It looked like a residence. Illuminated by streetlamps, I could make out the single front door flanked by tall, narrow windows hung with pale curtains. An engraved brass plaque shone over the door: Molly's House. In the left window was a handwritten sign: Tea - Beds for let. Though it was late, flickering light glowed from windows on at least three stories.
Murphy rapped at the door with the crook of his sheathed Scipio. As the door swung open I beheld what I first took as a boy of the far east in local school uniform. Stepping inside, I saw Miss Molly Clap enter from the adjacent parlor, dressed scandalously in pin-striped trousers, corset, and bespoke jacket. It occurred to me then that our hostess's companion was a cross-dressing young lady.
Molly put her hands to Murphy and stepped onto the toes of her heeled shoes to kiss him either side his face. "Emir," it sounded like she called him; they were whispering. I suspected he spoke some instruction to name him Murphy. They continued to speak in low voices. I saw Molly rub her right hand over the top of the Scipio.
"Mine," Murphy said, "though I've only used it to threaten Jules. My new valet." He bowed to whisper something to Molly.
She smiled. Taking a monocle from her breast pocket, she walked toward me. Her eyes raked over me not unlike the way Murphy's often did; they were a paler blue than mine. When she reached toward my face, I flinched. Molly stayed her hand.
"Peace," she whispered, "All who take shelter here are my children." She lowered her hands and instead reached for mine, and though it was too intimate for propriety, I questioned what propriety was when I was with one of the Code-exempt in her house harboring non-compliants. I allowed Molly to draw me by the hand into the adjacent room.
I had only visited such townhouses, but I suspected she had hired someone to open several typical chambers by way of archways to effect a single large entertainment space. We sat at one of a half-dozen cafe tables. Molly turned her chair and sat straddling the seat, with arms folded atop the wrought-iron back.
"You'll want something warm to drink," Molly said.
"Please."
"And sweets?" Murphy asked.
"Not that you want my sugar." Molly waved a dismissive hand at Murphy. She asked her girl to fetch Tea.
Murphy yet laughed.
"If he gets like this, lam on him a bit." Molly said. She laughed as she shoved at his shoulder. Murphy's laughter stopped. As Molly moved to hit him again, Murphy caught her hand in his.
He fixed his eyes on hers. "Para!" It might have been Spanish, but that he told her to stop was clear in tone and gesture.
Molly pressed her palms together before her chest and bowed her head. Murphy returned the same gesture. The girl returned with a tray of food and drink and I was glad for it; the familiarity of the other two making me uneasy. The green tea was bitter compared to what I was accustomed, but the small cakes, biscuits, and dried fruit would have been too sweet on their own.
Murphy seemed unlike himself. I had seen him in these few days angry, haughty, and amused, but not so annoyed or distant. He chewed at some dried apricots, but did not share in conversation; his lips were set in a right pout.
"Come along, Julien," Molly said, "Let's take care of you."
"Pardon?"
Murphy shook his head, but when he finally looked up I saw a hint of a smirk. "Our hostess only means to help you find a place to wash."
This proved true, though I was anxious when we entered the first of her upper boudoirs, being we were unchaperoned. Then, I had to avert my gaze from a couple using the bed. Molly suggested I ignore the strays, as she called them in the same familiar tone she used to tease Murphy. I might have remained nervous, but I saw the many mobile racks of clothing, such as we occasionally used at the dhobitorium for large jobs.
Molly allowed me a few minutes to look on the togs and touch them. This one chamber had near as much kapare as my shop when full, and though I had not allowed myself at work to imagine I could wear the clients' clothes, considering I was now-- lacking her exemption --more a rebel kapareghora than she, I envisioned myself choosing garments simply because I wished them. I could wear a knit of finely-combed wool, or silk gauze so sheer as to be transparent, a softly napped velvet...a kimono, a thawb, a kilt.
Molly whispered from my side. "Choose something for tonight. We'll wash your clothes for you."
I truly felt I would weep. Even as a child in Queensfort, I'd helped mother with the wash. The idea that someone else would wash my clothes was incomprehensible. "I can do it. I know how."
Molly reached for my face and I did not flinch. "I know," she said. And I knew. My face, like my hands, was ruddy with steam burns. I didn't feel it anymore. "Choose your togs and wash. I'll help you shave."
I took a bath in one of the washrooms, then dressed in royal blue shalwar kameez, which but for the color would have been reg proper for a dobby. Molly sat me at a dressing table, before a lamp and mirror. I closed my eyes and felt her move fingers and comb through my damp hair. I let her lather and shave my face. She finished with something that might have been a brush and powder.
"Look," she said, "You're a right button!"
I glanced at my reflection. If I had worth, I did not believe it was in my looks. Yet now, in the right clothes, I would seem more plausibly a gentleman's valet than a dobby.