The cool air of the cellar storage room was ambiently warmer with the friction between two bodies. The ceiling creaked with the commotion of the performance above. Thyilius was playing a part in some comedy skit alongside songs on his fiddle. No one was able to hear the woman under Yinric ask his name in order to moan it in his ear.

Their clothes were disorderly draped over wooden crates and a, formerly dusty, loveseat. Lantern light warmly lit the otherwise pitch cellar. A crescendo reverberated readily between them. After they had caught their breath, it was time to reassemble. Yinric rose first, allowing her space to stretch out. 

“I knew seeking out a professional would be a more reliable experience; nonetheless I am pleasantly surprised by your authenticity.” The woman, only a few years older than Yinric, sighed with satisfaction. He laughed at her sudden and dichotic formality.

“I am a perfectionist. I always thoroughly finish a job,” Yinric said, playing along with her business-like diction. He discarded the sullied diving papers in a chamberpot under the stairs. It wasn’t the first to grace that receptacle from the looks of it. “I should have asked again earlier, but I wasn’t able to hear your name.” He wasn’t going to make that same mistake twice. He tucked his blouse back into his trousers.

“I’m not sure that it matters much. If you must call me anything, let it be Cam.” The woman buttoned her blouse, wrangling her breasts back into their proper housing. 

Yinric watched with a sort of detached fascination. The wave of hunger to touch her had been quelled, leaving the logistics of her outfit plain in its wake. She wrapped a shawl over her shoulders, suddenly appearing more modest and noble.

“It really did feel like you meant it.” She kissed him on the cheek and in the same motion handed him a taught pouch of coins. “I estimated your price, I hope it’s what you were expecting.”

Yinric blinked, unsure if he’d heard her right. “How do you mean?“

“Wondering how I knew?” She giggled and hid her mouth behind a well-manicured hand. “My mother hires Jasper Olovyere from time to time when father is away. He’s mentioned having a son and you are the spitting image of him.” She adjusted her hosiery, tieing her socks more securely above the knee, before strapping on buckled street shoes. “I know his fee from balancing mothers checkbook. She’d rather I use him, but he’s a bit too old for me; not to mention the concept of crossing courtesans with my mother is a flat yuck.”

“Slow down a moment,  “courtesan”?” The word stung like a bee sting. The pouch of coins in his hand may as well have been a hive.

“Whatever word you prefer for it. Don’t worry, I figured the pub owners were unaware. My lips are sealed-well, figuratively sealed.” She winked and bounded up the stairs. “My engagement was abruptly cut off. You can expect me to be a regular client.” The door banged shut behind her.

In her absence The cellar was once again cold. Yinric held the coin pouch away from his person like a venomous serpent. The rumpled loveseat behind it completed the picture.

He was nothing. Some cheap fuck for the right price. It wasn’t romantic or cacoethes; for her it was simply business. A service provided and paid for. Nothing of substance. He swallowed the lump threatening to form in his throat.

“My father is a bard.” He said into the empty space, willing it to be true. 

The facts of the matter were hard to ignore and even more so under the involuntary spotlight shined upon them. Jasper, his father, rarely took instruments out on solo jobs. A good majority were late at night. He often came home tipsy but rarely smells like a pub. Lipstick stains. Old lady perfume. Regular visits with a physician.

“My father is a courtesan.” Betrayal soured the words. His stomach turned. The coins in his hand were heavy. “Am I?”

The door to the store room cracked open. The noise of music and a cheering crowd filtered down.

“Yinric! Are you ready to go on? Thyilius is playing the same song in a slower time signature.”

“Just a moment!” He shouted back. The door slammed shut. His fingers loosened the tie on the pouch. Silver. Nearly a week's wage.

He’d been competent enough at the act for her to pay him this much? Quick and dusty cellar sex left that pleased of an impression? The feeling of being used evaporated with this realization.

He could buy a bassinet. Or hire a decent midwife. He’d have to leave picking one out to Sarin of course-

Sarin.

His skin crawled. She didn’t need to know. He tightened the pouch shut and tucked it away in the interior pocket of his britches. The stairs creaked under his weight. The show had to go on.