Consorting with Strangers
“Uh, Piero, we’re closing.”
He looks up from his comic. “I’m sure my sister’s fine with it.”
She yells from the desk, “I’m not. Get out.”
“Well, she’s not. Apparently,” I say.
“How cruel. Tell her I’m disappointed with the lack of hospitality,” he waxes with a chuckle while getting up.
I walk back to the front desk. “He said he’s disappointed.”
“I’m sure he is.” She pulls out an envelope and hands it over.
“The second stipend?”
“You’re allowed to open it and find out.”
I reach over to grab the knife from the drawer and unveil my prize: a card from Piero.
‘Congratulations on your first week!’ it reads. Between the text and the picture of a skeleton drinking an alcoholic beverage, he left me a gold plated necklace chain.
“What’s this for?” I ask while already pulling it over my neck.
“He couldn’t fit the watch into the envelope too. Here.”
I grab the small watch from her hand and attach it to the chain, hanging it over my chest. “I like it.” It has a pleasant shine.
“You look well on it.” She gets up and unlocks the hallway door. “Would you join me in my office?”
“Uh, yes. Okay. Mistress.”
I’ve gotten so used to the main parlour and my bedroom that I forgot there were places here that could feel unfamiliar. The office is still as cramped as it was, but the explosion of documents has turned to a light mess rather than neatly organized piles of endless history.
Mistress Vincenza sits opposite of me on her desk, two folders waiting between us. “It’s time to discuss the matter of your patron.”
Without even any forceful input, I bare my teeth in excitement.
“So, your preference. Men, or women?”
“Both.” It’s a bit obvious—but I’m still flush at the question.
“That’s… good then. It should double your options.” She flips open the folders, displaying my two options.
The first one is a bored woman with jewelry nearly as elaborate as Lucia’s and long flowing hair.
The second one is a guy.
“She seems nice.” I flip over her photo to see the details written on the back.
Hanna Sasinkówna, 23. Ringborn ancestry of strength n equals six. Practicing doctor.
“You didn’t take long to choose,” Mistress Vincenza muses.
“It’s—well, you know?” I fry my voice while waiting for a response. “I do prefer femininity. And he wasn’t that, at all.”
Her tongue settles somewhere behind her top row of teeth and her eyebrow has the slightest raise. “If we go through this again, I’ll remember that.”
“Thanks… What now?”
“The sterility conversation is no longer useful, so—“ Her head turns slightly. “You’re not a pre-operative transsexual, yes?”
“Uh, no. Not—either.”
“Well then, if you’re comfortable with her—I can find you new, more appropriate candidates if you’re not—I can set up your date in five hours.”
“Five hours? D-did you have them on call?”
“No, but they live in a villa a street over—and both share the parent I was organizing this with.”
“...The practicing doctor is having her parent organize dates?”
“It was mostly for the son; he just turned sixteen. But there’s never a shortage of paying consorts.”
“What do I do now?”
“Up to you.” She pulls out a bundle of bank notes. “But, I might inform you that there’s a luxury soap store a couple blocks north, and you do have your stipend to spend.”
“Mistress Vincenza…? Thank you. May I keep her file as I—browse.”
“You may.” Her lips gently curve upwards.
Fruity? I mean, it makes sense. Fruits are nice.
Though, the soap doesn’t actually specify a particular fruit, and it has not much in the way of an ingredients list. It’s red, so maybe it’s apples? I don’t know what smell apples are, really. I really only smell them in sauce, but that’s with cinnamon.
…Pasta? That’s just noodles. They don’t even smell like anything before adding sauce. I don’t—I can’t keep repeating to myself how confused I am. I’ll get confused.
“Oh, look at my whore! Buying herself soap,” Lucia’s joyously chimes in from nowhere.
I jump and about-face to her. “Lucia? How—You’re here?”
“Yeah! Their olive oil isn’t food safe, so it’s super cheap. Tastes great in salad.”
I turn my sight on the truly unreasonable amount of olive oil she’s buying. “Why are you conserving crescents?”
“I’m buying for our whole ghoul hunting party. It adds up.” She dances her fingers over my shoulder. “Now, would I be wrong to guess that you’re also preparing for the trip. I’m sure I’ll appreciate it.”
I pray to the Ring that this makeup is hiding at least some of my face’s redness. “Mistress Vincenza actually organized me a date in a few hours. But, if they like the soap on me… I can use it for you too.”
“You’re flustered,” she teases.
“I—Yeah. It’s flustering.”
She brushes my hair. “My short, flustered Catie, do you need my help?”
“Please.”
She grabs a soap bar wrapped in red cloth from the shelf and leaves it in my hand, holding it for just long enough to embarrass me more. “Carnations will smell perfect for you. Bye.”
“What—Why are you leaving? Wait!”
She hurriedly disappears down the aisles. “See you at ghoul hunting!”
“Uh… see you.”
Less filler words. If I want her to like me.
If I smile, lift my eyes, and dance around her like a human, then she won’t question that I am.
As I hurriedly reapply any makeup that got scraped off and brush out my hair, I start to wonder more about her.
She looked wealthy enough to have her own exotic perfumes.
The file said she’s some ten centimeters taller than me.
So, less intimidating than Mistress Vincenza, but definitely tall enough.
Though, I don’t think anything would change if she was shorter. Maybe? We might… Oh.
The anxiety is catching up. This is a real date, with real potential. I could really end up in her bed with her sorcery lingering my heart, or crying from embarrassment. One of the two. Or both. Both seems the most likely.
I leave down the stairs in search of “Mistress Vincenza?”
She’s either not down here or not replying.
Instead, on the front desk, is left a small note. ‘Catarina, your date chose Borthola’s for the location. She’ll meet you there at 19:30. The place is an inn; tell them I ordered you a room if you need one. Good luck.
‘P.S. If it goes well, I can teach you how to use the car for your next date.‘
I will do well, if my mistress commands it! She probably believes in me more than I do; she’s the one who’s paying for my date to sleep with me.
I stuff the note next to my heart and leave.