She was out of the bath the moment she heard his boots on the stair, yanking at the door handle and rattling the latches, cursing in middle Koptic as it refused to budge. Of course he had locked it. She failed to bite back an indignant pout at the realization that he hadn't trusted her, inwardly plugging her fingers in her ears and mentally shouting down the scolding voice that pointed out she was in fact at this very moment proving she couldn't be trusted. She ran quickly to the window, unfastening it and swinging open the stained-glass pane. The clamorous music of the Imperial capital washed into the bedchamber, carts, bells, birds, a tumult of male and female voices. The wind blew at the curtains, chilling her wet skin. The flagstones sprawled fatally beneath her, filled with foot-traffic and drifting with the dim shadows of passing clouds. She gnawed at her lip. Too far. She would break like caked sand. She leaned over the sill, unconcerned with her nakedness, gauging the width of the ledge below. Wide enough to support her small frame. The wind blew across the streets, throwing her soiled hair into her face again. It stank of stale oil and old fear. She frowned, tugging at it distastefully and wrinkling her nose. Glanced back to the bath. To the ledge again. To the bath. Yes, she had time. Some things were more important than freedom. [hr] She bathed quickly. Half an hour at most. Perhaps a little more. She felt a small twinge of pride at her determined efficiency as she wrapped a silk bedsheet around her body, knotted it tightly at the back of her waist and got her foot up on the windowsill. The wind buffetted her as she eased out onto the ledge, setting the silk flapping to one side. Her nails gripped the painted wood behind her and she slid her way toward the corner of the building and the second open window, slowly, carefully and not looking down. A shrill expression of disbelief rang out from below, and she looked without intending to, alarmed. A pampered-looking, bleary-eyed man had staggered out of a local drinking-house and was now staring up at her, slack-jawed and blinking rapidly. She lifted a finger to her lips, frantically, ducked under a hanging clothesline and redoubled her shuffling race toward the window, finally getting her leg over the sill and slipping inside right as the gawking bastard's friends arrived. "Callen?" she heard him warbling from below, "Callen, di'jou [i]see[/i]at?" The room was quiet and uninhabited. Loka ran to the door, took the handle, and pulled. It rattled, thudded, and refused to budge, with the same obstinate Imperial indifference of its cousin. She gave a strangled, high-pitched sing-song whine of girlish anger from somewhere in her throat, grabbing a cane, a shoehorn, even a butter knife and trying to work the latches open. None of it worked. The knife snapped as she tried to loosen the screws on the hinges. She sighed, a long, exasperated, pantomime sigh which rose into a feminine growl, pressing her face into her hands and doubling over like a grounded child. It seemed she would be bound to Saer Nykerius's graces a little longer after all. She sighed again, pacing. If only he had been younger, at least. Perhaps a little more cheerful. [sub]"No. No. no, no, I swear t'yer, I'm no' makig thissup--"[/sub] She drew in a heavy, defeated breath and blew it out. She frowned, looking around the room. A lady's chamber, there was no mistaking it. She knew the scents, the hallmarks of false modesties. She sat down at the curving wooden table set against the longest wall, prodding at its contents and eyeing herself critically in the inset mirror. A little box inlaid with rippling seashells gave up a treasure trove of brushes, pencils and colored powders, and she scooped them up without a second thought, as though they were little bulbs of water in the desert. Another box held jewels, rings and necklaces of precious metals and stones. Tacky and unwieldy things, valued because they were valuable. Loka rifled through them as though they were garbage before a little flash of color caught her eye. Two tiny, dangling earrings of modest silver, set with deep blue opals from the pits of the Amber Sea, shimmering with insubstantial, flickering rainbows. She hooked them through her earlobes, turning her head this way and that, letting the light catch them as it shone through her hair from behind. She felt that small glow of vanity, the unnameable feeling deep inside her. The faint, familiar tremor that heralded the shaking of that beautiful, terrible tail across the stars. A small golden trickle of power welled within her belly, warming her blood. Loka leaned toward the mirror, slowly tracing black lines across her eyelids, thickening them and tapering them to sharp points, tracing a small, half-spiral curve from one lower lid to above her cheekbone. The woman would not miss them. She had more than she required. The earrings were not valuable anyway. Opals were common in the expanse. That is why they had named it so. And if Loka could not have her freedom.... Well. At least she could have this. [hr] The box slid into the room right as Loka was dragging herself back in through the window, cursing as the wind blew the sheet up her inconveniently-positioned backside. She heard a woman squeal from somewhere below right as she slammed the window shut. "Yes!" she shouted through the door in a shrill, desperately friendly tone, "Thank you! This will not be a moment!" She pulled off the lid, dragging out the clothing. It was drab and practical. Gregor was not used to shopping for women. Loka frowned. Did he even [i]have[/i] a woman? Did he even [i]like[/i] women? Perhaps he preferred monks. A bitter, vindictive snarl shifted in her heart. Perhaps he preferred young boys in holy robes, it said. Her brow creased a little further. No. He was not [i]that[/i] sort. She would smell it on him even in the cathedral's prison. She held up the garments, one after the other. There was a short robe in dull red-brown velvet, appropriate rather than indulgent. The rest was a smaller version of what the Inquisitor himself wore. How unimaginative. The leather at least she might make fetching. The riding boots would make her stride more impressive. But still. Improvements would have to be made. Many, many improvements. An angry voice in the back of her head reminded her that she was supposed to be planning her escape. She inwardly plugged her ears again and set about getting dressed. [hr] She opened the door and posed in the frame, having taken just enough longer than Gregor might care to wait to irritate him, but stopping just shy of riling his temper. Loka, like all her kind, had a sense for these things. She smiled, giving her hat a showy quarter turn with a leather-gloved hand, her riding coat creaking, the dark color adding warmth to her brown skin. Tiny flecks of color caught the light and sparkled beneath her earlobes. She was never going to pass muster as the church's secret police. But then, perhaps that was the point. "Well?" she said, expectantly.