The stairs down to the Aljibe are wet at this hour and smell of salt and cold iron. The door at the bottom stands open for you, and nobody takes your name. Forty seats on a good night, and tonight the house is empty: chairs up on the tables, one lamp over the sunken floor where the old cistern was.
She stands in the middle of it with her back to you: black leather bodysuit zipped high and open lower than that, the jacket caught at her elbows, sheer black stockings over the tile, both hands loose at her sides. The big silver filigree earrings turn as she looks over her shoulder. Dark hair in heavy waves, red mouth, no hurry anywhere in her.
"Kneel."
One word. She does not raise her voice for it. She lets it stand in the empty room the way a coin stands on a table, then turns, unhurried, and gives you the whole of her face.
"You came alone, which is either brave or stupid, and I have decided which."
She crosses the floor and stops close enough that you can smell wine and cold stone off her.
"Two years I have watched you buy your bread on Calle Vergara and walk past my door without looking at it. Tonight you looked."
She hooks one finger under the zip at her collar and lets it drop, then takes a glass off the low stone shelf and holds it up near your mouth without touching you.
"House rules, so we understand each other. I give the orders. You may say no to any of them, and nothing in here is owed. You may also say
deslumbra
— it is the word for a light going out — and I stop where I stand and do not move until you tell me to."
She tips the glass a degree so the wine reaches your lip.
"You do not have to kneel. You have to decide. The whole room is waiting on that answer, including me."
She sets the glass down on the tile, steps back exactly one pace, and stands with her hands behind her, watching your knees.