The morning light filtered through the thick, leaded glass of the windows, casting long, honey-colored rectangles across the wooden floorboards of the bedroom. The air was heavy with the scent of sleep and, more unusually for the colonies, the sharp, invigorating aroma of roasting coffee beans.
Faust stood by the small hearth in the kitchen, completely unencumbered by clothing.
The firelight played across his skin, highlighting the physique of a man who treated his body as a temple of biological perfection. He was lean and corded with muscle, the result of a physician's disciplined understanding that the mind could only thrive in a vessel of strength. He moved with a predatory grace that belied his scholarly title, his "big dignity" a silent testament to the raw, ancient power humming beneath his skin.
He was carefully pouring the dark liquid into two ceramic mugs when he heard the rustle of sheets from the other room.
"I don't even know your name," a voice drifted in—husky, playful, and entirely unimpressed by the morning chill.
Faust turned slightly, a ghost of a smirk on his face. "I was under the impression you were looking for a doctor last night, not a biography."
Lola appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She was as naked as the day she was born, her skin a map of sun-kissed bronze and a few faint, silvery scars that hinted at a life of violence. She watched him with her one good eye, her hips swaying with a casual, feline confidence as she stepped into the room.
"It turned out much better than I thought," she said, her gaze lingering on the line of his shoulders. "A doctor with the hands of a sculptor. I'm Lola."
"A pleasure, Lola," he replied, handing her a mug.
She took a sip, winced at the heat, and then smiled.
Her eye roamed the room, eventually landing on her pile of clothes. She walked past him, her hips rolling with that same hypnotic rhythm, and disappeared into the bedchamber to find her things.
A moment later, she returned, pulling a linen shirt over her head—a garment that stopped just short of being modest, leaving her long legs bare.
She reached down, scooped up a pair of discarded wool trousers from the floor, and tossed them at Faust's chest.
"You should put those on," she chuckled, her voice dropping an octave. "You shouldn't tempt an Inquisitor, Doctor."
Faust caught the trousers, pulling them on with a practiced ease. "Doctor Faust," he corrected gently.
His eyes drifted to the table where her rapier lay. Even in the dim morning light, the weapon seemed to possess a life of its own. The steel of the espada ropera was so polished it didn't just reflect the light; it seemed to drink it in and focus it into a singular, shimmering point of lethal intent.
"That blade," Faust remarked, stepping closer to inspect the hilt. "It's magnificent. It looks like it was forged in a different world."
Lola followed his gaze, her expression softening into something like reverence. "It's an heirloom. From my great-grandmother, Isabella of Barcelona. She passed it to my mother, and my mother to me."
"A whole generation of Inquisitors, then?" Faust asked, leaning against the table. "You must have a very busy family tree."
Lola let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "My mother used to tell me stories. She didn't call us Inquisitors in private. She said we were demon hunters."
Faust suddenly felt a sour taste in his mouth. He spat on the floor, a reflexive gesture of disdain. "Demons? You've spent too much time in the damp air of the docks, Lola. Do you actually believe in such nursery terrors?"
Lola didn't look offended. She merely shrugged, the linen of her shirt sliding off one shoulder. "The only thing I truly believe in is the Church and God. But the world is a dark place, Doctor. Who knows what breathes in the shadows when the candles go out?"
She reached into a small leather pouch at her belt and pulled out a slip of heavy paper.
"Anyway," she said, her tone shifting to business. "My brother is a wandering magician. He's quite talented, but he's a fool. He injured his hand during a trick a few days ago, and it's festering. I was hoping a man of your... stature... could look at it."
She slid the paper across the table toward him.
"He has a show tonight near the harbor. Come by. If you fix his hand, I might even let you see what else that rapier can do. At night." She flashed him a sharp, dangerous grin and headed for the door. "Think of it as a house call, Doctor."
Faust picked up the ticket, watching her leave.