Umin returns his attention to the task of filling his belly, as she settles the tub at the foot of his bed with a crisp, fleeting cacophony. 

“Such a feast.” He murmurs between mouthfuls of honeyed bread crust and fruity fungus. 

Though no gourmand by any measure, neither is Umin a stranger to the pleasure quarters, and their abundant boards. Guild fare however is of a much plainer constitution.

None are wanting.

In Father’s most filial

Servitude.

Something sardonic underpins her syrupy sibilance.

Of course, thinks Umin. 

Despite the cold, distrustful spaces between the Upper and Lower houses, there will always be commerce. 

Merchants moving between, the Above and the Below. 

We all must eat. We all must drink.

Fill your belly.

Lave your brow.

There is courtly finery in the closet

Mete for the Lord Meshmin.

Without another word she whisps from the chamber, like the fog of a brief and brumous autumn morning.