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It was a basement room, sumptuously decorated in white and purple and lit by strange white fire. No chairs, but an assortment of cushions. Ignus was waiting outside. Annah had taken every cushion on one half of the room and built herself a throne. Morte was tucked under one layer as close to her breast as he could sneak. Dak’kon sat with his karach across his lap, as though afraid to surrender it even here. Nordom waited uneasily in the doorway. And Fall-From-Grace sat on a stool with a golden harp.
She played. A silver trip down to the deepest string, then a golden bubbling up into an intricate melody. It told of a place labyrinthine yet calm, shadowed yet distinct in every melodious detail. It surged, it subsided. It cupped the heart and raised. And, at last, it ended.
The white fire flickered. The room was quiet.
“Well crafted,” said Dak’kon, seeming to struggle for each word.
Fall-From-Grace smiled with a bit of self-satisfaction. “Speechlessness is a service offered at my brothel.”
“Speechless?” squeaked Morte. “Who’s speechless? I was just resting my jaw.”
“Oh, tae be sure.” Annah leaned over and swatted him in the back.
He shuddered. “You stayed quiet enough, tiefling.”
Nordom raised his face from what had been a detailed examination of his crossbows. “Attention: Fall-From-Grace. Is this a…gift?”
Nameless smiled. “I’d call it so. Though I’ll pay you if it comes to that.”
Fall-From-Grace let her hands fall. She had talons. They had drawn beauty in note after note. “It was my pleasure.”
“Query: How is this pleasure?”
“A real mystery,” stage-whispered Annah.
Morte’s teeth clacked. “Oh, you liked it.”