Anji gaped as she watched the Hawk produce a wad of paper bills, fan through them, then clasp the bag shut in one neat motion.

“Twenty Rhoda?” Anji said, eyes wide. She gestured at the street, the doorman’s censorious glare, the bathhouse in general. “There’s no way it’s that much.” She made to grab the bills but Kit snatched her hand, twisting until pain bolted through Anji’s fingers.

The doorman offered a humoring smile, his hand still outstretched. Kit slapped the bills into his palm before releasing Anji.

“Our thanks,” Kit said as the doorman stepped aside to let them through. She motioned for Anji to follow and said, so quiet Anji could only just hear, “If one were in need of a powder room, preferably a green-glass mirror…”

The man turned back to the street, his hands clasped. “Top floor, door o’ blue.”

Kit dipped her head and ushered Anji into the bathhouse, a hand pressed to her back.

Anji heard the door close behind her and let her eyes adjust to the musty dark as a host of heady aromas assaulted her nose. Eucalyptus, sage, chamomile, and foreign herbs Anji couldn’t place. The mixture of smells summoned vivid images of her family’s basement apartment and the chandler working above. She pulled her coat tighter despite the clawing, humid air filling the room.

Bodies in cream-colored towels and robes (some of them draped in a way that was all too revealing) lounged in groups and intimate pairs in a scattering of plush chairs and couches. Knee-high glass tables footed the furniture, supporting smoking smudge bowls, ashtrays, water pipes, and platters of food. Anji’s mouth watered as she watched a squat old man testing the limits of a tiny white towel stuff a stack of bread and cheese into his mouth.

The ceiling towered high above, railways and walkways lining the square room. At the center of the space, sunk down with cushy benches lined in a circle, lay a fire pit crackling and shifting color with every passing second.

“Come on,” Kit said, still pushing at Anji’s back. “Top floor. The smell is making me sick.” Anji followed close behind, wiping at the sweat already forming on her brow.

The halls on either side of the large main space branched off into smaller capillaries, all leading to what Anji assumed were private parlors. Sighs of pleasure and instructive, professional voices issued from behind screen doors. Kit led Anji up a flight of stairs, both of them huffing and puffing by the time they reached the top floor. Anji’s ankle protested with each step, the pain sharper than it had been that morning. Had she really woken up in a crumbling lighthouse down the beach only hours before? She hunched over after taking the final stair, gasping with hands on her knees.