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Sam leaned against the wall beside the staircase, watching out of the corner of his eye as John lost his temper with his subordinates.
After unloading a stream of insults at them, John flung his arm wide, as if to shake off his irritation, and drove them from the room.
Once they were gone, he sank into a chair, pressed his fingers to his brow, and let out a sigh loud enough for Sam to hear.
John then turned his attention back to work, dropping his gaze to the papers and maps scattered haphazardly across the desk. He murmured their contents under his breath, as though forcing his focus back into place. Partway through, he swept aside the hair that had slipped from beneath his hat and brushed against his ear, took up his pen—
and only then did he finally notice Sam standing at the edge of the room.
“…You were here?”
The words came with a faint look of surprise, though his tone still carried the residual heat of his earlier anger.
“I wasn’t told to leave.”
Sam answered calmly, even a little proudly, though in truth he had simply missed his chance to go. Still, leaving alongside the men who had just been driven out, their shoulders slumped, felt wrong somehow.
Something in Sam’s attitude seemed to restore John to his usual self. The lines around his eyes shifted, losing their edge of frustration and settling instead into an expression that felt almost familiar, almost friendly.
“Sam,” John said, “I am in a foul mood.”
He stated the obvious aloud, as if it were necessary.
Sam understood at once—John was looking for a distraction.
John propped his cheek against his hand in a posture of exaggerated languor, his lips faintly pursed. With his free hand, he rubbed his fingertips together in a restless habit, falling silent for a moment as if weighing his thoughts.
Watching him from a short distance, Sam was still not used to the sight.
The gold necklace at John’s throat was uncommon even in Kuttenberg. His vivid navy coat was embroidered with exquisite detail, and both his chest and belt gleamed with gold adornments that made no effort to conceal his rank. Even in a cellar untouched by sunlight, John caught the eye with every movement; it would have been harder for him not to stand out.
The face above all that finery was striking as well. He looked a little older than Sam, with pale, unweathered curls and smooth skin. There was something soft and well-favored about him, as though life had treated him kindly. Yet his eyes shone with intelligence, refusing to fit the mold of the needlessly overbearing noblemen Sam had met before.
John was unlike any noble Sam knew. Those who relied on Sam’s money while despising him in private never showed him such an unguarded expression. Sam had always thought spies were dour, shadowed sorts of people, but John was perpetually confident, his expressions shifting easily from one moment to the next. With that lively curiosity of his, he had slipped into Sam’s confidence before Sam had even realized it.
In truth, John was courteous, and he had never once failed to show respect toward the Jews he was sheltering.
—Aside from the occasional selfish demand.
“Do you know why?” John asked.
“Your men aren’t as smart as you are.”
At Sam’s blunt reply, John straightened with visible delight, clapping his hands together and grinning.
“Ha! You truly are a frank man. But no—that’s not it. That’s been true long enough. The problem is far more serious.”
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice with theatrical gravity.
“I’ve run out of hand-care oil.”
“Excuse me?”
Sam pushed himself away from the wall and turned toward Liechtenstein. Sure enough, John was staring at his own fingertips, letting out a sigh.
“Look. I’ve got hangnails.”
“Are you serious?”
“Don’t you feel sorry for them? The last time I used oil was two weeks ago. I do nothing but write every day—my fingers are a wreck.”
Meanwhile, Sam thought, I draw water every day, cook, clean, and keep the place in order—far more labor than he ever does.
“Want me to bring you some cooking oil or something?”
John puffed out his cheeks in a sulk, fully aware that he was being teased. Sam secretly enjoyed drawing this expression out of him.
“Ah!”
John suddenly let out a foolish little cry. One eyebrow shot up, his eyes flashing with light, and Sam closed his eyes, hoping this bad feeling wouldn’t come true.
“I’ll ask you to do it.”
The prediction hit dead center, and Sam sighed.
“How, exactly? I can’t go near shops that sell things only nobles use. I don’t want to die over something this stupid.”
“There’s no need for you to go yourself. Besides, what I want probably isn’t available at any apothecary in this city.”
When John came up with an idea, his movements were astonishingly quick. Like a completely different person from the languid figure he’d been moments ago, he sprang to his feet. Rummaging through the locked chest beside the bed, he began speaking without pause, his thoughts spilling out as they formed.
“We should make use of everything available. Is there someone of decent standing whose repayments are overdue? Someone who can speak directly with nobles. Isn’t there someone with a larger debt?”
“The one that comes to mind owes 235 groschen.”
“Someone with more than that.”
“Five hundred sixty-two.”
“That will do.”
John pulled a heavy pouch from the chest and set it on the desk. Then he scribbled something on a scrap of parchment, sealed it carefully, and held it out to Sam with a smile that brooked no refusal.
“And if they refuse the terms?”
“They won’t. And even if it doesn’t go smoothly, you’ll grant my wish anyway, won’t you? Also—don’t give them the money. That’s for you and your people. Just tell them their debt has been wiped clean.”
“I know. Don’t get your hopes up.”
In the end, Sam once again found himself indulging a noble’s whim, climbing the stairs with slumped shoulders.
Four days later, a small bottle, beautifully worked, arrived in Sam’s hands.
What kind of expression would he make, Sam wondered. Turning the thought over in his mind, he went down the stairs—only to find that John of Liechtenstein was already on his feet, waiting.
“My beloved Sam! I recognized you by your footsteps!”
That was deeply unsettling.
Sam hesitated for a brief moment before handing over the small bottle he was holding.
John took it, uncorked the vial, and inhaled its scent. His eyes narrowed, his expression melting into bliss. Everything about him was theatrical, and yet those almost girlish gestures suited him strangely well. That, Sam thought, was what set him apart.
To witness the rare sight of a fully grown man—old enough to be considered sensible and respectable—grooming himself like a young woman, Sam lowered himself onto a seat in front of him.
Paying no heed to Sam’s openly curious gaze, John removed his rings, tipped two drops of oil onto the back of his hand, and slowly spread it across his skin, working it carefully into each nail in turn. The oil warmed against his body, and a herbal fragrance rose into the room—rosemary, and what was likely frankincense, along with other scents Sam recognized without being able to name.
Yes. That was it. This was the scent John had worn when they first met. Back then, Sam had thought it smelled like an untrustworthy nobleman. But now, watching John relax, the corners of his mouth softening, the scent no longer seemed so unpleasant.
The candle flame flickered, casting thin streaks of gold across John’s hands. Each time he worked the oil in, his skin softened and caught the light.
The glow smoothed over the fine wrinkles—wrinkles John had likely fretted over for weeks—and revealed hands that were once again sleek and unblemished.
I see.
It really did work—even on a man’s hands. That said, this was the first time Sam had ever studied John’s hands so closely since they met.
John finished tending to his other hand and let out a long, satisfied sigh. He slid his signet ring back into place, then sent a smile toward Sam, who was resting his cheek against his hand.
“Well?” John asked. “What do you think, Sam?”
“About what?”
“If you’re going to stare so intently, you might as well try it yourself. Come here.”
His tone was halfway to an order as he shifted to make space beside him and gave the small bottle a light shake.
Realizing he’d been caught staring was embarrassing, but curiosity won out. Sam swung himself onto the bench beside him, rolled up his sleeve, and held out his palm.
“So this is my reward for saving you again?”
“I came here of my own accord,” John replied coolly.
Unperturbed as ever, John mounted the bench in the same way and turned toward Sam. They looked, Sam thought, like two drunkards about to start a game of dice. He never would have imagined a day would come when he’d be sitting like this with a nobleman.
John studied Sam’s outstretched palm—the way a child might hold out a hand to ask for a reward—with a faint look of puzzlement. Then he gently enclosed Sam’s hand between both of his own and slowly turned it over so that the palm faced upward.
At that moment, Sam let out an unconscious swallow.
John’s hands, as Sam felt them, were astonishingly soft. There was no roughness anywhere; they were fluffy, almost like well-kneaded bread dough. Still warm from the massage John had been giving only moments before, they carried a gentle heat. Sam thought they might even be softer than his mother’s hands.
John’s touch itself was exquisitely delicate. Sam had the impression that only the very tips of John’s fingers were making contact, as if just a sliver of skin were involved. The sensation was like a thin cloth gliding over his own skin.
While Sam was still overwhelmed by the feeling, John let a few drops of scented oil fall onto his hand. A sweet fragrance teased Sam’s nose. Supporting Sam’s wrist with his left hand, John used his right to spread the oil along the natural lines of the bones. To Sam, it felt as though only the right hand being touched by John’s pale fingers had turned to gold, and the sensation made an itchy shiver run up his back. Despite the discomfort it brought, he found that he didn’t dislike it. Had the noisy clamor of the tavern not drifted down from the floor above, Sam thought he might have been completely swallowed up by this unreal stretch of time.
John’s fingertips shifted from gliding over the back of Sam’s hand to tracing the joints. Each finger, taken up and wrapped with care, seemed to warm as though blood were flowing through it anew. Only then did Sam realize just how much tension and stiffness he had been carrying in his hands without noticing.
He lifted his gaze. He wanted to take another look at the face of the man who possessed such soft hands.
In the meager light, John was gazing at Sam’s hand as though he were cherishing it. Beneath his lowered lashes, his eyes seemed faintly moist to Sam. The taut expression he wore during the day had vanished, replaced by a calm, gentle smile.
The shoulders John usually squared when facing others were now slightly rounded, bent in service to Sam’s hand.
Sam thought that perhaps John truly did mean this as a “reward.”
Eventually, John released Sam’s hand—after spending far more time on it than he ever did on his own.
Just as Sam was about to lower his arm, a low, even voice stopped him.
“Hold it.”
With the sweet scent of the oil still lingering on Sam’s fingertips, John opened his pouch and took out a slender metal implement. Decorative patterns were engraved along its handle.
Once again he enclosed Sam’s fingers and pressed the metal tool to the edge of a nail. It was a small nail file.
Each time the metal brushed against the nail, a faint sound trembled through the air.
For Sam, this was unquestionably a first.
John began filing Sam’s nails in an order entirely different from anything Sam had known before. Sam could not tell whether the method was religiously improper or not.
“This will make the girls happy.”
John said it lightly, an uncharacteristic bit of banter, without pausing his work.
“What do you mean by that?”
“With nails this rough, you’d only end up scratching their skin.”
“Huh. I figured you weren’t interested in women at all.”
John, who had been completely absorbed in what he was doing, widened his eyes and looked up.
Color rushed suddenly to his cheeks.
Perhaps it had never occurred to him that talk of romance or desire might be directed at him.
Seeing how shaken he looked, Sam hurried to smooth things over.
“Sorry. You never say you want to go to the bathhouse, or ask me to take you to a woman. I just figured work was the only thing on your mind.”
It seemed John was more earnest about that sort of thing than Sam had expected. He shook his head slightly and lowered his gaze again.
Maybe Sam had stumbled upon an unexpected weakness.
Feeling a small, quiet sense of triumph, Sam straightened his posture just a little.
“Finished,” John said.
Sam closed his fist and tested the feel of his fingertips.
They were smooth, like pebbles polished by a river.
Even when he pressed a nail lightly against his cheek, it slid without catching.
The skin where the oil had settled seemed to glow when held up to the light, and he found himself staring. Among it all, the neatly shaped nails shone with a radiance he couldn’t put into words. He had never imagined there would come a day when he thought his own body looked beautiful.
“Well?” John asked, holding the nail file briefly to the flame as he spoke, a note of pride in his voice.
Sam remembered the feel of John’s hands—the softness of them, the delicate touch. It hardly felt like the same man at all.
“It’ll be the same as always once I go back to work,” Sam said, turning his eyes away from John’s gaze, putting up a show of bravado. Then he reconsidered.
“Thank you.”
He said it with a smile.
“You’re worth it.”
John replied, giving a small nod.
Back in his own room, after preparing for bed and lying down, Sam caught a faint trace of that sweet scent.
He sat up, but the door was firmly closed. The smell was coming from his own hands.
He recalled what had just happened—the gentle hands, the calm smile, the embarrassing care paid even to the tips of his nails.
You’re worth it.
The thought of sharing a bed with another man usually made his skin crawl, but just for tonight, he didn’t mind having John’s scent beside him.
Smiling to himself, Sam drifted off to sleep.