He returned to the bathhouse the next day, determined to lose himself in his old ways, to soothe himself in water and steam and scent and skin. But the woman who attended him looked like Ariel of Firi—it was the look he thought he preferred—with dusky skin and full lips, round hips and heavy breasts. Her thick, black hair was arranged in fat ropes down her back, and he found himself wishing it was unbound, the curls untamed. When she looked up at him, her eyes carefully lined in kohl and heavy-lidded with pretended ardor, he felt nothing but self-loathing. He immediately sent her away.
He washed himself and donned fresh clothes, eager to be on his way though he had no destination. He walked aimlessly, his eyes empty and his mind full, when he thought he saw the washwoman again. He reco
