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The interior of the Black Flower is nicer than the ramshackle façade, at least on the surface. We enter a great hall, done up City of bangad-style with a stone floor, deep carpets, and flowing hangings along the walls. It looks like a picture of exotic luxury, but living in the Second Ward has taught me a little about what true luxury looks like. It doesn’t take much effort to see the frayed edges here: carpets with threadbare spots, cheap dyed linen hangings instead of silk, gaudy plaster sculptures along the walls instead of real ones.
Most of the customers don’t seem to care. The hall is full of people, the women in colorful kizen, the men in looser, blander styles, but all in cuts and fabrics speaking of wealth and status. They gather in small groups, talking and laughing, supp
