She left him mute and pleading as she went to the washroom to wipe herself clean. She left her smallclothes to soak in close bucket of chamber lye, replaced them with a new set and a worn month-rag.
The walk to Karit’s home was cold, the wind cutting through her thin coat, the hail softening to sleet that soaked quickly through the poorly oiled cotton. Her feet and face were raw when she knocked at Karit’s hard door.
The houseman said nothing as he ushered Iskra into the trade vestibule. He seldom spoke, and in two months of weekly visits, she had not learned so much as his name. He took her coat, handed her a piece of cotton, cleaner but no more absorbent than the one at the hospital.
“In the parlor,” he said, breaking his silence. He took the towel back from her and hung it from a rod
