I leaned back against the boulder, letting the late sun warm my thighs, and picked at a scab on my knee with the enthusiasm of a philosopher dissecting trauma. Dragon was dozing nearby, coiled like a judgmental cat, one eye cracked open just enough to let me know he was listening.
"So here's what I figured out," I said, tossing a pebble at a beetle. "By now I know. If a cathouse is a real flea-ridden dump—you know, straw mattress, mildew walls, that one dripping candle that smells like wet socks—and suddenly Madame springs for rose water?"
I looked over. He didn't answer, but that eye twitched. Good.
"That rose water," I said, wagging my finger like a preacher at a sin fair, "is not a sign of appreciation. It's not, oh you've been such a good girl, here's a luxury soak for your hard-working holes. Nah. That shit is a goodbye bath."
Dragon exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Real girls know," I continued. "When you get scrubbed behind the ears and under the nails. When they bring out the fancy comb and the clove oil for your hair. When they press you into a fresh chemise without bloodstains or come crust—that's when you know. You're getting sold."
I kicked my heel against the rock. "No girl gets rose water unless someone's about to inspect the goods. You might as well be a prize pig at a fair."
Dragon rumbled low. "Romantic."
"Oh bite me," I said. "I'm not making this up. One minute you're on mop duty and the next, it's all 'Sweetheart, go soak and scrub and here's a new ribbon for your tit.' You know what comes next? Inspection. Some fat merchant or a spice baron or one of those grinning eunuchs with too many rings and too few morals shows up. And madam's suddenly all syrup voice, like, 'Here's our finest petal.'"
I mimicked the voice with a falsetto drawl and fake curtsy. "Petal my ass. I was the only one who hadn't bitten a client that week. Low bar."
The Dragon raised a brow ridge. "And did you bite the client?"
"Only if he asked nicely."
I smirked and stretched out, letting my tunic slide dangerously up one thigh. "Anyway, once you're clean, sweet-smelling, and quiet—which was always the hardest part, let me tell you—then comes the sale. Quick coin exchange. Maybe a fake blessing if it's a temple brothel. And off you go, prettied up like a lamb on market day."
There was a pause.
"You didn't like the rose water?" he asked dryly.
I rolled my eyes. "It stung. Do you know how many cuts a working girl has in a day? Rose water is just perfume-flavored fire."
He huffed.
"And you know what's worse?" I added. "Sometimes you hope for the bath. Because being sold might be better than staying."
I shrugged. "Other times, it's just another cage."
The Dragon was silent a while. Watching. Thinking. Or maybe just digesting a goat.
Then he said, "You have a gift, Saya."
I blinked. "What, for storytelling?"
"No. For making everything sound like either a tragedy or a disease."
I threw the pebble at him.
He didn't even flinch. Just chuckled, low and rumbly, and tucked his wing back over his face like he hadn't just made me feel seen and mildly homicidal.
I sighed.
"Still hate the smell of roses," I muttered.
And he, smug bastard that he was, didn't say a word.