Chapter 23That night, they rented a room at a posh, run-down, flea-bag hotel called the Miramare, located almost due south from the Acropolis. It should have been called the Nightmare. Its one redeeming feature was the sound of surf, which found its way in through the alley that their window faced. When the cats weren't caterwauling, and the street toughs weren't scuffling, and the drunks weren't belting out some forlorn, besotted memory. It was better than the one they'd stayed in last night, but not by much.
And the room had its own cleansall. Without moss-caked walls.
Lydia luxuriated, her parched skin sopping up the water like a sponge.
“You gonna use all the hot water?” Melanctha called after awhile.
After a few more minutes, Lydia got out. “Hand me a pair of formalls, would you?”
