Chapter Text
There is a room in Essek’s chambers that might be more properly referred to as a shrine to the Shadowhand, the most admired and sought-after courtesan of the House. The shrine overflows with his clients’ presents, each of them carefully labeled with the date of receipt and the name of the gifter. Never let it be said that the Shadowhand is unappreciative.
Here: a truly exorbitant display of wealth by Ludinus Da’leth in the form of the finest silk and cashmere, several boxes of jewelry so lavish they border on vulgar, and a centuries-old vase, gilded within an inch of its life and filled with a fantastic array of flowers bursting with so much color it makes Essek’s eyes hurt. The Martinet always did have an eye for the exceptionally gaudy things in life. (That is an uncharitable thought to have about a patron, so Essek keeps it to himself, even though it is true. The Martinet is still Essek's best client, even if he rarely condescends to visit the lover he allegedly favors most of all.)
Here: a much smaller closet designated for the handful of lovers Essek receives from the Dynasty. It holds a beautifully illuminated tome of Undercommon poetry, an old-fashioned set of two carved drinking horns, an ancient ornamental hunting knife in bronze and ivory. These are gifts that Essek treasures dearly. They remind him of a home he had once known, even though it is not one he remembers.
Here: the shelves neatly stacked with books, each one with a note written in varying degrees of affection and raunchiness from the clients over the years who are familiar with Essek’s penchant for reading. Here: the tasteful collection of filmy robes and undergarments Essek customarily dons for his evening appointments. There is nothing that enraptures a lover more than seeing him adorned in a gift they had chosen especially for him. Here: a veritable cornucopia of sweets and wines and fruit. Essek makes sure to sample a little of each—a bite or two will do, for the purpose of properly paying his compliments to each respective benefactor—before he takes it to the kitchens to share with the staff of the House.
The chambers in which Essek receives his visitors is kept simple, its elegance visible only to the trained eye. It changes only in the details: the books on the bedside table will be switched depending on who is visiting, as will the flowers and the jewelry he wears. I kept this because it reminded me of you. No reason why an appointment cannot be both a transaction and a pleasure.
Essek’s own private chambers, however, are another story. The only flowers he keeps are in shades of red and orange, bright as fire and reminiscent of the sunrise. The small stack of books on the table are dog-eared with love of an entirely different sort, and are clearly not new. The beloved earrings he wears here are inlaid with white seed pearls: flawed, but all the more beautiful for their imperfections.
It is a rare evening when he does not have any visitors. Tonight, he has time to rest, and to rouse himself early enough to watch the dawn break. Early enough to catch sight of a familiar head of rough red hair in the window across the street. Early enough that the rest of the world is still asleep, and Essek can be only Essek.
He raises his hand, waving bashfully. “Good morning.”
And this is the most precious of all the gifts he has ever received—the easy smile from the man who floats up to his balcony, perching on the very edge of the rail with a cup of tea made exactly the way Essek likes it, with a touch of milk and honey to brighten the bitter taste.
“Good morning,” Caleb Widogast says, his eyes crinkling at the corners with the greeting. The sunlight limns his hair in gold. “You are up early today, Essek.”
Caleb is one of the few people who calls him Essek, and not Shadowhand, the only name which he gives his lovers. Not even the staff of the House call him by his real name these days, especially since he has become master courtesan. It never fails to make him shiver to hear Caleb’s accent wrapped around it with such care.
Or perhaps Essek is just imagining things again. It is still hard, these days, to know what is real and what is not when he is not ensconced in his chambers.
“I did not have to work last night,” Essek admits.
A faint blush stains Caleb’s cheeks. “I see. A quiet evening for you, then?”
“Yes. I spent it reading.” Essek makes a small smile, and is pleased to discover that it makes Caleb smile in return. “I find that I am growing fond of poetry these days.”
“That sounds lovely. I mostly just read whatever comes into the shop, and very little of it is literature fit for your eyes.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“By that, I mean a lot of it is dime store smut,” Caleb says, grinning.
Essek represses a laugh at that. He had thought Caleb Widogast studious to a fault, always poring over one book or another behind the shop counter. From what little he has seen from his balcony, and from what Caleb has cared to share with him, they are books on arcane lore and knowledge, far too complicated for someone like Essek to understand. He never would have guessed Caleb was also reading smutty novels, of all things.
“Come now,” he says, his lips twitching. “In my line of work, I have no ascendancy whatsoever when it comes to such things.”
“What I mean is that your tastes are much more refined than mine.”
Essek knows how to keep his gaze lowered, to make his lashes flutter as he glances up prettily beneath their thick fringe. Some clients enjoy Essek like this, demure and soft-spoken. But that is all feigned, of course. He is well aware of the power he wields within the confines of his chambers. Shyness is something he is entirely unaccustomed to, but Caleb makes the discomfort of its uncertainty more tolerable than Essek could have ever imagined.
“I cannot say much about that, since there are very few things I have had a taste of to begin with,” Essek says, and adds hastily, “but I like the tea you bring me,” because it is true, and Caleb should know it.
Caleb’s eyes soften. “A friend makes this blend for me himself. I would be happy to bring you more for you to enjoy at your leisure.”
“But I would not know how to brew it,” Essek says, chagrined both by the admission and the fact that he has spoken it aloud.
This time, Caleb’s answering smile is quick and bright, like a flame catching. “Then I would be happy to continue making it for you whenever I get the chance.”
The flying spell lasts only ten minutes, Caleb has told him, and Essek has been keeping careful count of each one.
He takes one last sip of tea, savoring the sweetness on his tongue despite the bitter undertone. The cup in his hands is made of hardy stuff, the teal glaze imperfect in the firing. There is a small chip in the rim. And yet it is lovely, because it is Caleb’s. Essek wonders if Caleb drinks his own tea from this cup, and blushes all the way to his toes at the thought of his mouth touching a cup that Caleb habitually lifts to his own lips.
But surely that could not be the case.
Essek cradles the cup in his palms and hands it back to Caleb.
This little ritual has been theirs for a few weeks now, for which Essek has been nothing but grateful. It should no longer sting that Caleb does his utmost to avoid even the smallest brush of skin against skin. Truly, Essek understands. Caleb has always been respectful of him and the work that he does, but he knows there are people who would not want his touch because of it.
Essek keeps his fingers loose, open. This way, Caleb can lift the cup from his hands without touching him.
“Thank you, Caleb Widogast,” Essek says. “I hope business will be good for you today.”
“And you, Essek,” Caleb says. He bows in midair, all the more graceful despite his shabby coat and scarf. “It is always a pleasure to bring you your morning tea.”
Caleb floats back down to the shop he is minding, where there is a striped orange cat yowling for him at the door. He laughs and picks up the cat, letting it climb onto his shoulders, before he disappears into the shop and out of sight. He has ledgers to balance, perhaps. Or something of that sort. Essek wouldn't know.
He stares at the quiet alleyway coming to life in increments, perhaps more pensive than should be strictly warranted at the beginning of the day. Caleb will be busy today, perhaps, with all the customers coming and going. Those people do not even know who Caleb Widogast is. Perhaps all they see is a humble shop assistant, but Essek knows far better. They have no idea how fortunate they are to even speak to him.
Essek sighs. He returns to his quarters, drawing the heavy curtain behind him to spare himself the heat of the sun and the temptation to linger at the balcony.