The faintest of pressures against a cheek would not cause a stirring; the courtesan had been conscious of the former channeler’s intentions in the very instant that the down-filled mattress had shifted a quarter of an hour before, relieved of the man’s weight in the early hours of the morning. But blue-violet eyes remained closed despite that knowledge, breaths even, body perfectly still, feigning sleep in order to avoid awkward farewells; in order to avoid any further promises that would continue to go unaccepted.
The latch caught, the apartment door closed securely; booted footfalls upon the stair amidst their descent drifted into quiet again, the beginning of the silence to follow punctuated by the tinkling of brass door bells, chiming for a teahouse empty otherwise, save for the working girls upstairs, all fast asleep, safe in their beds after providing certain forms of entertainment to all hours of the night.
The solitude was welcomed initially; the empty bed celebrated with a roll from her side to her back, from the left side of the mattress to the very middle, sprawling, stretching…staring up at the canopy overhead, a thing barely made out in the darkness—the morning light shut out by drawn draperies in heavy cotton velvet.
Such celebration was fleeting: abruptly the courtesan rose, stocking feet padding along wooden floors covered by thick, imported carpets, marking a path from bed to the windows lining the majority of that one wall. Tentative fingers pressed between curtains, tugging back velvets by a fraction; dilated pupils took a moment to adjust to the change, to focus on the street below, to follow the path of a man turning towards the stables. That no one else turned down the same path relieved a woman of two minds.
A face reflected in the window across the street did likewise, cold eyes marking the departure of the same figure, but made no move to follow the man who would be taking the North Passage Down out of the city. Instead, attention turned to the pretty thing framed in wood and glass panes mismatched by repair; stares fixed upon disheveled curls, appreciative of the fact that chemise’s silk was fine, thin as gauze, and yet disgusted by the same.