out of it when he saw Kieran smiling back. And not his public smile, either, but something a little bit wry and hopeful, for Ash alone. The rest of the world seemed to gray out. That's it, I'm definitely in love with him, no question anymore. It's him, not just his looks. Though -- fiery hell he's gorgeous.

A robe was apparently beneath his dignity; he'd constructed some kind of kilt out of a dark blue bedsheet. His hair was freshly brushed, gleaming smooth as black water over his shoulders and past his waist. Unbearable glory. Ash considered testing the theoretical utility of blue eyes in the ordering about of Kierans by commanding him straight up the stairs to bed, but it looked like he was in taking-care-of-business mode. In one big, knuckly hand he held a cup with a brush and razor sticking out of it.

"Found this lying around," he explained, offering it. "You might want to use it pretty quick here. You're starting to look like a grownup."

Ash made sure to touch Kieran's fingers when he took the shaving mug. Despite his calculation, he still felt his face go pink. Kieran looked amused, but his eyes were burning darkly, and their green fire promised that it wouldn't be long before the last distance between them was erased. Ash had to turn away quickly.

The brunette at the table raked her eyes up and down Kieran's body. "Now that's more like it," she purred.

Kieran grinned. "Sorry, sweetheart. You've got the wrong equipment." To the black woman he said, "Jindallie, wasn't it? You remember me, right?"

"Mm, not so big or smiley, but sure I do. I guess you want some of this." She waved the spoon.

"I don't want to piss off Shou-Shou. We need some clothes, and she might not give 'em to us if we've been eating up all her food." But he was joking; as he spoke he was getting bowls down from a cupboard, going right to them as if he knew where they were kept.

They didn't speak while they ate. Ash gloried in the food and the sunlight, in the rays of contentment that beamed out from Kieran's smile and warmed him from the inside. He had never seen Kieran so peaceful -- so beautiful, when he was happy, that it made Ash's heart ache.

Over the next couple hours, different women filtered in and out of the kitchen; some sampled Jindallie's cooking, others pronounced themselves too hung-over to eat. Most were white, and had Rainet or Eskard accents. Ash guessed that they had come south to seek their fortune just as so many men had, but found as little honest work available here as there. According to the wisdom of the Church, a woman existed to be a wife; those who couldn't or wouldn't marry were beneath its notice, as much in the south as in the capitols of the Commonwealth.

They didn't seem unhappy. Rather, no less happy than the women who sold hot pork buns on the streets of Ladygate, or the ones who mended clothes or nets, or most of the wives either. Ash was beginning to think that people's happiness had very little to do with their lot in life. It was annoying to find such a smarmy truism borne out in experience.

The whores sat at the table or leaned in the doorway, went out into the yard to squint at the sun, praised the food or complained of their hangovers, yawned and scratched. Ash went looking for a mirror and shaved, then came back for more coffee. The women teased him about how young he looked without stubble. He found himself becoming more and more at ease in their company. Kieran interjected the occasional dry comment in an amused rumble, and every word he spoke reached out and wrapped Ash in a sense of belonging.

The older ones remembered Kieran, and had to talk about how ridiculously tall he'd become, criticize his tattoos, and cluck over his scars. The younger ones seemed at first apprehensive of him, but were reassured by the others' acceptance. Ash got his fair share of attention too; praise for his pretty hair, laughter for his knobby knees.

Everyone wanted to know how long they were going to stay. Only Ami asked as if hoping to hurry them away. Ash supposed these women didn't see a lot of men who weren't interested in their physical charms, which probably made Kieran and Ash the ideal guests. All talk of the duration of their stay was met by the statement that it was up to Shou-Shou. They were all waiting for her.

When at last she arrived, she was wearing a walking dress of modest construction, carrying a pair of canvas shopping bags. These she thumped down on the table, saying, "Nothing's going to really fit you, Carrots. You wouldn't wake up when I wanted to ask your size. As for you, my boy, we're going to make you so handsome --" She paused, noticing what Kieran was wearing. "Tell me you didn't go outside like that."

"Why would I? It's not a political statement, Shou-Shou. It's just a bedsheet."

"Am I missing something?" Ash said tentatively.

Kieran explained, "Traditional dress. Forbidden, like the braids. Have to wear pants." To Shou-Shou, "Tell me you found something long enough."

"Not nearly, but the boots will cover it." She upended one of the bags. Its contents occasioned oohs and aahs from the women. Most prominent were a pair of tall black boots, used but not used hard, with steel toes and half a dozen square steel buckles running up the calf of each. There was a pair of black leather trousers, a bit worn at the knees and seat but otherwise in good shape, also fastened with buckles. There was a black shirt of what looked like raw silk; not all its buttons matched. There was a long coat of gray leather that had probably once been black, and a large black kerchief embroidered with small red squares along the hem.

"I remember you always wore black whenever you could," said Shou-Shou. "Theatrical little monster that you are. Go on, see if it fits." When Kieran hesitated, she laughed and added, "Child, what do you think you have that we ain't seen a million times?"

Kieran smiled back. "It's for your sakes, dears. The little ones would swoon." He collected the clothing and took it out of the room.

Ash reached for the other bag. "Is this for me?"

"Like I said, it might not fit." Shou-Shou scattered out a bunch of brown and blue. "It's your own fault for sleeping so hard."

"I don't remember you trying to wake me."

"Exactly."

What she'd brought for Ash didn't get much of a reaction from the women. He didn't blame them. Tan canvas trousers, a white shirt, a medium-blue sweater unraveling at the hem, brown workman's boots, and a coat of brown sheepskin lined with its own fleece. It all looked functional, durable, and drab.

"Perfect," said Ash. "I just wish you'd got me a hat. My hair's kind of obvious."

"There's lots of Yelorreans around here," one of the women said.

"And you boys won't be wandering around town," Shou-Shou added. "That would be idiotic."

"That's a point."

Ash reached to gather the whole pile, at which Shou-Shou sighed exaggerated annoyance. "All this modesty. Just put the clothes on."

Ash opened his mouth to protest, then hit on a solution: he put the pants on underneath his robe. There were groans, then laughter.

He had to borrow a belt to cinch in the trousers, which were too big in the waist, though the length was good. The shirt, similarly, billowed around his chest but was the right length in the arms. Putting socks on was luxurious after weeks of bare feet; the women laughed at the way he wriggled his toes and sighed. The boots were a bit too big, but they stayed on. "Marvelous," he said with a big smile.

"Put on the sweater," Shou-Shou ordered. "I got it to match your eyes."

"It's too hot." He held it up to his neck instead, batting his eyes to make them laugh.

Then Kieran came in, and turned his knees to water.

It didn't matter that the clothes were secondhand; Kieran looked like a bandit king. All that black made his skin look more gold than brown, made his eyes glow like a cat's. Made his teeth flash startlingly when he smiled. "You're a miracle, Shou-Shou. I owe you."

"Good," she said briskly. "Because I have a job for you. And some for you too, Red. Put away what you're not going to wear and get Jindallie to show you the holes in the fence."

This made the women laugh more, but Ash was content to be put to work. He let himself be handed a hammer and some nails and pointed at the front yard.

It was only fair, after all. Even secondhand, those clothes would not have been free; more to the point, by being here, he and Kieran had endangered the house. The local police might overlook the brothel's existence, especially if they got free service now and then, but they couldn't ignore the harboring of fugitives. Ash wondered what work Shou-Shou had found for Kieran. Something in the house; cleaning, maybe. The thought of Kieran in an apron with a dust mop made him laugh.