A small table near the entrance held a small bronze bell with a handle shaped as a grotesque, grimacing animal. Jal rang it. Immediately the first door on his left opened and a middle-aged woman stepped out, a query on her face.
‘Jal Fiorillo.’ Jal offered his hand, giving a slight bow as she took it. Years of survival strategies on the road caused him to also offer a slightly flirtatious smile. A little charm always helped.
The woman, plainly dressed in a crisp linen skirt and bodice, the sleeves of her chemise pushed up to her elbows, flushed slightly. A woman who dressed carefully, Jal guessed, but was soon worn down by the day’s duties. She was a little on the plump side, greying at the temples, but there was kindness in her tired eyes.
‘Lisa Gerardi,’ she said, taking her hand back
