Leaning against the rails of the carved-earth tower above the brothel, she took a deep drag from the cinnamon-clove arre’te she held between her thumb and forefinger. By some twist of luck, she’d discovered she possessed an allergy to cinnamon when a trader had brought her chamber mate, Ayla, a tin of treats five years previously. At first Bryn had panicked when her mouth had gone numb after sucking the spicy delicacy, but Bryn wasn’t the type of woman who panicked for long. She’d quickly realized a numb mouth made sucking a Jahns willy a lot less foul.Another deep drag. The arre’te burned dangerously close to her fingertips, and a spark flew into the night air, disappearing into the sounds of a city bustling beneath her. As she watched the glow vanish, she felt an envy for that ember. Her heart lurched with a pain of longing as she listened to the noise reverberating against the exterior of the hills around her. Mostly she heard the clatter of men—fishermen announcing what they’d caught that day, traders hawking cigarettes and fresh water.
