Mera wiped her silver knife clean on a linen napkin.
She reached into the deep pocket of her chemise, produced a small brass key, and unlocked a secondary compartment built into her thick wooden ledger board.
She withdrew a slender, green-bound book and pushed it smoothly down the oak table.
It came to a halt right beside Aric’s empty plate.
“Social and atmospheric bookings,” Mera said, her voice dropping into its crisp, professional cadence.
“Zero intimate contact beyond a hand resting on an arm or a formal dance.
The client is paying for the illusion of intimacy, the status of being seen with a beautiful companion, or simply a sympathetic ear to complain to about their wives or their trading partners.” Aric pulled the book closer.
He traced the neat, vertical columns of ink with his bruised index finger.
The numbers were staggering for what amounted to wearing nice clothes and listening.
Private Dining Escort: Fifteen silver per hour.
Guild Gala Attendance: Twenty silver per hour.
Private Reading and Conversation: Twelve silver per hour.
Aric did the math in his head instantly.
Three hours of dining with a wealthy widow would be forty-five silver.
He wouldn’t have to touch anyone.
He wouldn’t have to compromise his provincial morals or navigate the terrifying, highly experienced waters of the Velvet Hearth’s bedrooms.
He just had to sit at a table, use proper manners, and listen.
“And the house takes what percentage of these?” Aric asked, his logistical brain rapidly replacing his exhaustion.
“Forty percent,” Perrin’s voice drifted from the doorway.
The Tanuki bookkeeper walked into the kitchen, carrying his own stack of morning tallies.
He poured himself a cup of black tea and leaned against the counter.
“The companion retains sixty.
Plus gratuity, which, for high-society escorts, often takes the form of expensive gifts or direct coin.” Aric recalculated.
Nine silver an hour after the house share.
Four dining hours would buy the feather mattress.
Three more would buy the oak frame.
Seven hours of polite conversation could replace the entire miserable bed in Room Sixteen.
He looked down at the ledger again, fully engaged.
But as his eyes tracked across the page, they landed on a secondary column labeled Hazard and Incidentals.
It detailed fines for damaged clothing and broken carriage axles.
Aric frowned.
He looked up, his protective instincts—the exact same instincts that had driven him to hire a seven-foot Minotaur to guard his mother’s bedroom door—suddenly flaring.
“These bookings frequently take place off-property,” Aric noted.
“Or in closed, private dining suites at other establishments.” “They do,” Mera confirmed, taking a sip of water.
Aric looked down the table.
His gaze landed directly on Vaelisse.
The Frost Elf was sipping her spiced tea, looking like a creature carved from ice and spun glass.
Her sheer silk robe left her pale, flawless skin exposed to the kitchen’s heat.
She looked incredibly elegant, devastatingly beautiful, and, to Aric’s provincial eyes, physically fragile.
“Gorren handles the security for the public floor,” Aric said, his voice tightening with genuine concern.
“And I know the companions can handle themselves.
But in a closed room across the city?
A wealthy merchant with too much wine in his system might decide he doesn’t want to respect the boundaries of a ‘social’ booking.
What happens if a patron gets aggressive?” He gestured vaguely toward Vaelisse, his face entirely serious.
“Gorren is massive, but he isn’t in those dining rooms.
What happens if a drunk, two-hundred-pound dock baron decides he won’t take no for an answer, and strikes you?
Or worse?” The kitchen went dead silent.
Perrin froze with his teacup halfway to his snout.
Mera slowly lowered her stylus.
Vaelisse blinked, her gray eyes widening in rare, genuine surprise.
Then, Kaela completely lost her mind.
The Lion Kin manager let out a bark of laughter so loud it echoed off the stone walls.
She threw her head back, her golden mane shaking as a deep, rumbling, breathless laugh tore from her throat.
She laughed so hard she had to grip the edge of the oak table to keep from sliding off the bench.
“Oh, by the gods,” Kaela wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye with the back of her grease-stained hand.
“The clerk—he wants to protect the Frost Elf!” Mera pressed her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently as she failed to suppress her own laughter.
Even Perrin let out a sharp, chittering sound of amusement, hurriedly setting his teacup down before he spilled it.
Aric sat stiffly at the end of the table, his ears burning crimson.
“It is a valid logistical and safety concern.
I am the manager of this house.
The staff’s safety is my legal responsibility.” “Master Vale,” Mera managed to say, catching her breath and wiping her eyes.
“Gorren is the security for the public floor.
That is true.
But Gorren is a deterrent for normal, drunken men.” Kaela leaned heavily against the table, grinning a wide, feral smile that showed all her sharp teeth.
“When a normal man gets out of line, Gorren throws him into the canal.
But when a magical patron gets violent, or when a raging Beast Kin decides to tear the bar apart, and Gorren actually needs backup?” Kaela pointed a clawed finger down the table.
“He doesn’t call the City Watch, Aric.
He calls her.” Aric looked back at Vaelisse.
The Frost Elf had not laughed.
She simply watched him, her expression unreadable.
Slowly, she set her delicate porcelain teacup onto its saucer.
The ambient, sweltering heat of the kitchen vanished.
It didn’t just fade—it was violently eradicated.
A wave of bone-deep, unnatural cold slammed into the room, so intense that Aric’s breath immediately plumed white in the air.
The crackling fires in Brinna’s heavy iron stoves instantly dimmed, the flames shrinking back into the wood as if terrified.
Aric gasped, shivering violently as frost rapidly crystallized across the polished surface of the oak table, creeping outward from where Vaelisse rested her hand.
Vaelisse looked at him, her gray eyes darkening into the color of a winter storm.
She was no longer the elegant, teasing companion from his office.
She looked exactly like what she was: an ancient, apex predator.
“Frost Elves do not age as humans do, Aric,” Vaelisse said, her voice echoing with a cold, terrifying resonance that seemed to vibrate in his teeth.
“And we do not survive for centuries by being fragile.” She reached out and lightly tapped the edge of her teacup with one pale finger.
The hot, spiced tea inside instantly froze solid, the ceramic cracking with a sharp snap beneath the sudden expansion of the ice.
“The last man who raised a hand to me in a private room,” Vaelisse continued, her voice perfectly calm, “was a mercenary captain who believed his steel made him entitled to my body.
I froze the blood in his veins before his fist could reach my face.
The healers at the civic clinic had to amputate his arm at the shoulder to stop the necrosis from reaching his heart.” Aric sat entirely frozen, his bruised fingers gripping the edge of his bench.
He stared at the shattered teacup, then at the frost coating the table, and finally up to the terrifying, beautiful creature sitting at the head of the room.
He realized, with profound and sudden clarity, that he was an absolute idiot.
The crushing, unnatural cold vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
The fires in the stoves roared back to life.
The frost on the table immediately began to melt into small beads of water.
Vaelisse leaned back in her chair, the terrifying aura evaporating, leaving only the elegant, stunning woman in the sheer silk robe.
Her lips curved into a warm, genuinely affectionate smile.
“However,” Vaelisse murmured, her gray eyes softening as she looked at his wide, stunned eyes and bright red ears.
“It is incredibly sweet that you worried about me, Aric.” Kaela snorted, picking up another piece of bacon.
“He’s a romantic.
A bruised, starving, provincial romantic.
What are we going to do with him?” “For companions who cannot freeze a man from the inside,” Mera said, methodically wiping the melted frost from her slate with a napkin, returning the conversation to practicalities.
“Off-property bookings require a registered venue, a verified client account, a written return time, and a house carriage.
First-time patrons also pay for a security escort stationed outside the room.” She looked directly at Aric.
“Those rules will apply to you as well.” Aric let out a long breath.
He had chosen an absurd example, but the house’s professional infrastructure held up.
“Good.
That is legally sound.” He dragged his gaze away from Vaelisse and looked down at his heavy, slightly frayed winter coat.
Mera was right about the wardrobe, too.
If he wanted to sit in the private dining rooms of the upper ward, he had to look like he belonged there.
“A tailored Sunmere coat is fifteen silver,” Aric muttered, running the brutal math again.
“I have less than twenty-seven silver remaining.
If I buy the coat, I cannot afford the feather mattress this month.” “An investment in revenue generation takes priority over personal comfort,” Perrin advised from the counter, sipping his tea.
“The coat pays for itself in two bookings.
The mattress only drains your capital.” Aric rubbed his bruised shoulder.
The thought of sleeping on the packed reeds for another thirty days made him want to weep, but Perrin’s logic was flawless.
The ledger demanded investment.
“Order the coat,” Aric said, his voice firming as he made the decision.
“Take the fifteen silver from my draw.
When it arrives, put me on the social schedule for the evening shifts.” “Not quite,” Mera said, raising her stylus to halt his momentum.
“First, Perrin registers you under the social-companion license.
Then you complete a boundaries sheet, a health examination, and two supervised practice bookings.
You may only accept outside work when Kaela or I am listed as acting manager for the shift.” Aric frowned, his provincial clerk instincts returning instantly.
“There is paperwork.” “There is always paperwork,” Mera replied without missing a beat.
At the head of the table, Vaelisse rested her chin on her hand, a slow, approving smile lighting up her flawless face.
“Excellent,” she purred.
“But before you escort anyone, you are going to need practice.
Upper-ward widows expect impeccable manners, smooth conversation, and undivided attention.” “Tonight,” Vaelisse declared, her gray eyes locking onto his.
“Come to my suite after the lantern hour closes.
Leave the ledgers in your office.
We will have a private dinner, you will practice being charming, and I will tell you exactly what you are doing wrong.”