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 preferfemininity. 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.
