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He raises an eyebrow at you, presumably on account of the change of clothes, but beyond that he does not immediately respond. Only after some seconds have passed, does he stir himself. The chair or stool suffering underneath the proprietor’s posterior groans in protest as he sets aside the ledger that he was consulting and shifts the whole of his girth forward. Eventually, the counter stops him, so he has to roll a bit of himself on to it, grunting with the effort as he braces himself with both arms, one resting on his elbow and the other resting on his palms. With his breathing sounding a little bit wheezier for all of this strenuous exertion, he finally cranes his neck out enough to peer over the height of the counter. Staring straight at your crotch, he takes a series of deep sniffs, then looks you right in your eyes.
“I’ve had worse.”
And without another word, he shifts back to his more comfortable reading position, the unseen piece of furniture whinging away once more underneath him. At this moment, it is all you can do to not gasp and wail in shame and frustration. It would have been galling enough if he had said it as a joke, or worse, loud enough for the other men in the room to hear – but there was no mirth, nor malice in those words. It was simply a flat declaration of fact. When you were pilfering the wedding band and the locket off of the dead Comptroller you did not feel half as filthy as you do right now. Did he actually smell something? Did you get something on your from dealing with the Glyphed Gull? Do you just … smell? Like, always, and no one has ever gotten close enough to you to tell? No, that can’t be right – if you did it would have come up during the fittings for your dresses. Feeling marginally fortified, you are about to leave when you realize that you are still going to need the water to perform Cold-Touch. You try to take a steadying breath, but you don’t find it particularly fortifying. Regardless, you try once more to get the water, this time unable to keep the sound of the strain out of your voice.
“Sir, please, I’d really like to clean up.”
He looks at you with this blank gaze, his head cocked to one side and his mouth hanging open as he breathes in and out. After a couple of moments of this, he finally deigns to give you a proper answer.
“Bertram gets the water.”
Not willing to let this go, you try once more – against your better judgment. You point to the kitchen behind him, still bustling, despite the relative emptiness of the dinning room.
“Surely there must be some water somewhere in the Kitchen?”
His gaze is no longer blank, it is now annoyed. Markedly annoyed.
“Water in the kitchen and the new vat is for cookin’. Water in the basin and the old vat is for cleanin’. Bought separately. Accounted separately too. T’would be bad practice to mix ‘em. T’would confuse the books.”
