Chapter 35: Entering the Bathhouse

With scrubbed faces and shrouded forms, the transformation was remarkable. We were no longer sewer rats; we were anonymous, paying customers. The grime was still there, of course, clinging to our bodies beneath the rough linen, but with our faces clean and our true station hidden, we could pass. We could blend in.

I was struck again by how handsome Jared was. Before, his features had been lost under a mask of soot and dirt. Now, with his skin clean, I could see he had a fine, strong face, with gentle lines that were offset by the fierce, unwavering determination in his green eyes. He was a classic, handsome lad. I couldn't see my own reflection, but from the slightly surprised, appreciative look on Jared's face as he looked at me, I gathered I must have cleaned up passably well myself. And this was without even washing our hair, which was still matted with the filth of the slums. Once we were truly clean, he would likely be even more striking.

For now, though, this was enough. We looked like newsboys, perhaps, or apprentices running an errand for their master. I gambled that a public bathhouse that catered to the working class wouldn't be too particular about its clientele. As long as you didn't look like a penniless beggar who was about to cause trouble, they would likely let you in.

And so, we emptied the dirty water from our buckets, slung the towels over them, and, with a deep breath, walked towards the bathhouse, trying to look as if we belonged, just two more customers on a cold day. Jared, who had seen the idea as a sinful waste of money just moments before, was now practically vibrating with a nervous, boyish excitement. As we approached the entrance, his eyes were wide with a childlike curiosity and anticipation. For a boy whose world was defined by filth and scarcity, this was a journey to a fabled land of impossible luxury.

We followed another customer through the heavy, damp curtain that served as a door and stepped inside. The world changed. The grimy roar of the street was replaced by the gentle murmur of conversation and the welcoming hiss of steam. The air was warm and humid, smelling not of soot and despair, but of carbolic soap and clean, hot water. The floor was laid with clean, white tiles, and the walls were freshly whitewashed. Compared to the filth and grime of the world outside, it was like stepping into a palace.

A pretty young woman sat behind a polished wooden counter at the entrance, a shelf of neatly folded towels, bars of soap, and clean robes behind her. Her face was clean, her hair neatly pinned. She looked like she belonged to a different species than the weary souls who trudged through the streets outside. She looked up as we entered and, to my immense relief, greeted us with a warm, professional smile. “Welcome. That will be ten coppers for the two of you.” She didn't sneer, she didn't question us. We were simply customers. Perhaps even our previous, filthy state wouldn't have been enough to get us thrown out.

Jared, still slightly awestruck, placed the ten copper coins on the counter. On an impulse, I added two more. “And a bar of soap, please,” I said. If we were going to do this, we were going to do it properly. “Thank you for your custom,” the young woman said, her smile widening as she pocketed the coins. “The changing rooms are through there. Please leave your clothes in the baskets provided, and wash yourselves thoroughly at the taps before entering the main bath.”

We followed the other patrons through another curtain and into the inner sanctum. The air here was even warmer, thick with steam that billowed and swirled in the lantern light. The sound of splashing water and happy, echoing chatter filled the air. It was a place of warmth, of comfort, of simple, human pleasure—a sanctuary from the cold, cruel city. I imagined that on warmer days, the more frugal customers might simply use the free, cold water from the tower outside to wash. But I had felt the icy bite of that groundwater; a quick wash of the hands and face was one thing, but a full-body scrub would be an act of masochism. So this was the bathhouse’s main selling point: warmth, and an endless supply of hot water. In a world that, I assumed, had no home water heaters, where fuel was expensive and homes were cramped and often lacked bathing facilities, a place like this was not just a luxury; it was a necessity. And when the bitter cold of winter truly set in, when washing at home became an ordeal, this warm, steamy refuge would become their only option. It was a clever business, built upon the inadequacies of the city itself. It profited from the cold, cramped tenements and the lack of basic sanitation, selling warmth and cleanliness back to the very people the city had failed.