Chapter Text
Rowan.
It was too stuffy on the top floor.
No matter how early in the day Rowan threw open the windows in the converted attic to coax in a breeze, the room would be too humid by nightfall. Ketterdam in the summer was swampy, the air heavy and unpleasant - only cooling off in the wee hours of the morning, or when the humidity gathered enough for a thunderous rainstorm.
The floor-length sheer curtains rustled by the window and Rowan sighed as her skin was finally graced with a whisper of air.
She checked the clock, silently ticking on her nightstand. Less than five minutes. She’d better finish up. Her next client would be there any minute.
Dabbing a fine, shimmering powder over the notches of her exposed collarbones to match the glow high on her cheeks, Rowan dipped her pinky into the bowl and touched a tiny bit to the inner corners of her eyelids. The silvery glow complimented the sage green of her irises, making them pop against the dark black she’d painted onto her naturally red eyelashes.
At least this time of year, she couldn’t complain about the ‘uniform’ that came with being one of Madame Tish’s girls.
Despite the fact that she was Grisha and services related to her heartrending abilities were the only services she offered at the House of Ephemeros, Madame Tish still required Rowan to dress as the other girls did. It would only help her business, the bony Madame insisted in those early weeks when Rowan still felt self-conscious walking around the house less-than-half dressed. The cost for her lingerie was covered by the percentage of her wages that went to the establishment, so Rowan didn’t feel it was an argument she’d stand a decent chance of winning. Compared to the other pleasure houses in the Barrel of the city, Ephemeros was a tiny palace. Madame Tish had discerning tastes, a rigorous interview process and the best reputation on the Staves. When a spot opened up to work at Ephemeros, it was a bloodbath. Only five girls lived in the house at a time, in addition to Madame Tish, and she was one of the first business owners on West Stave to outright reject having her employees work under an indenture. The townhouse was decently sized to keep all of them comfortable, they had friendly kitchen staff, cleaners, stunning interior design - and best of all, they chose their hours and clients. Madame Tish might make suggestions and introductions, but no girl was forced to work with someone she didn’t want to, ever.
So, all in all, Rowan had decided she could live with the lingerie rule in the house.
The other girls were all so comfortable in their bodies that it had only taken a few weeks before Rowan stopped overthinking what she must look like all the time. It was only a body after all.
The teddy she’d chosen to wear this evening was a feminine light pink. Embroidered flowers bloomed over her breasts and down her torso, peekaboo sections revealing the pale, freckled skin of her hips and sternum. Similarly light stockings covered her from toes-to-thighs. The heat of the afternoon had prompted her to tie up her thick, waist-length red hair to stop it from sticking to her neck, and the resulting ponytail swayed attractively behind her as she twisted to survey her appearance in the mirror.
Her regulars had all complimented this outfit before, either in words or in the perceptible race of their heartbeat and dilation of their eyes. Even though her clients were strictly not allowed to touch her, Madame Tish had been right. It hadn’t hurt her business to make them want to.
A gentle knock sounded on the wooden bedroom door. Rowan glanced at the clock again approvingly. Right on time. Something she valued. It was a metaphorical point in favour of this new client.
As the only resident heartrender, Rowan didn’t just have the entire attic conversion as her workspace and bedroom - Tish arranged her calendar personally. It worked out well for them both, Tish was connected. She arranged for the wealthiest visitors, so Rowan didn’t have to worry about time-wasters, all her clients were vetted. She just had to let Tish know if she didn’t want to see them again.
Rowan crossed to the door, the plush carpet muffling her footsteps. She painted on her best welcoming, reassuring smile and turned the handle.
She’d expected someone close to her usual demographic. A forty-plus mercher or councilman, bonus points if he was married, who had come for an hour or two of anxiety management with attached eye-candy. If not that, then a mercher’s wife in a similar age-range who was bored out of her mind looking for a new and exciting experience in a space with no judgement.
She hadn’t expected the man who stood waiting on the other side of the door.
Her smile faltered for a second as she tilted her head back to meet his gaze, as dark and endless as the night sky. His alabaster skin was a stark contrast to his eyes and hair, scars standing prominent over his brow, his jaw, the corner of his lips. He was tall, and a lot younger than anyone Tish had sent up to her before. He couldn’t be older than twenty-five.
Thick, dark brows dropped a fraction, creating a divot over the bridge of his nose. Rowan came back to herself with a jolt. They were on a running clock, and she’d just wasted thirty seconds staring at him.
“Sorry,” she hitched her smile back into place and stepped back, pulling the door with her to widen the entryway. “Hello, come in. I’m Rowan.”
“Thank you,” the rough scrape of his voice sent a shiver up her spine. Down, girl. You’re a professional.
He stepped over the threshold and for the first time Rowan noticed he had a cane with a gleaming silver crow’s head. He used it as he walked. Rowan waited patiently as he examined the space, taking in the luxurious queen bed surrounded by gossamer drapes that had been tied back with ribbon on the far left, the wardrobe and dressing table pressed up against the wall on the other side of it. His gaze slid to the right, to where a chaise-lounge filled the space beneath the open windows and then to where two armchairs sat a friendly distance apart, a dinky coffee table separating them in front of the empty fireplace.
Rowan always waited for new clients to choose a place in the room they felt most comfortable for an initial consult. She guessed that this unexpected man, with his immaculately cut three-piece suit, buttoned up to the throat and clad in black leather gloves - he would choose the armchairs. The closest option to an office the room had to offer.
Just as she anticipated, the armchairs snagged his attention the longest. His eyes flickered back to her, requesting permission. So, he was polite, too. Rowan’s smile deepened. “Please,” she indicated the chairs and let him go first, where he selected the chair that gave him a view of the now-closed door. Rowan didn’t mind. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.” He looked like he needed one, sat straight-backed and stiff, his fingers gripping the cane tightly. But, Rowan didn’t insist. Instead she took the other chair and crossed one leg over the other, folding her hands on her lap as she examined him again. His face was pointed in the direction of the door behind her, taking in every crack in the brickwork, every pulled thread in her mish-mash of vintage rugs in this half of the room, rather than look at her. It was fascinating.
“So, what can I do for you?” She asked gently, propping her chin in her hand as she exhaled and felt for his heartbeat, centring herself as she located it. The organ was pumping so hard and fast she would have expected him to be panting with the pressure of it - but his expression was completely blank. Breathing a little ragged, perhaps, perspiring too, but that could have been due to the weight of his suit in the summer warmth.
“I’m-“ he cleared his throat, dark eyes closing briefly, like he was pained. “I suffer an… affliction.”
A frown tugged at Rowan’s mouth. She wasn’t a half-bad healer, but that wasn’t the kind of work she had become accustomed to since moving to Ephemeros. “Are you in any pain right now?” She asked softly. That would explain the tension emanating from him in palpable waves, the harsh thud of his heart against his ribs.
He shook his head jerkily. The leather of his gloves creaked on his cane as he squeezed it. He summoned a deep breath. “It’s more, an aversion.” The rasp sounded like it was coming out through clenched teeth. “An aversion I need to be rid of within the year.”
“Okay,” Rowan soothed, “would it be alright if I slowed your heart a little, honey? Just enough to make you more comfortable?”
The man froze, dark eyes locking onto hers for the first time since he’d sat down. He was so tense he seemed to vibrate. Then, he dipped his chin to indicate his consent.
Rowan lifted her hands, working them in a familiar, learned pattern as she directed her power. Gradually, she brought down the rhythm of his pulse to mirror her own, helping his lungs expand to take in more air. He relaxed a fraction, hands loosening on his cane.
“So, this aversion,” Rowan spoke when he didn’t seem to want to. “It’s something that makes you anxious? I have lots of clients I work with to help them relax.” An intricate flutter of her fingers forced some of the tension from his shoulders, to emphasise her point.
The man swallowed and nodded, the movement more languid than any he’d made so far. Longer strands of his inky hair fell forward into his eyes, making him momentarily look even younger. Handsome, Rowan thought idly, keeping up her work on his heartbeat.
“I can’t stand to be touched,” he all but whispered, staring at the wooden coffee table. “Any kind of physical contact. Not for… not for years. It makes me sick, even the thought.” He sucked in a huge breath. Rowan watched him, mildly transfixed as he bared his soul in the humid, lightly perfumed air of her bedroom. “I’ve tried to deal with it alone, but I came across some writings from Ravka, heartrenders treating those with mental maladies from the war - it made me think… that someone like you might be a more successful option.”
He reached into the inside his jacket and pulled out a bundle of papers to set down on the small table, keeping his elbows rested on his knees, half hunched in the chair.
“I did some research. Ephemeros is known for being the most… discreet.”
That was putting it lightly. There were five secret entrances to the pleasure house aside from the front door, specifically for the purpose of clients who wanted the utmost privacy.
“Why within the year?” She asked, leaning forward curiously.
He blinked and looked up at her through his lashes. That divot appeared between his brows again, the same one that had shown up when she’d spent too long looking at him through the doorway.
“You said you need to be rid of this within the year,” she clarified, tilting her head. Her ponytail swung away from her shoulder with the movement, and his onyx eyes tracked the motion of it warily. “Why?”
A twinge where his heart wanted to contract, but Rowan didn’t let it, keeping him calm and stable. Though, she didn’t stop the natural rush of blood to his face, colouring the slash of his high cheekbones pink.
She smiled again before she could help it. “Boy or girl?”
His tongue ran over the back of his teeth and he snorted. “Girl.”
“Love makes us do crazy things,” Rowan lamented wisely, the slightest tease in her tone. The client smirked, losing some more of his tension now that the nature of his visit was out in the open. “It will be slow progress,” she warned more seriously as she looked over the papers he’d put on the table. She was already familiar with them, and the treatments he was talking about. “You’ll need to have a session once a week, at least. And there are times where it may seem as though you’re making progress, but then things can go backward with no rhyme or reason. It’s a process that requires dedication and patience and one that I’ve never used in practice, so it will be a learning experience for us both.”
He listened intently to her every word and nodded his agreement. “I understand.”
Rowan smiled. “Then I look forward to working with you. You can talk to Tish about scheduling your first appointment. What should I call you?”
It was the question she’d learned to ask instead of ‘what’s your name?” Since not every client wanted to give their real name. Rowan hardly cared, she only needed something to refer to them as, it didn’t matter to her how real it was as long as their kruge was good.
But when this man answered after a short beat of hesitation, all his vital signs pointed to the fact he was telling the truth, and Rowan found herself inexplicably pleased that he hadn’t lied.
“I’m Kaz.”