“Here it is, madam,” Ophelia offered the tray to her without thinking much about the gesture. The man’s reaction, however, made it clear that it was not appreciated.

“It seems like the blockade is leaving a shortage of skilled labour in this city,” he said with a sneer in his face. He moved to take the tray from Ophelia’s hands. “I have never seen her here, is she new?”

“Oh, yes,” Ophelia was a bit intimidated at the gesture, but decided to play the innocent card. “Have I done something to displease you, sir?”

“Hmm,” he looked over at her, eyes going up and down her face. “You don’t look Chaldean. How is it that you speak Drusi so well?”

“And Farreeq as well, if my ears didn’t deceive me,” the woman said, looking over to the two maids. Ophelia figured that was the name of the language they both had spoken earlier. “And a very clean Iberian. Do you speak any other languages?”

Ophelia crossed her arms in a nervous gesture; she felt a bit timid about giving an honest answer, but she supposed perhaps she could earn some forgiveness from her perceived trespassing by satiating their curiosity. “Faroese and Phrygian. I pick them up easily.”

“Fascinating,” the woman said and looked over to her companion. She made a little gesture with her head, and the man nodded. He took the tray to a small table in the centre of the room, and motioned the other two maids to come in after him. Even through the language barrier, the two girls noticed something had displeased the occupants of the room, and dutifully did as they were told, in silence. They bowed twice before leaving, closing the screen door behind them.

“Why don’t you sit down and eat with us?” the woman invited Ophelia, motioning towards the table. “I’m rather curious about how you came to know such disparate languages.”

Ophelia figured the man must be the famous Chaldean merchant they were looking for, and the woman some sort of assistant, perhaps a favoured entertainer at the brothel. She nodded, sitting down with them to eat some of the delicacies Oischar had prepared. Gone the initial nervousness, she took a second look at both characters: the man looked imposing, with square shoulders and a large build. The woman was in comparison more willowy, yet tall: she had blond hair so bright it almost looked silver, and yellowy, hazel eyes. Her skin looked silky smooth, and her delicate features made her seem almost otherworldly; if elves were a thing in this world, she probably was one.

“My name is Hyperion,” she said, “and my companion here is Eon. We’re regular guests at this brothel; Eon was a bit surprised at your actions as the custom here is very different.”

“Oh, sorry about that,” Ophelia said, “what was I supposed to do, bring the trays to the table myself?”

Hyperion nodded. Ophelia shrugged. “I asked the girls and they said that an entertainer would greet us and take the tray from us. I thought that was you?”

The suggestion seemed to annoy Eon, who seemed ready to go into a tirade, before he was stopped by a gesture from Hyperion. “Oh, we don’t always have entertainers in this room. Only when we bring other guests. Today it was just the two of us.”

Ophelia decided to try her luck then.

“Oh, so you’re both the Chaldean merchants I’ve been told about?”

“Yes, that’s us,” Eon answered cautiously. “Although you should be careful not to speak of us outside of this place. We don’t take kindly to those who spread gossip.”

“Isn’t this fish to die for?” Hyperion exclaimed, shooting her partner warning glances. “Try some, please. Help yourself!”

The woman offered her some pieces of fried fish, which Ophelia took hesitantly. She was clearly trying to change the subject.

“So, were you a merchant perhaps? Or the daughter of one? How come you speak so many languages so fluently?”

“Not really,” Ophelia answered hesitantly. She decided to offer a vague enough response. “I’ve been travelling since I was small. It would take me very little time until I was able to understand the languages of the people in the markets. For some reason or another, I can learn them quickly.”

“Interesting, very interesting…” Hyperion mused, eyes narrowing ever so slightly at her. “What did your family do? With so much travel, if it’s not a merchant…”

“They were envoys.”

“Oh? For who?”

“The Iceni,” Ophelia answered, receiving a blank stare in response. “From Hibernia.”

“I didn’t know those savages knew the concept of diplomacy,” Eon snorted, and Ophelia felt slightly worried that, in her ignorance of the way that world worked, she’d committed a faux pas.

“They are bound to learn, sooner or later,” Hyperion acquiesced. “However, who would so readily believe that a maid from a brothel would be able to claim such illustrious heritage?”

Ophelia knew that either she could try and convince them of her claims by pulling together a list of imaginary evidence, which given her limited knowledge of the world could work against her, or that perhaps, she could come clean about some of her reasons for being there and try to appeal to them for the help they needed.

“Well, I’m actually not a maid,” she said with a tentative smile. “I just came here for the day looking for the Chaldean merchant that’s said to have a way out of the city.”

Eon’s shoulders tensed, and he seemed to be ready to jump at her. Hyperion held up her hand with an authoritative air; her manner was calm but her eyes had taken on a certain cold sharpness that made Ophelia want to find somewhere to hide.

“An Iceni woman looking for a way out of the city,” she said slowly, “perhaps alongside two Phrygian men?”

Ophelia swallowed and nodded. Hyperion held her eyes for a second, clearly evaluating her. Finally, she made a gesture towards her companion, who immediately got up, walked to the desk on their right, and took a small silk pouch from one of its drawers. He passed it along to her, and sat back down.

“Take this to my residence,” the woman said, extracting an ornately carved square wooden token from the pouch, “and you’ll be able to have an audience with me.”

Ophelia accepted it.

“Bring your companions; we can discuss your plight in a bit more detail then. Now, leave us. You’ve done what you’ve set out to do.”

She smiled nervously at the both of them before taking her leave. She thought about leaving the brothel, but on the way back to the kitchen she found too many people requesting her help for her to actually make a run. It wasn’t until mid afternoon that she saw a small opening, quickly changed into her clothes, and left the place.

She went up to the other two brothels, trying to ask for Phobos and Aristides, but none of the workers inside were too bothered with her questions. An hour after unsuccessfully coming back and forth between the two establishments, trying her luck, she caught sight of Phobos in one of the courtyards that led to the pleasure house he’d decided to work in.

His style of clothing was similar to what she’d been given, except he’d chosen to wear, on top of the kimono, a bigger, looser yukata-style robe. The shorter sleeves would reveal his tattoos, and with things as it were, it would draw unnecessary attention to him. Regardless, to her, he looked strange in the foreign clothes. He was tall, and his bronze skin shone under the sun; he couldn’t be further away from any stereotypes she’d conjured in her mind. Still, she couldn’t help but stare, fascinated at the beautiful picture.

She wasn’t the only one. At the end of the courtyard, partly hidden by arrangements of jasmine bushes, a group of girls stole glances at him and giggled. They were all having snacks and tea, sitting in plump Ottomans that broke the illusion of orientalism; they probably were some of the entertainers having a break. Ophelia was able to catch glimpses of their conversation, which was centred around Phobos and his likeness; all of them sighed wistfully wishing that he’d be their next customer.

A nasty thought entered Ophelia’s mind; unlucky you, he doesn’t like that sort of thing. Even the tone in her mind was petty, and she wondered if she wasn’t taking his earlier proposal a bit too seriously…

Nevertheless, she used her powers to draw his attention: a rock tumbled near his feet, big enough for him to notice but not enough that it’d be the talk of the giggling girls. He looked puzzled at first, trying to see what had caused the rock to move, and in his wild chase around the courtyard he ended up crossing gazes with her. His countenance immediately brightened, and he crossed the place in a few strides.

Ophelia cheered silently when she noticed the disappointed stares from the giggling women. “I have some news,” she said to Phobos. “I found the Chaldean merchant, and I’ve got an invitation to his place.”

She showed him the wooden token, and his eyes widened in surprise. “We shall go first thing tomorrow,” he said.

The man didn’t have the same qualms as her about giving back the uniform they’d been provided. He didn’t bother changing. He just left. Perhaps that tendency he’d learnt from his teacher, because Aristides did exactly the same, save his little exclamation of “we ought to celebrate tonight!”

And celebrate they did back at the tavern; their pint glasses still wet just a few nights after their successful plea at the Magistrate.

“You seem to be like the goat that gives birth to calves,” Phobos said, nudging her with his elbow. He was in an unusually playful mood; it was strange to see for Ophelia, who’d thought so far the other man was nothing but absolute business day in and out. Although there had been seven or eight beers on the road to reach that stage.

“What?” The turn of the phrase, however, was a little obscure for her to decipher.

“You bring us good luck,” he explained. “It seems like you are always at the right place at the right time. I’m a fortunate man that you’re my wife!”

Ophelia blushed. “For now. I’m sure you’ll want to stop this charade when you meet someone nice you want to settle down with…”

The serious look returned to Phobos’ gaze. “I’d be a fool to run away from someone like you.”

Ophelia turned away, embarrassed. “You’re joking. We haven’t known each other that long for you to be saying things like that.”

“I don’t have the luxury of time on my side,” his voice was bitter, but none of it was directed at her. “But even if I did, I don’t think it’d make you appear any different. You’re brave; you persevere. I don’t know how things were in your world, but I see your hands are soft and you’re wide-eyed when you see blood. You’re not used to the things we’re used to, and yet you’ve never complained. You never shouted to the skies that your lot was miscast, never ran away, even in front of my blade. How could I not find that admirable?”

Throughout the years, none of the neglect she’d suffered, the cold shoulders she’d been given or the constant wear and tear of people who simply thought her an eyesore had made her cry. It had bothered her, sure; it had sent her mind into dark places, conjured sad fantasies of better places and quick solutions, but her body had not reacted to it. No one gives a smile to the sky when the sun is out; we assume it’ll be there every morning, even if it’s hidden by clouds. It was a similar situation for her; that was the way things were meant to be, and there was no meaning in offering any response other than apathy.

The reality is that a void had been created; she hadn’t noticed it until that very moment, when something had come to fill it up. Phobos’ words broke through a strange wall, announcing the existence of that emptiness, and finally, her eyes teared up. There was no real word to describe the emotion: she just felt overwhelmed at the praise, the appreciation.

Phobos immediately panicked; Ophelia tried to explain to him that it wasn’t his fault but her words simply conjured sobs that had been hiding in her mouth for years, and the only thing she was able to do was fall forward into his chest, pressing her face into the comforting embrace of the exiled prince. He gave up trying to understand, holding her in a simple hug, his face resting on top of her head.

“I’m so-sorry,” she sniffled, still hiding in his chest. “I meant to say thank you for that… I’ve never heard anyone say that about me before.”

She put some distance between them, enough to face him but not enough that he’d need to drop his embrace. “I don’t know if I’m brave. I just don’t have anywhere to go back to. My world… Byzantium… it’s not a nice place. At least for me. There, I’m invisible, less than dirt. Here, I have friends. I have Felicia, Aristides, you. I know this sounds strange, but I didn’t talk to people that much in the other place…”

She tried to clear her face with her hands, “This is so much better than the life I had there.”

“They’re fools for casting you away,” Phobos frowned. “Byzantium or not, they must be fools.”

“Thanks,” Ophelia laughed, still teary-eyed.

A moment of stillness settled between the two of them. His hands still lightly pressed against her arms, a sense of awkwardness bloomed. Ophelia stood up, making some excuses about her bedtime. “Goodnight,” she whispered. Phobos, while he looked like he had more to say, sighed and let her go with a similar greeting. He stared at her retreating figure, finished the beer he’d been drinking, and headed upstairs.