Leaving the spot where two priests traded blows like thunderheads colliding, Shelika stepped onto the street and hunted a normal inn like a bird seeking dusk shelter.

The Wind God Temple sat close to the Holy City’s market street, so she let her feet drift that way like a breeze finding its valley.

The market street bloomed richer than the temple quarter, lanterns ripening like fruit and shop signs fluttering like bright fish in a current.

Perched on the driver’s bench, she let the scenery blur like petals in wind, her eyes grazing stalls the way a swallow skims water.

She spotted plenty of inns, so she reined in, hopped down, and asked—hope rose like a kite—then came out crestfallen, the kite cut by a sharp gust.

She tried the next, and the next, disappointment piling like cold dew on armor.

Most inns on the Holy City’s market street gleamed as high-end business houses, their brass rails polished like mirrors.

A hundred rupees a night, stiff as a winter wind to Shelika’s purse.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t pay; a day or two would sting like a pinprick.

But Sunday lay half a month away, the calendar a ladder with fifteen rungs still to climb.

Fifteen days at a hundred a night meant around fifteen hundred rupees, not counting the river of other expenses.

She had to dam the cost of lodging.

So she searched again, combing the street the whole afternoon while the sun slid west like honey on a plate.

At last, at dusk, where market and pleasure streets braided together, she found an inn priced in the middle current.

It was called the Rose Traveler, its standard room forty rupees a night, the sign painted red as a rose at first frost.

Shelika chose to stay. She went back to the carriage, bundled sleeping Charlotte in a sheet like a cocoon, and carried her inside on her back.

The front desk was run by a young beauty, an earthborn maid with a gyaru sparkle, her smile sharp as a cat’s.

She spotted the two of them; her eyes lit like sparklers at a festival. “Oh—such unusual guests.”

She covered her mouth and snickered. “A double room with a water bed?”

“A water bed?” Shelika blinked, her voice a pebble dropped in a pond.

“It’s a mattress filled with water—softer, springier. Costs a bit more, but it helps two people have much more fun.”

Shelika took in the maid’s tone, the Rose Traveler’s pink walls like spun sugar, the heart-shaped lamps glowing like ripe cherries; the air turned syrupy.

Neon 69s pulsed along the corridor like tropical fish, colorful and shameless.

From deep in the hall, a half-latched door spilled sound; the entire lobby could hear a three-person chorus, sheets slapping like applause.

Understanding what kind of place the Rose Traveler truly was, Shelika’s cheeks warmed like peach skin; she ducked her head and murmured, “I didn’t think it was this kind of inn…”

“Aw? You don’t like it?” The gyaru maid sighed theatrically, then eyed sleeping Charlotte with a fox’s grin. “Didn’t you bring your partner already?

“Such a chance—why not make it a done deal?”

Confusion pricked, then comprehension bloomed; heat climbed Shelika’s neck like wine. “I—I have no such intention!”

She caught her breath before it scattered like leaves, steadied herself, and clipped her words. “I’m just here to stay. If I’m not welcome, I’ll go.”

“We absolutely welcome you,” the maid purred. “Standard room, forty a night. Water bed, eighty.”

“Hmph,” Shelika shot back, as if reclaiming a hill after a skirmish.

The maid’s grin turned wicked. “You’ve got a mature figure and a maiden’s heart to match that face. You’re a delight.”

“Mind your own business.” Shelika hated how true it rang; her reply cracked like a snapped twig.

She took the key, cradled Charlotte, and headed straight down the corridor like an arrow seeking its mark.

She found the room, opened, slipped inside, and shut the door; the latch clicked like a lid sealing a jar.

It was a standard room, but the soundproofing was good; with the door shut, the outside clamor fell away like rain cut by eaves.

No more of that bed’s applause to stir her for no good reason.

The deep-pink walls felt like dusk pressed close. A double bed waited in the center; even a normal mattress looked like a calm lake to a weary traveler.

After days on the carriage’s hard boards, Shelika sat and felt herself melt into it like snow on warm tiles.

“Whew… that’s good,” she sighed, pleasure loosening her shoulders like unknotted silk.

Just as sleep fog gathered, a small voice rose from the floorboards—Charlotte’s uneasy murmur, kitten-soft: “Mmm… Charlotte… it’s hard… so uncomfortable…”

Shelika frowned, guilt tugging like a caught thread. “Tch… I almost forgot about this one.”

She lifted Charlotte—still asleep and squirming like a sick caterpillar—and set her on the bed.

The moment Charlotte touched the soft mattress, the strain on her face broke like cloud, and a little sun came out. “Ehehe… so soft… Charlotte… feels so good…”

Smiling sweetly in her sleep, she drifted toward Shelika. Her cheek brushed Shelika’s black-stockinged thigh, and she hugged it like a long-sought pillow.

Charlotte’s round cheek nuzzled between stocking and hem, along the pale outer thigh, that sacred strip of skin like a guarded crescent beach.

She smiled and murmured in a dream, joy bright as morning. “Elder Sister’s scent… I love it… ehehe.”

Skin to skin along the edge of a forbidden shore, the touch raised an itch beneath Shelika’s heart like ants waking in spring.

Truth be told, Fulin—the performer behind the mask—didn’t dislike that warmth, like coals banking under ash.

But the feeling was strange; the longer it lingered, the more her mood turned hazy, thoughts drifting like mist as Charlotte clung to her thigh.

No—heat’s taking me, she jolted, a shiver running like a struck string.

She drew several deep breaths; as her breath smoothed like a tide settling, the mood leveled too.

Calmer, she looked again at Charlotte, cheek pillowed on her leg, seeking her like a baby rooting for milk; Shelika’s feelings tangled like vines.

After a while, she gently moved Charlotte’s hands away and tucked the blanket over her like a folded cloud.

Charlotte had slept since noon, her face pure as a moon in still water; a sudden maternal ache welled in Shelika like a spring.

Catching herself, she shook her head lightly and sighed toward that sleeping face. “Honestly… I wasn’t here to take care of you.”

She left a note—Going out on errands. Stay in the room. Don’t wander.—and slipped out, her steps quiet as rain.

In the lobby, the gyaru maid faced the mirror like a still pond, lipstick a red blade in hand. Seeing Shelika, she set it down and smiled wicked-sweet.

“Aw? Back out already? Not having fun with your little bestie?”

“Want to switch to me? If you’d like to play, miss, I can give you a very good time.”