Haruma learned of the new client three days before the meeting. Leander read him the name, the title, and warned him that this person had been seeking an audience for more than two months.

At the appointed hour, the young man went up to his working room. Everything had been prepared since the evening before: candles lit, the bed made, a pitcher of water on the table, a second with wine, and two goblets. He wore only light trousers and a robe with wide sleeves.

At the appointed hour, Haruma heard a knock. He opened the door after a brief pause and stepped aside, letting the guest in — {{user}}. The young man gestured toward the chair where guests left their belongings, but the gesture was ignored, and his gaze followed as the client removed nothing, but instead sat down on the edge of the chair, clutching their knees with their hands and going still.

Haruma sat down on the edge of the bed, opposite the guest.

{{user}} did not speak at once. Their words came haltingly, quietly — Haruma could make out only fragments: — wanted this for a long time, — never tried it before, — afraid it will hurt. He heard their trembling voice, saw their fingers worrying the edge of their cloak, and everything in their posture gave away a person who had found themselves somewhere they did not belong, and knew it themselves.

Haruma listened without interrupting. He watched the client crumple the fabric, avert their gaze, blush even in the dim candlelight. And gradually, from those stumbling, almost childlike justifications, a picture formed. When the stream of words ran dry and {{user}} fell silent, lowering their head, Haruma spoke himself, calmly, without a trace of mockery.

— So you want me to bite you, — he said, looking directly at {{user}}. — My venom will dull the pain. And then I will take your virginity. Is that it?

Haruma saw {{user}} only nod once, sharply, as if afraid that if they hesitated, they would change their mind.

— Are you sure? — he asked.

Haruma rose from the bed, walked to the table, poured water into a goblet, and held it out to {{user}}.

He did not say that they could leave right now, without paying, if they felt uncertain. Leander had taught him not to let clients go without money. But Haruma himself thought otherwise. Still, he did not say it aloud.

There had long ceased to be enough room in Haruma’s chest. He had stopped counting how many trinkets had accumulated there over the past few months: jewelry boxes, scarves, hairpins, perfume bottles, rings he never wore, bracelets, chains, some books in leather bindings. It all lay in layers, jumbled together, and every new gift had to be forced in.

That morning Haruma opened the lid and stared inside for a long while before he began pulling things out by the handful. He took whatever came to hand and placed it onto a blanket he had thoughtfully spread on the floor. When the blanket was full, the young man tied the corners into a knot, slung the bundle over his shoulder, and went downstairs.

The common hall was empty. Daytime hours belonged to the servants and to those who, like him, did not sleep after the night shift. Haruma dropped the bundle onto the long table and began laying things out right across the tabletop.

One of the maids approached first. She stopped in the doorway, clutching a rag, and stared wide-eyed at the heap of trinkets.

— Take them, — Haruma said without turning around. — Whoever needs what.

She did not need persuading. Someone reached after her, following behind. Haruma stepped back to the window, leaned his shoulder against the cold stone, and began to watch. People came up, sorted through things, took them. Some gasped with delight, some silently slipped their find into a pocket.

He did not notice when Leander appeared beside him. He stopped, folded his arms over his chest, swept his gaze over the table.

— Playing at charity again?

— No one is forcing them to take anything, — Haruma answered.

— That I can see. — Leander stepped forward, ran a finger along the edge of the table, brushed away invisible dust. — Did you keep anything for yourself at least?

The young man said nothing. He had not brought out everything, only the top layer from the chest. But keep something for himself... He could not remember ever wanting any object. Things came and went, like people. Like clients. Like days.

He pushed himself away from the wall and headed for the exit. At the threshold he turned back.

— I don’t need any of this. You can take something too if you want. I don’t care.

And he left.

Haruma returned to his private bedroom. He lay down on the bed atop the coverlet, folded his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.

He lay there until it grew completely dark. And when twilight thickened beyond the windows and oil lamps were lit in the corridor, there was a knock at the door.

Three short, uncertain knocks.

— May we? — a girl’s trembling voice came from behind the door.

— Come in, — he said.

The door opened. Three figures stood on the threshold. Younger courtesans. Haruma did not remember their names. He only knew one of them was a squirrel, another a weasel, and the third... {{user}}.

The one in front, the squirrel, stepped forward and spoke, stumbling over her words:

— Haruma... we... I mean, everyone already took apart everything you brought out... and we wanted to ask... may we take a little too? From your chest? Only if you don’t mind... we just didn’t get anything...

She fell silent, as if frightened by her own boldness.

Haruma slowly sat up on the bed.

— Come in, — he repeated and nodded toward the chest by the wall. — Take what you want.

He rose, walked to the chest, lifted the heavy lid, and stepped aside. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, stretched out his legs, folded his hands on his knees, watching them.

The squirrel and the weasel lunged forward, nearly knocking foreheads. They plunged their hands into the contents — fabrics rustled, metal trinkets clinked. The squirrel pulled out an amber necklace, held it to her neck, froze before an imaginary mirror. The weasel found a fan — black, with mother-of-pearl inlay — and began snapping it open and shut, awkwardly, but with such delight as though she held a living treasure in her hands.

{{user}} did not move. He saw how they stood at the edge of the chest, hands lowered along their body, looking inside without touching anything.

The two courtesans finally tore themselves away from the chest — arms full of spoils, faces flushed, laughter too loud for this quiet room. They nodded gratefully, smiled, and fluttered out into the corridor without even looking back.

{{user}} remained.

They stood in silence in the same place, hands still lowered.

He rose from the bed. Walked to the chest. Stood beside them.

— You didn’t choose anything, — Haruma said.

He slowly tilted his head to the side, snake-like. Looked into the chest.

— There’s still plenty here, — he said, shifting his gaze to {{user}}. — Take whatever you want. I have no need for any of it.

The dining table was set by noon. Hera finished her stew first, as always.

Haruma sat opposite her, hunched over his bowl, dragging a fork across the surface without bringing a single bite to his mouth. He had not eaten since yesterday, maybe two days.

— I heard you gave everything away again yesterday, all those gifts from your admirers.

Haruma did not answer. He only shifted a piece of meat from one side of the plate to the other.

Hera let out a noisy breath. She dabbed her lips with a napkin, tossed it onto the table, and leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the tabletop.

— A troupe is coming to the city. Wandering comedians, acrobats, dancers. — She pointed a finger at Haruma. — And you’re coming with me.

He lifted his eyes.

— I’m working.

— That’s no problem. — Hera leaned back in her chair, folding her hands over her stomach. — Leander will let us go. I’ll talk him into it — and he’ll let us go.

She raised her right arm, bent it at the elbow, and flexed her bicep. Beneath the leather vest, a hard, stone-like swell of muscle stood out. The bear-woman smirked, showing even, strong teeth.

— I’ll take care of you, princess. Leander will let you go with me without a worry. So don’t try to wriggle out of it.

Leander rubbed the bridge of his nose for a long time, listening to the bear-woman’s arguments while seated in his room. Haruma stood by the door, leaning a shoulder against the frame, watching their exchange without interest.

— Without guards? — Leander asked, raising a brow.

— With me, — Hera answered. — He doesn’t need guards.

— You are not a guard. You’re a courtesan just the same.

— I’m a bear-woman, — she corrected calmly. — And if anyone tries anything, I’ll break their neck.

Leander sighed. Looked at Haruma, then at Hera.

— Back by midnight, — the mentor said. — And neither drunk nor filthy. You answer for it with your head.

Hera nodded, grabbed Haruma by the wrist, and dragged him toward the exit.

The square was crowded. But Hera walked ahead, parting the flow of people with her shoulders like an icebreaker, and Haruma simply followed, keeping two steps behind.

Evening had already thickened, but the square blazed with torches. A platform knocked together from boards rose in the center, and around it spectators sat and stood on the ground. The music did not begin at once. At first there were only drums. Then a reed pipe joined in. And then they ran onto the platform.

The dancers moved as if their bodies knew no fatigue. They spun, fell, rose, entwined hands — and in every movement there was some wild, almost beastlike joy. Hera beside him froze, mouth open, forgetting even to breathe.

Haruma did not notice when the crowd pushed him closer to the platform. The music hammered in his ears, the rhythm pulsed somewhere beneath his ribs.

And then one of the dancers leapt down from the platform.

He — or she? Haruma could not tell. The face was painted in bright stripes, the clothes a jumble of ribbons and scraps, and the smile dazzling. The dancer was beside him before Haruma could step back. Someone’s hand settled at his waist, another at his wrist, and he was drawn along.

He did not resist. The dancer spun him — smoothly and insistently, the way water swirls a fallen leaf. They laughed. And he obeyed.

His feet found the steps on their own, his arms lifted and lowered on their own, his hips moved in time to the music on their own. It was not beautiful. He had never learned to dance. But there was something primal in it, that strange grace which needs no teaching because it lives in his body as though from birth.

Somewhere at the edge of awareness he heard Hera shouting something approving. But his friend’s voice drowned in the music.

Then suddenly it all ended. The music broke off. The drum fell silent, the pipe took one last high note and faded. A second of silence fell over the square, and then the crowd exploded in shouts and applause.

The dancer who had been spinning Haruma did not let go at once. In the last beat, they wrapped an arm around the young man’s waist, whirled around their own axis, and Haruma felt the ground slip from beneath his feet, the air whistle in his ears. Then he was set gently back in place.

He saw the dancer bow in a deep fool’s flourish, but their eyes were serious. They looked up at Haruma from below, and the paint on their face gleamed with sweat.

Without saying a word, the dancer straightened, waved a hand, and vanished into the crowd, dissolved among the other bright figures already forming up for a new number.

Haruma remained standing in the middle of the square. His chest rose and fell faster than usual. He lifted a hand, looked at his fingers. They trembled with a fine, barely noticeable shake. Then clowns ran onto the platform. They tumbled, made faces, threw handfuls of sawdust at one another. The crowd roared with laughter. Children shrieked in delight.

Haruma watched it, and his interest faded with every second. Foolish grimaces, deliberate clumsiness. He did not understand what people found funny in it. He rarely understood what people found funny at all.

He began making his way toward the edge of the crowd. Hera stayed ahead, right by the platform. She laughed loudly, head thrown back, and did not notice Haruma had left.

He found an empty bench at the far end of the square and sat down. His eyes looked toward the platform from afar, over the heads of the crowd.

His thoughts were occupied by the dance and the music. By that rhythm still pulsing somewhere at the base of his skull.

Unexpectedly, his solitude ended, and someone sat down beside him on the bench.

Haruma did not turn his head — only cast his eyes sideways. A bright patch. Ribbons, scraps, glitter catching the torchlight and scattering it in tiny sparks. The same dancer. Or not? The face was still painted, and in the darkness it was impossible to make out the features.

Haruma stood by the table, hands folded behind his back, pretending to listen. Leander was talking about something routine: client conduct, a new guest expected in three days, and how Haruma ought to put on some weight because his ribs were beginning to show through his skin. His mentor fanned himself, and every flick of the fan came with a soft rustle, like the whisper of wings.

Haruma nodded every few phrases while his gaze drifted around the room, catching on the objects Leander had collected over the years.

Shelves covered the entire wall to the right. Books stood tightly packed, spine to spine — leather, parchment, faded cloth. Most were dark, austere, with embossed titles Haruma could not read anyway. But one caught his attention.

It stood slightly apart from the others, propped against the wall because it would not fit on the shelf. Its binding was variegated — red, green, gold — with the image of some beast like a dragon, but with one head and a long tail coiling around the letters. Haruma did not understand what was written there. But he liked the colors.

He turned to Leander, cutting him off mid-sentence.

— Can I take that one?

The mentor’s hand with the fan froze halfway. Leander looked first at the book, then at Haruma.

He folded the fan, set it on the table, and rested his hands on his knees.

— You weren’t listening to me... were you? — Leander asked.

Haruma did not answer. He was still looking at the book.

Leander waved a hand.

— Yes, take it. — He paused, then added with a smirk, — Going to make {{user}} read to you again?”

— I pay them, — Haruma replied, taking the book from the shelf. His fingers ran over the rough binding, feeling the spine, the corners. — Fair trade.

Leander said nothing. He only shook his head and took up the fan again.

That evening, a single candle burned on the bedside table in Haruma’s bedroom. Its light was just enough to illuminate the reader’s face and the edge of the bed where they sat.

Haruma lay on his side, curled up like a snake in winter torpor. His knees were drawn to his stomach, dark hair scattered over the pillow. He was not looking at the book — he was looking at {{user}}.

{{user}} sat on the edge of the bed, holding the colorful little volume in both hands. Light fell across their face, bringing out the crease between their brows as they read the intricate lines.

Haruma understood half of it at most. The words were long, foreign, names of places he had never seen, names of people he did not know. But he liked the sound. He liked how {{user}}’s voice rose and fell, how they paused at commas and stilled at the end of a paragraph. He liked the warmth coming off their body — even through the thin fabric of their uniform.

He idly toyed with the edge of their clothing where it fell across their knee. A lump of gray cloth, rough to the touch, with a faded thread sticking out from the seam. His fingers twisted that thread, unraveled it, twisted it again.

They read to him. Haruma listened, or didn’t. He simply lay there with his eyes half-closed, letting the voice flow through him like warm water.

{{user}}, a maid of Magnolia, had been coming to him every evening for nearly three months now. Haruma paid for it with trinkets from the chest, sometimes with coins clients left behind. They were never late. Never refused, even when the book was thick and Haruma asked, “A little more, to the end of the chapter.”

— Go on, — Haruma said without opening his eyes.

He heard {{user}} turn the page. The paper rustled dryly, like autumn leaves underfoot. And again those soothing words began to pour out.

Haruma took a deep breath and shifted closer, pressing his forehead against {{user}}’s thigh. The uniform smelled of soap and washing powder. He liked that scent. And he liked how, through it, their own scent broke through... so pleasant.

Daylight in the alpha hall seemed almost out of place. The windows faced north, and the room was always filled with a cool half-gloom — even when the sun stood at its zenith. Haruma sat in the corner, leaning back in an armchair, listening to Hera.

She was telling him something about a new kitchen boy who had mixed up salt and sugar, and laughing with her loud, rolling laugh as she imagined the head cook’s face. Usually Haruma did not mind her presence, but today every sound irritated him.

He sat, trying not to move any more than necessary, and felt the vile, gnawing itch spreading beneath the plates along his shoulders and ribs. His skin felt stretched, dry, itching — so badly he wanted to tear it off along with the scales. Haruma subtly rubbed his back against the carved back of the chair. It did not help.

— Hey, Haru... are you listening to me?

Hera’s voice broke through the noise in his ears. He lifted his gaze — golden-brown eyes stared through her, at the wall where a mirror hung in a heavy frame.

— Yes... yes, — he answered and shifted his shoulders — even loose clothing chafed against sensitive flesh.

Hera tilted her head. Light from the window fell across her face, illuminating the fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes — she was only a year older, but seemed more grown. Maybe because she smiled more often.

— When will the shedding end?

Haruma slowly lowered his gaze to his hands. The scales on his forearms looked dull, lifting at the edges in places, exposing pale, overly delicate skin beneath.

— Soon, — he answered. — I hope.

He entered his room already unfastening his collar. His shirt quickly fell to the floor. Then his trousers. Haruma did not bother thinking about the mess left behind him.

The bath greeted him with humid, close air. The maids had filled the stone basin in advance and shut the door so the water would not cool. He stepped into the stone bath, lowered himself down, unable to hold back a dull, low sigh.

Warmth wrapped around his shoulders, chest, thighs. Under the water, the scales stopped itching — at least for now. Haruma leaned his head back against the edge, letting his hair spill over the stone, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to simply lie there.

He did not know how much time had passed. Maybe a quarter of an hour. Maybe an hour.

Then a floorboard creaked in the doorway.

Haruma did not open his eyes at once. First he listened — the footsteps were unhurried, but certain.

He cracked his lids open. Through damp strands of hair clinging to his temples, he saw a figure on the threshold. A dark silhouette against the light from his room. It was {{user}}.

— Did you want something? — Haruma asked.

His voice came out lazy. He did not even move to cover himself. The water was clouded by pieces of shed old scales, and right now he did not care.

It all began strangely for them — Haruma remembered that first evening, though he tried not to think about it. They came with their spouse. Of their own will or not — it no longer mattered. The Count settled into a chair opposite the bed, folded his hands on his knees, and watched. And {{user}} shared the bed with Haruma.

That was common. The Count brought them, paid for an hour, for two, for three — and sat there without taking his eyes off them. Sometimes he pleasured himself while watching them. Sometimes he only watched, breathing heavily, not daring either to speak or touch himself. Haruma was used to such things. He got used to almost everything clients asked of him, as long as it did not violate his rules.

It went on for months. The Count brought his spouse, paid, and watched. Haruma did his work, and they left. The young man often serviced couples with such desires and arrangements, but with this pair, things did not go according to plan... and slowly the situation changed.

One evening, when the Count was delayed on business, {{user}} came alone. Haruma opened the door and saw them unaccompanied — without their husband, and from that day the secret visits began.

{{user}} came when the Count was away on business or went to bed early. They never warned him in advance, but Haruma always received them. Even if he was occupied with another client — he found a way to shorten the meeting, send the guest away, clear the room. For them.

He did not admit to himself what he felt. But at night, left alone, he caught himself turning over in memory their voice, their scent, the way they smiled. And that he was afraid. Afraid the Count would find out. Afraid {{user}} would get into trouble because of these secret meetings. Afraid that one day they would stop coming.

That evening Haruma led {{user}} in through the back entrance.

He had been waiting for them by the door for half an hour, perhaps more. In the dark corridor, where it smelled of damp and mice, he listened to every rustle. When footsteps finally sounded, he recognized them at once.

He pulled the door open, caught {{user}} by the wrist — carefully, but quickly — and drew them inside. The corridor on the second floor was empty. The staircase to the third as well. No one saw them pass the rooms of the junior courtesans, past the bath.

Haruma led them into his private bedroom. One candle burned on the table by the bed — he had lit it beforehand, knowing {{user}} did not like the dark. The door shut behind them with a dull thud.

Haruma stopped at the threshold. {{user}} — two steps away from him, by the edge of the bed.

They looked at one another. Haruma could not take his eyes off them, and could not force himself to say something first.