20
WHEN JESSICA stumbled up the steps of the guesthouse, clutching Iztho’s arm, a wave of fatigue washed over her. It must be well past midnight. Most of the windows facing the street were dark, and only a faint glow of light radiated from the archway into the entrance hall. That afternoon, when Iztho had taken her into the guesthouse after their visit to the dressmaker, the hall had bustled with activity and patrons of all races and sizes lined up to talk to a keihu woman with an enormous bird’s nest of hair. Now, the lectern-like table that held the matron’s booking system—a concertina-folded stack of paper tumbling to the floor—stood empty and deserted, lit by a small light in a sea of darkness.
Iztho’s high boots clacked on the mosaic floor. He hadn’t said much on the way back, as if
