“Thank you, Nanny.” Cyril scrubbed at his face; his cheeks felt numb. It was beginning to dawn on him that he had not eaten yet today, though he could have called for room service anytime. It hadn’t seemed important.

“Come to the washroom,” said Aristide. He had gotten there without Cyril noticing, and turned the water on.

Cyril dropped his glass carelessly onto the table and heaved himself to his feet. He had grown unused to receiving instruction in the jungle and far more used to giving it, which had been exhausting. Debriefing had been all question and answer. It was a relief to simply follow orders from someone who didn’t present a threat.

Aristide put the toilet seat down and laid a folded towel over the porcelain. Cyril sat and, without waiting for another towel, or instruction, stripped off his undershirt.

Ari didn’t hiss, or flinch, but Cyril still caught the moment of silence, the sudden stillness in the gathering swirls of steam.

He tried to remember what there was to see. The burn scars, which were spattered across his shoulders, too. Various remnants of fights, flights, and accidents. And of course, he was too thin.

Maybe it wasn’t anything in particular—only the difference between what Aristide remembered and what confronted him now. Cyril knew he didn’t stand up to his memory.

But Aristide said nothing; only handed him a hot towel. Cyril closed his eyes. A dark, pungent scent rose from the shaving soap as Ari swirled the brush through the lather. Musk and vanilla, amber and white flowers.

The sheen of drying perfume on each pulse point; Aristide, naked, in front of an open window.

Damn that scent memory, bobbing up like a dumped corpse rotted free from its weights. Aristide’s Padgett and Sons cologne. The soap had the same profile, and once it was on Cyril’s skin he would carry it with him until he washed again.

“The towel?” asked Aristide, and Cyril peeled it from his face. Taking an unsteady breath, he held himself taut in anticipation of the brush and was surprised when it didn’t come.

“May I?” asked Aristide, and the gravity of his tone was only slightly more surprising than the fact that he had asked at all.

Cyril took another moment to center himself, then dipped his chin in assent. A moment later, he felt Aristide’s fingertips just beneath it, pushing his jaw higher, and then the kiss of soap-slick badger hair against his throat. His larynx moved beneath the bristles as he swallowed.

Aristide worked slowly, and Cyril tried to remember if he’d kept a shaving set in the washroom at Baldwin Street, or only ever gone to the barber. It was like trying to remember the props onstage in a play he had watched once, long ago.