"Who indeed?" he asked, his voice halfway between playful and ruminating, "Certainly not I. Even if I wished to, surely no one in this place would assist me."

There was then the sound of a body removing itself from water, a couple of steps, the scrape of wood against tile. A pause.

"Tell me, are you skilled in its use? The knife?"

He had gotten up and wrapped a towel across his waist. His bare chest was muscled and tattooed and cross-crossed with a dizzying variety of scars. Some from blades. But several burns as well. And others less easily identified.

He was seated upon a small stool. The washerman spread foaming lotion in his face and neck before the man dismissed him. He leaned back. Stared at her. Watched her for her reaction.