It didn’t matter that the fire had burned down to embers in the hearth. The man was asleep now, and thinking of things beyond the small, dimly lit room of the herbalist’s cottage. He had slumped forward over her as she reclined beside him on the couch, and now provided an uncomfortable yet effective blanket of warmth for her as well. The thought of shoving him aside seemed harsh and unnecessary when he slumbered so peacefully. Instead, she observed the weak, golden firelight that danced across the ceiling in writhing, undulating patterns. And presently, her mind began to wander.
The man lying face-down on the cot groaned. A girl of thirteen summers stood a few feet away, watching her mother press the heel of her palm into the man’s shirtless back.
“This is how you must do it,” said the woman, peering at her daughter from behind sweaty, limp strands of raven hair. Faylyn admired how painfully beautiful her mother was, even in the midst of her unglamorous labors. “Are you watching, Faylyn? Come and try it yourself.”
The girl dropped her eyes to the spot where her mother’s hands worked at the man’s flesh. She didn’t like the way his skin dimpled and sank under the woman’s touch. Or the way her mothers’ fingers vanished into the shallow divet. She didn’t like the way his skin looked; rough and hairy. A stranger’s hide. Not something she wanted to touch. “I don’t want to,” she mumbled.
The shutters over the window rattled beneath a stiff, chill wind passing over the house. She tensed the muscles around her bottom and thighs, trying to shift herself into a more comfortable position beneath the dead weight of her visitor. Her lower back was beginning to ache. But it didn't matter. It could be tended to at a later time. The man needed to rest. The empty tea cup sat on a small table beside her. She extended her hand carefully, nudging it away from the table’s edge with the tip of her finger.
“I don’t care if you don’t want to,” her mother said. The woman’s tone was unflinching, yet still soft and gentle. She held a hand out towards her daughter. The fingers hovered in the air, unmoving, but filled with the power of a mother’s command.
Faylyn’s feet began to shuffle forward. The man on the table squirmed, then twisted his head to the side so that he could see the young girl coming towards him. The room was lit only by a handful of candles upon a shelf, but the small flames caught the man’s eyes, glimmering brightly in them. He did not smile; in fact, his expression was eerily void. But something about the way he looked at her made her think inexplicably of a starving wolf. She lifted her own eyes to her mother again, pleading wordlessly.
The man gave a loud, grating snore. She looked to his face. His lips flapped and stuttered with his breathing. His breath was sour with ale and fish. One bear-like hand rested atop the soft mound of her breast. She hadn’t even noticed. She didn’t feel anything from such a touch. Not even the tiniest quickening of her pulse. Her nostrils curled reflexively at the stench of his breath, but there was no revulsion present in her mind. He had not chosen his lot in life anymore than she had. They each had a role to play; nothing more, nothing less.
“What you want doesn’t matter. What I want doesn’t matter.” Her mother’s voice was so sweet. So melodious. It had always made her think of a bell, deep and mellow and rich. “It’s making others feel better that matters. Far more than what we want for ourselves.”
Guilt arose in the young girl’s chest. Hard, tight guilt. It was a familiar sensation. She was being selfish. She couldn’t trust herself or her feelings. Her mother was wise and gentle, she had seen and done things. Her mother knew best.
She saw her own hands moving to touch the man’s bare flesh as her mother had done. She’d never felt more repulsed. She tried not to think about the way his skin felt under her fingers. She imagined the hands were not hers at all. It wasn’t Faylyn who was standing here in the candlelight with her mother and a nameless customer who wriggled and moaned under their touch. Yet, no matter how desperately and earnestly she told herself this, she was trapped there, and couldn’t entirely escape. She thought frantically of other things, other places, of sunlight and flowers and her friends laughing by the bright, shining fountains in the city streets. But it wasn't enough. She could still feel the man's flesh, she could hear the mingled sounds of her mother's murmured instructions and her own shallow, tremulous breathing.
It was difficult to guess how many minutes or hours were passing. She glanced at the shuttered window now and then, but there was no hint of dawn, only the same, fathomless darkness. Her left foot was asleep now. She did not relish the pins-and-needles that would occur when she was able to move again.
But it didn’t matter. The man needed his rest.
