Himinndotter

The servant opens the door, and I pause on the threshold. The room is vast, flooded with sunlight, and there, seated on the canopy bed, are Laila and Nadia. The moment they see me, their expressions transform, their smiles spreading wide.

«Søren!» they both cry, and in an instant they hurl themselves at me. “his feels like something I’ve already lived through.” The warmth of their bodies envelops me, and we cling to one another so tightly it nearly robs us of breath.

The servant who escorted me clears his throat, and we release each other to give him our attention. «Soon the tailors will arrive to take your measurements for this evening’s gala. In the meantime, you will find clean clothes in the wardrobe, should you wish to bathe.»

«Thank you,» I reply. With a bow, he leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

Silence lingers, sweet and tranquil. I breathe deeply, tasting the air. A foul stench clings to me—I can smell it on my clothes, on my very skin. Without thinking twice, I lean close to Laila and inhale the scent of her hair. «What are you doing?!» she exclaims, recoiling with disgust. «What, did prison give you some strange fetish?»

I sniff Nadia as well, who only looks at me in confusion. «We need to wash. Obviously, that’s what the servant was hinting at.»

«Why?» Laila folds her arms.

«Because we stink.»

«Speak for yourself! I’m perfectly clean!» she declares proudly, pressing a hand to her chest. Nadia and I narrow our eyes at her. I slip off my gauntlet and gently pat her head. «He-hey, what are you doing?» she asks, blushing faintly, lowering her tone. Then I wipe my palm along her shoulder. «AAAAAAHHH! That’s disgusting!» she cries, frantically rubbing herself clean. «Why is your hand so greasy?»

«It isn’t my hand—it’s your head that’s filthy.» I reply calmly, pointing at her. «Go wash.»

«I don’t feel like it!» she snaps, her face red.

«Stop acting like a child. You need a bath.» Laila stares at me for a moment, then a sly grin spreads across her face. With a sudden movement she bolts. I chase her, but she dives out the window, taking flight. Leaning out, I shout after her, fist raised, «One way or another, you’re bathing before tonight! You can’t show up at the gala stinking like a camel’s backside!» I sigh, bowing my head wearily against the ledge. A tug on my cloak draws me back, and I turn to Nadia. «What is it, little one?» I ask, kneeling.

She gazes up at me with her wide red eyes, and in a voice barely above a whisper asks, «What’s a bath?»

«Wait… don’t tell me—you’ve never washed in three hundred years?» She shrugs, lowering her gaze, mumbling in embarrassment. My mouth opens, struggling to form words. «A bath… it’s what you take when you smell.» She still looks lost. «You use hot water to wet the body, and a kind of block made of animal fat to scrub away the dirt.» She tilts her head, unconvinced. I take her hand and rise. «You know what? Better I show you.»

I lead her into the adjoining bathroom, a grand and luxurious chamber. The claw-footed tub is large enough for us both. We shed our clothes, and I help her step into the bath tub with me. Washing her is easy—until I reach her hair. It’s like a dense mass of tangled wool. The more I try to soap it, the less it yields. At last, I surrender, unwilling to hurt her or ruin her hair. «Sorry, I can’t manage it,» I sigh. «After this, we’ll find a hairdresser. That way, we can see the city too.»

Nadia’s eyes sparkle, and she nods with enthusiasm. I rinse the soap from her, and finish washing myself. Turning the tap, I let the tub refill, adding scented soaps and oils left nearby. We sink into the hot water, surrendering to the warmth. Nadia melts into the bath with a sigh. «Waaah…» she breathes happily. «I like baths.»

°°°

Steam drifts out the bathroom window as Nadia and I dry off and dress in the clothes the servant left for us. Victorian garments, refined and elegant. Mine is a blue suit with an embroidered vest and white trousers—uncomfortably tight in places. Nadia’s is a pastel pink velvet dress with a bell-shaped skirt, making her look like a porcelain doll.

A knock sounds at the door. I open it, and in come two tailors, measuring tape draped around their necks, pins stuck into their lapels. Without a word of greeting, they set to work, muttering to one another as they measure us. In the blink of an eye, they are gone. Nadia and I exchange a bewildered glance, then shrug it off and head to the stables.

«Hello,» I greet three men lounging on hay bales, smoking and playing cards. «Would one of you happen to be a coachman? We’d like to visit the largest island.»

They glance at one another, laughing. «You mean Clockwork District?»

«Yes.»

«Wait a bit—we’ll ready a carriage and fetch a coachman.»

«Thank you,» I reply. After more than half an hour, we finally reach the Clockwork District. It feels like stepping back in time, straight into the pages of a Charles Dickens novel. The streets are a maze of rain-slick cobblestones, teeming with people rushing about their business. The clatter of workshops, the cries of vendors, and the pungent smell of iron and coal weave together an atmosphere that grips me at once. And yet, I can’t help but notice the eyes that linger on us again and again. Our extravagant clothes are a jarring sight in a place like this. Beggars and children draw near with wide eyes and outstretched hands, not knowing that we are poorer than they are. Explaining, over and over, that we have nothing to give is becoming tiresome.

Growing more and more uneasy, I decide to sell them off, though with a twinge of regret—after all, the clothes were a gift from the king. I take Nadia by the hand, and together we slip into the first tailor’s shop we come across. «Welcome.» says an elderly man, sixty or seventy, face lined with wrinkles as he perches spectacles on his nose. «I am Thomas Williams. How may I help you?» he asks, hobbling closer with the aid of a cane.

«Hello. Our friends gave us these clothes—»

«And you want me to alter them?» he interrupts.

«No, we’d like to sell them—»

«To make a fine profit, eh?» he chuckles, elbowing me.

«No, we just need something more practical—»

«I see, I see. I’ve just the thing.» He disappears into the back. I groan into my fists, muffling a cry. Nadia pats my back in consolation. Thomas returns with garments draped over his arm. «Here you are.» He offers Nadia a cream-white dress, then hands me mine with a flat cap. «You may change in the back room, if you like.»

«Thank you,» we reply together. Once changed, we hand over our clothes, and in return he gives us a heavy pouch of coins. «Ah, before we go—»

«Would you like to see more outfits?»

«No, I wanted to ask if there’s a good hairdresser nearby.»

He smiles, placing a hand on my back as he guides us out. «There’s a fine young lady not far from here,» he says, giving us directions.

We bid him farewell and start down the street. He keeps watching us, smiling all the while, until we turn the corner. Somehow, it feels as though we are walking through a different city now. Not only are we more comfortable, but the people regard us with curiosity, recognizing us at once as foreigners—yet without the deference or insistence from before. Children, instead of begging, smile at us and ask us to play with them. The walk becomes a true delight, filled with the stalls and cheerful sounds of the district.

Following Thomas’s directions, and occasionally asking passersby, we arrive at a small salon. A bell chimes as I open the door. A petite East Asian woman greets us with a gentle, serene smile. Her kimono—black at the top, fading to blue and white at the hem, decorated with plants—flows as she approaches. «Welcome, I’m Hasami. And who might you be?»

«H-hi,» I stammer, distracted by the red makeup that sharpens her pale features. «I’m Søren, and she is Nadia.»

«I’ve never seen you before. You’re new here?» she asks, resting a hand on her hip, the gesture drawing attention to the slit of her kimono where a small case of tools is tucked.

«Y-yes, exactly…» I answer, scratching my neck.

She kneels to Nadia’s level. «How adorable you are.» she says, patting her head. Scars mark her arm, thin lines of old cuts. Glancing at her other limbs, I see more. «Is she your daughter?»

«Well… let’s say yes. She’s a foundling—but in the end, she takes care of me more than I do of her.» I answer with a tight smile.

«How sweet. So, how can I help you?» she asks, rising gracefully, her geisha-styled hair unmoving.

«Well, the girl has never had her hair cut or combed since birth. I tried to brush it, but I gave up before doing any damage.»

«You did well. Don’t worry, little one, I’ll take care of you.» she assures Nadia with a kind smile. Nadia blushes and nods. «Did you have a particular style in mind?» she asks me.

«Yes, I was thinking of a straight fringe above the eyebrows, keeping her hair long but even at the ends, with two locks framing her face at chin length.»

Hasami looks at me, puzzled. «You mean a hime cut?»

Flushing with embarrassment, I nod quickly. «Y-yes, that one.» “What an idiot—how was I supposed to know it exists in this world too?”

«Sit here.» she tells Nadia. Hasami works with patience and care. Every snip is a struggle against the matted tangles, but she perseveres. At last, the result is stunning. Nadia looks like a different child, her face beautifully framed by her new style.

I kneel before her in awe. «Wow! You’re beautiful!» I exclaim, gripping her shoulders in excitement. «And she left your hair long too.» I note, stroking it gently.

«To be honest I didn't do anything.» Hasami says, twirling the scissors. «Her hair was naturally straight—it just grew wild after so many years.»

«Thank you!» I hand her the pouch of coins. «Please, take what you need.»

She raises her hands. «Whoa—are you really this trusting, or are you trying to trick me?» she asks with a strained smile.

«Ah, uh… sorry,» I say, pulling the pouch back. «How much is it?» I ask looking at her confused.

She studies me for a moment, then sighs. «I see, you’re simply too trusting. Leave it—I’ll do it myself.» She rummages through the pouch and takes the proper amount. «Goodness, it’s already six o’clock—time does fly. I’m sorry to have to send you off, but tonight I must close early.»

«Thank you again,» I say as I head for the door. «Unfortunately, we can’t stay any longer either. But we’ll meet again.»

«I’ll hold you to that!»

We return to the spot where we left the carriage and quickly make our way back to the castle.