“My, my! You really are quite the eager little maid, aren’t you?”

Motley whimpered. “I—buh—ba—”

Slender fingers ran through her dark, curly locks, nails gently brushing her scalp. “Poor baby~! Imagine someone like you losing herself in these gardens. Such easy prey for so many wicked, hungry things.” The tender voice drew nearer to her ear. “It’s a good thing Mommy found you first, isn’t it?”

“N-Nuh…” Motley rubbed her thighs together, staring hopelessly at he bouncing, jiggling breasts before her. She’d barely escaped the merciless charms of the valentine poppy imps, barely stumbled clear of those vine traps, all of that only to… to wind up… trapped in these tendrils, pulled in close, caught by… “I…”

“Breathe in, little girl.” A sweet, tinkling laugh. “Breathe in deep of your new Mommy, okay, sweetness?”

Motley’s lips parted, and even as she reminded herself not to… “H-hha… hhhff…”

More candy-sweet perfume poured into her lungs. Her whole body swayed, and the world rippled, like she was trying to stand underwater. The tendrils bound her too tightly to let her fall.

“More.”

Motley whimpered and breathed in deeper. She couldn’t stop herself. Her mouth opened wider, bringing in more tainted air…

“More~”

“Hha…. hhuff…” Her tongue felt thick and heavy. It slipped out of her mouth, lolled partway to the side…

“That’s right~! Good, good, good girl! Mommy’s silly, stupid little maid just needs more huffies of Mommy’s honeysuckle scent, doesn’t she~?” More sweet laughter. The fingers scritched daintily behind Motley’s ear. Motley felt her headpiece being plucked away and tossed aside, and she blushed hot—

“M-Mommy,” she whined, huffing stupidly, “that’s—hha—that’s for my uniform—!”

“Oh, but Mommy has a new uniform for you, sweetiepie~!” the dryad cooed in her ear. “A very pretty one.”

“She… she does?” Motley stared hopelessly at Mommy’s breasts, panting, squirming, head spinning with drugged deprivation, because there almost wasn’t enough air—but there was so much of Mommy to breathe in instead—

“Of course~!” The dryad swiftly swayed from from side to side, making her pretty boobies bounce and bounce and bounce until Motley’s brains felt bouncy and wobbly and jiggly, too. “And the first thing I think your new uniform is missing… is something to go between those pretty lips.”

Motley blinked stupidly, feeling Mommy’s fingertips taking her dress’s laces and starting to untie them. She wanted to squirm away. Every touch felt greedy, violating—she knew she needed Mommy to stop, and she knew Mommy wanted her to try to stop her, but she was bound so tightly, and but Mommy smelled so good and Mommy’s breasts bounced so prettily, oh, verily, such big, jiggling, wobbling veritable udders—

“Sweet Bea,” called a distant voice, “what the hell are you up to with that imp?”

Mommy—Bea—went very still. Then she turned, breasts bouncing even still, and pulled Motley in tight, shoving Motley’s face under her arm.

Motley moaned, nuzzling in deeper, huffing helplessly—no, no, she needed to stop, needed to fight, but Mommy was so…

“Imp?” she heard Mommy say.

Motley’s brain was melting. She smiled dreamily, clinging to Mommy, rubbing her face adoringly into Mommy’s armpit… Mommy’s scent made her brains so silly and gooey, she smelled so sweet, so… addictive…

She heard rapid footsteps approaching along the path. “Oh! She’s so small, and blushing so red, I thought she was one of the valentines.” There came a giggle, which abruptly halted. “Ahem. Sweet Bea, that is one of the castle maids, for pity’s sake.”

“She wants to be with me, Poinsettia.” Mommy pulled Motley in tighter, and Motley couldn’t really breathe at all anymore, but she felt so melty and gooey and happy, she clung to Mommy… her lips felt so empty, but she knew Mommy had offered her something to suck…

“Oh, really? Did she say that? Did she consent, Bea?”

“Oh, she will! Won’t you, pretty baby?” Mommy’s pretty laugh settled over Motley as bright and sparkly as morning dew. Motley whimpered and moaned and wordlessly nuzzled. “I was just now trying to decide whether to give her a dumdum flower or simply shove her right under my dress already~”

Motley’s brains went a bit gooeyer.

There was a pause.

Something struck the ground with a wooden thud, and Motley’s whole spirit suddenly flared with a strange, fiery sensation—a little like a static shock, but it didn’t hurt at all. It just felt like something other grabbing hold of her nervous system and giving a slight squeeze.

“Be a good little flower for me,” Poinsettia’s voice echoed, and Motley felt her whole body go totally still as strange pleasure encircled her throat and poured into her ears, she felt Mommy shivering, felt Mommy’s soft body twisting and writhing with delight, “and release her, sweet honeysuckle spirit.”

Motley felt Mommy shiver, and heard a soft, wordless sound slip from Mommy’s lips.

“What was that?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Motley heard Mommy moan, and realized she was moaning it, too.

Motley spilled out of Momm—the honeysuckle dryad’s arms and fell to the ground. The soil was soft and moist from recent rainfall. That was lucky, because Motley’s hands were still bound together at the wrists and quite unable to catch her fall.

Her world slowly spun back into focus. She rolled over and stared up at ‘Sweet Bea’. The voluptuous green-skinned goddess smiled down at her. Those golden eyes gleamed with predatory hunger, then shot to Poinsettia, the Floral Witch of Wellmint, with a look of deferential apology.

Poinsettia smiled tenderly. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, somewhere in her early thirties and just starting to show it. A bright red pinwheel-shaped flower was tucked into long, lustrous black curls, and she was dressed in her travel clothes—dull, earthy greens and oranges, reminding Motley of cedar trees. Her lips were painted a bright red. She stood above Motley as she leaned in to cup Bea’s cheek. “Good girl.”

Motley watched the pair kiss. Her heart fluttered. She wiggled a little in her tendril restraints, not wanting to interrupt—it was a long, sloppy kiss, a kiss between lovers. She watched Bea’s golden tongue play with Poinsettia’s, dripping with golden nectar. The same nectar she’d seen leaking from Bea’s nipples, dripping from the dumdum flowers, drooling from what lay between Mommy’s soft thighs…

When Poinsettia broke away, her expression was dreamy. Bea, on the other hand, looked totally transformed. Her green cheeks had gone bright red, and her lips remained parted, eyes wide with adoring obedience.

“Now, to bed,” Poinsettia whispered, patting Bea on the head. “I’ll attend to you later. And… perhaps we can plant a few cute little hamadryads here for you come spring, if you can keep being so well-behaved.”

Bea beamed and nodded eagerly, desperately. She billowed away and disappeared back into the darkness of the towering, bushy mass of honeysuckle vines.

“Th-Thank you,” Motley whispered dizzily. Unable to curtsey, she managed a little salute as best as she could manage with her bound hands. “Mistress Witch.” She wasn’t rightly sure how to properly address the Princess’s floral witch. Poinsettia was not exactly a noble, after all, but she was certainly no commoner.

Motley wiped her mouth a little, noticing she was drooling a little. Her body, she realized, was totally covered in golden nectar and pale yellow pollen.

Poinsettia barely spared her a smile. Her expression remained distant, but Motley wasn’t sure it was just from the kiss anymore. “Yes, of course. As you were.”

“Y-Yes, Mistress!” Motley squeaked, and saluted again.

She watched Poinsettia depart, the witch’s… awfully maternal hips swinging idly, casually shown off by those comfortable-looking trousers of hers. Motley hadn’t seen any woman wearing trousers since she’d left the countryside, but at this moment, she was positive she’d never seen a woman wear them as well as Poinsettia did.

Only after Poinsettia was almost out of sight did Motley register that she was still bound by the honeysuckle tendrils. Her heart started to pound. “M-Mistr—!”

She cut herself off, blushing—she didn’t want to be unseemly and shout, and Poinsettia seemed so distracted, but—but—

And then the floral witch was fully out of sight, and Motley was left alone, bound and half-naked in the witch’s flower garden.

Motley lay there for a few minutes, clutching at the possibility that Poinsettia might still come back. Maybe the witch had forgotten something. Maybe the witch hadn’t actually forgotten, she’d just needed a moment to herself.

The hope didn’t last long.

Squeezing and contorting like an inchworm, Motley managed to pull herself into a kneeling position. She sat there, wiggling her toes to banish pins and needles and trying to ignore the temptation to lick herself clean.

A few more minutes went by. The morning sun was shining directly down on Motley, and the garden was beginning to fill with the faint buzzings of bees, wasps, and hummingbirds. The air was sweet, with a pleasant muddy earthiness underlaying the floral perfumes.

Motley doubtless would have enjoyed it even more if she were not tied up.

New footsteps echoed down from the path leading in.

Motley’s head lifted. Her heart leaped with relief. “H-Hello!” she called. “Um, excuse me, who… who goes…”

The footsteps drew nearer. These footsteps were not made by the padded boots of a floral witch, Motley realized, but the dainty clacking-clicks of heels. And it was not one pair of heels, but two.

Her heart plummeted as Ayika and Enid walked around the corner, strolling down the path with their arms linked. Enid’s expression was dark and troubled.

They stopped short and stared.

“Why, Motley!” Enid called. She detached from Ayika and hitched up her skirt before hurrying over. “Are we interrupting something?”

“N-No, Enid,” Motley managed, trying her best to sit up straight. Resting on her knees as she was, this felt like a much more promiscuous pose than she’d hoped. “Your timing is most fortunate!”

“Most fortunate,” Ayika echoed, following after at a more leisurely pace.

Enid came to a stop before Motley and leaned down. Her pupils had dilated, Motley saw, as she reached to hook a finger under Motley’s collar. “Just look at you, Motley.” Her nails raked delicately along Motley’s neck, and Motley clenched her teeth to hold in a whimper. Just stay still! If she’s in a bad mood, let her vent it from her system. “Did someone run afoul of the Floral Witch?”

“No, Enid!” Motley shook her head as quickly as she could manage under Enid’s grasp and lifted her head as high as she dared. “Q-Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. She was my, um, savior!”

“Your savior?” Ayika came to stand before the two of them. She did not crouch close as Enid did, simply leaned against an old wych elm trunk with a sly smile. “A savior from what, might I ask?”

“From Mo—” Motley bit the words down. She already saw Enid’s eyes gleam with understanding and so quickly pressed on, “—a, ah, a powerful dryad with a terrible hunger for hapless maidservants! So, um, we should really be leaving as quick as possible. The kind Mistress Poinsettia likely shan’t be back for some time.”

“Poinsettia rescued you, you say?” Enid hadn’t released the collar of Motley’s dress. She leaned down lower. “And yet she left you like this.”

“Trapped and bound.” Ayika shook her head in what was surely false sympathy. “And easy prey.”

“Oh, I’m sure she didn’t mean to!” Motley shifted, lowering her gaze. Her stockings were sunk deep into the soil; she wasn’t looking forward to explaining these stains to the launderers. “She certainly wanted to help me! I think she was just—just very distracted.”

“Distracted enough to forget you existed, even!” Enid pulled slightly at Motley’s collar, forcing Motley to lift her head again. Enid was biting her lip, anticipation shimmering in those pretty gray eyes. “Because you weren’t a person to her, Motley. She saved you from another predator because you happened to belong to her Lady. More a token than a girl. That’s all.”

Her grip tightened. Motley trembled.

Enid seemed to hesitate. Then she dropped to one knee and leaned in very close. She smiled wickedly, releasing Motley’s collar to instead gently grasp her directly by the neck. Motley squeaked as Enid tipped her head, forcing Motley’s lips level with her own.

“You’ll get used to it, stupid slut,” she whispered.

Motley shivered. She longed to lean forward, to kiss her Mis—to kiss Enid, whose lips were so sweet, and so soft, and they looked a little dry, and Motley knew she could wet them…

“Th-That’s not why she forgot me,” she whispered back. “I—at least, I don’t think so. If she did neglect my rescue, it’s only because she has a terrible storm clouding her mind at the moment. I… cannot imagine what she must be going through today.”

Enid stared at Motley. Her smile slipped slightly, and oh, how Motley longed to kiss it back into place, kiss those worries away, kiss her own thoughts into silly maidslut goo…

“And just what are you talking about, Motley?” Ayika asked, and Motley remembered they weren’t alone. Enid seemed to, as well, looking up towards the perfectly unmoved smile of the tall noirette. “You mean the Harvest Ball?”

“Mm!” Motley nodded weakly, still staring at Enid’s lips. “V-Verily, um… I mean, sort of. You must have heard of how close Her Ladyship and Mistress Poinsettia were as children.”

“Oh, yes.” Ayika’s lips twitched. She billowed out her dress and sat daintily down on a convenient stone beside them. Even seated, she towered over the two of them. “So very close.”

“A floral witch’s apprentice,” Enid murmured, “and a countess’s only child.” Her fingertips idly traced the hollow of Motley’s throat. “Poinsettia was quite a bit older, wasn’t she?”

“V-Verily. Both children, still! Like sisters, say some.” Motley wobbled a little. “More or less.”

“Oh, say many a great many things. All sorts of scandalous rumors swirl above the heads of those two young girls.” Ayika reached down and started stroking Motley’s hair. Motley’s lips parted in a fragile gasp. “Some even say that the very reason the Countess cast out her floral witch was linked to certain… improprieties.”

Motley blinked. Then she flushed, sparks of indignant anger piercing her docile daze. “Nonsense rumors. Everyone knows the Countess cast out her floral witch because she was taken in by the doctrine of the Paladins Dire at the time. She was convinced that a commoner—and a woman—had no place in her and her new husband’s court.”

“Ah, ah—that was the assumption. She never said it. And her husband didn’t exactly live very long, did he?”

“Still!” Motley glared. “What matters is that Mistress Poinsettia did not see her dear friend for many years. A floral witch cannot easily change patrons or join a sorority coven, and… no doubt they lived in squalor.”

Enid and Ayika didn’t reply. Ayika was checking her nails.

“You know her own mistress died in that time?” Motley asked. “Because she did. And Ponsettia mourned alone. It’s not easy for those in the country who cannot afford a doctor’s services. If your village lacks a healer, one…” A tremble tugged at her voice, but she made herself still. “… gets used to mourning.”

Enid stared at her, eyes glittering.

“A-And then.” Motley made her face brighten; her spirits lifted with her smile. “And then when the Countess dies, and Mistress Poinsettia is invited to return, what does she find?” Unable to move her head—Enid’s grip had tightened—Motley flicked her eyes about instead, gesturing as best she could with her bound hands. “This acre of beautiful wild gardens, kept in order all these years by her old friend in the hopes that one day, she might return to tend it. And then her friend blossoms before her eyes into the—” Her heartbeat quickened. “—the most beautiful woman she’s ever met!”

She felt her cheeks reddening, as they always did lately when the Princess slipped into her thoughts. She paused, steadying herself.

“And maybe she thinks that had she only been here sooner,” Enid murmured with a slight smile, “perhaps that blossoming wouldn’t have taken so long. And then Lily would have been hers by now~”

Motley squirmed under Enid’s smile, but she was leaning a bit into Ayika’s petting. This… wasn’t so bad, this light affection. If only Enid’s grip would stay gentle…

“That’s—well, I wouldn’t quite say that.” She avoided Enid’s gaze. “But regardless, now they are headed to my old employer, the Baroness of Wellmint, for the Harvest Ball. And we will be coming along, too, no doubt! And Mistress Poinsettia must be thinking about how neither we nor she will be able to…” She trailed off, biting her lip.

“And the Princess’s sweet, lovelost Settie will be helpless to protect her.” Ayika leaned in and softly kissed Motley on the cheek. Motley squeaked. “Floral witches are afforded many privileges, but never are they welcome at the balls and parties these nobles hold. To bring your floral witch with you would be to arrive hand-in-hand with your mother.”

“V-Verily.”

Enid’s fingers tightened, and Motley’s eyes flashed back to hers. Enid’s smile had widened.

“Or your Mommy,” Enid cooed. “Isn’t that right, little maid~?”

Motley froze. “I—ah—”

“The Countess and would-be Princess will be totally at their mercy,” Enid went on, her voice sugar-sweet, and Motley felt that other hand slipping down, pushing up Motley’s dress. “And all Settie can do is watch. And envy.”

“She—she’s—”

“Hush, little maid,” Ayika hissed in her ear, and her fingers tightened in Motley’s hair. Motley let out a moan.

Motley’s lips didn’t close as Enid drew nearer, and thoughts of kissing started to fill Motley’s mind with pure sticky molten need as those fingers slipped under her panties and Enid’s voice trickled straight into her opening mind…

“Be good for Mommy, now~”

And Motley’s squeal was muffled by Enid’s soft lips on hers.

* * *

“My darling Lily.” The voice that greeted Lily and Settie as their carriage came to a stop was warm, and rich, and deeply feminine. “Welcome to the Wellmint Barony, Countess. Or should I say Princess?”

Lily hesitated. Once more, she reached up to adjust her hair, checking it in the mirror—

Settie batted her hand away. “Quit fussing!”

Without missing a beat, Lily spun, flung the carriage door open, and gave her most dazzling smile. “Isma!” she exclaimed, and sprang out to—

Wait, no, not kiss the Baroness’s hand. She stumbled. Did they—was this a hugging occasion? Was that—

Baroness Isma of Wellmint beamed and grabbed Lily by the shoulders to yank her into a tight, full-body hug.

Lily almost squeaked. The Baroness was a little stronger than she’d have expected.

Isma had been very favored by her forty-odd years. Her brilliant coppery curls had only recently begun to develop strands of steel, and the subtle lines across her face only emphasized those intense silver eyes. She wore a colorful blue-and-maroon dress with a dark shawl embroidered with golden thread; her neck was adorned with a lavish statement necklace depicting silver dragons curled around opal eggs. The necklace descended low into her ample bosom. The Baroness owned many beautiful necklaces, but Lily was fairly certain this one was new. Her hair rose in a swirling bouffant at the back but fell down to her shoulders at the front, and these locks were dyed black to complement her ruby earrings.

Lily always felt soothed around the Baroness. The attention drawn by Isma’s ostentatious ensembles made her company a safe haven for when Lily needed to be unnoticed for a little bit, and Isma was always happy to provide that shelter.

The Baroness squeezed Lily close. “I trust the journey wasn’t too arduous, my darling?” she murmured in Lily’s ear.

“N-No, Isma.” Lily returned the squeeze, then let her grip loosen slightly to signal the end of the hug.

The Baroness drew back—but didn’t fully let go her—to plant a kiss on Lily’s cheek. Her lips were wet and slightly sticky with lipstick. Lily nearly flinched. “I’m glad to hear it. It’s a warm delight to finally welcome you properly. And the roads were clear?”

“You’re very kind.” Lily dipped her head demurely. “Yes, quite clear.”

Isma smiled down at Lily, gray eyes alight. “Marvelous. That’s absolutely marvelous! I’d been a little worried—” She let go of Lily’s shoulder to pinch two fingers together. “—as we’ve had some accounts of banditry about. Oh, I wouldn’t like to think about what those vagabonds would do to a young girl like you!”

To a young girl like you. How troubling was it that Lily felt a happy little glow inside her at the dark implication’s wording?

“Well, I had Poinsettia with me, Isma.” She smiled and turned back to the carriage. “And I wouldn’t want to be the bandit who disturbed her rest today.”

Poinsettia climbed out of the carriage. She smiled at Isma, although Lily recognized this particular smile as the one she gave to especially cantankerous weeds. “Baroness of Wellmint. You look stunning as ever.”

“Oh, Poinsettia.” Isma smiled sweetly. “You flatter an old woman, sweet girl.”

“Never.” Settie shook her head. She reached over to Lily and adjusted the poinsettia tucked behind Lily’s ear. Lily’s lips tightened; she had to fight not to squirm in embarrassment. “In fact, you look so much like a flower yourself, it’s no wonder you don’t need one in your hair.”

Lily wished she could shrink from sight. Hydra, the Floral Witch of Wellmint, had resigned three years ago due to the alleged poor state of his gardens. Settie knew that. Everyone knew that.

Lily allowed her eyes to close briefly and took a deep breath for steadiness. Deep enough almost to strain the lungs, then held for a few seconds.

“Oh, Poinsettia.” Isma’s smile didn’t falter. Her other hand released Lily’s shoulder to slip down Lily’s arm. “Come! We must get this lovely thing out of the sun’s glare. I can’t stand to see a young girl’s eyes strained.” Her hand reached Lily’s and gently grasped hold.

Tender pleasures blossomed inside Lily. Her eyes shot open. Her lips parted, and she fought to control the sudden outtake of air—she hadn’t been ready—

“The crisp air does her good, Baroness,” Settie said, and she grasped Lily’s other hand.

Lily’s body went rigid. It had to. If she moved, she’d squirm; if she spoke, she’d squeak. If she squirmed, she’d writhe; if she squeaked, she’d moan.

Stay still. She had to stay still, no matter how badly she was quaking inside. But Isma’s fingers were interlacing with hers, and then so were Settie’s. So soft, so delicate. It felt so nice, so sweet, so—even with the gloves, the gentle touches—oh, gods, her knees were in danger of shaking—

She risked an urgent, pleading glance at Settie.

Settie didn’t seem to have noticed. She didn’t pull Lily away from the Baroness, but she wasn’t moving, either. “And you have such a lovely estate to admire.” She gestured around the grounds, which were as neatly manicured and elegantly decorated as Isma herself, full of flowering trees and sculpted shrubs that were certainly not native to the Rose Valley. “Why not take a turn?”

“Oh, come now, Poinsettia.” Isma laughed softly and gave Lily’s hand a squeeze that nearly made Lily whimper. “You’ve been surrounded by the outdoors all day! The Princess will want a change of pace! Won’t you, Lily, darling?” She smiled at Lily.

Lily couldn’t speak for a moment. Her mind was spinning, casting about frantically for words. This was mortifying. The unwanted delights were rising thicker inside her. She felt hyperconscious of every single sensation—the softness of Isma’s hand, the warmth of Settie’s—Isma’s thick, citrusy perfume, Settie’s complex scents of crushed greens and tilled earth—the growing tightness of her own traveling dress—

“The Countess has also been sitting in a small box all day.” Settie was still smiling broadly. “There’s no hurry, is there?”

“Well, no, no hurry.” Isma’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “But I’m sure the Princess wants—”

“My friends,” Lily managed, smiling desperately between the pair, “why don’t we at least go to the veranda, where the sun is less bright and the air is still clear?”

The pair immediately turned their focus to her, giving her wide, generous smiles that made her feel molten inside. No. Stop. Stop, just let go, just—

“Of course, darling,” Isma cooed. She reached up to pet Lily’s hair—incidentally knocking the poinsettia a little loose in the process. Lily suppressed a shiver. “That’s what I really meant, anyways.”

“Well-compromised, My Lady.” Settie’s eyes gleamed. She reached up and fixed the poinsettia. “Why don’t we let the Baroness go on ahead to make sure her staff know to provide proper seating? We’ll just get our things.”

“Oh, surely your people can handle that!” Isma giggled slightly. “Really, Lily, I always tell you that you spoil them. Have my handmaidens been getting lazy with you?”

Lily felt her cheeks heating up. She turned back to the other carriage, from which her three handmaidens were now emerging. Motley in particular looked nervous and was avoiding the Baroness’s gaze.

“We’ll join you shortly, Isma,” Lily said, gently extracting her hands from Isma’s clutches. The bubbly delights ebbed slightly. “I’d like to have a word with ‘my people’ first.”

“Oh, I see.” Isma’s eyes darted between Lily and Settie. She smiled slightly. “Yes, of course, darling. Make sure everything is ‘in its proper place’.”

She turned, dress billowing about in the breeze, and swept back towards the entrance to the estate.

Lily bit her lip, watching Isma depart until the Baroness was likely out of earshot. She turned back to Settie.

Settie raised an eyebrow. “Well? Are you going to put me in my proper place, Lily?”

Lily snapped her hand out of Settie’s. Settie looked a bit startled, like she hadn’t realized she was still holding it. “You,” she said, quiet enough that the servants wouldn’t hear, “were making a scene. Isma is our ally.”

“She’s calling you Princess.” Settie’s eyebrows arched. “You didn’t find that strange?”

“She called me Prince before! She’s always supported my—”

“—your claim,” Settie said firmly, scowling up at one of the manicured trees, “which has not yet been renewed since the transition. She’s trying to flatter you.”

“Well, you don’t say!” Lily stomped her foot, then flushed at how this childish gesture made Settie’s lips quirk upwards. She heard the maids tittering. “That doesn’t mean you antagonize her. What has gotten into you?”

“Nothing.” Settie’s half-smile vanished. She still wasn’t looking at Lily. “Just… a long day’s drive. I didn’t sleep well.”

“You never act like this.” Lily leaned over, trying to catch Settie’s eye. “That… posturing, it’s…”

“Right.” Settie shifted her weight and avoided Lily’s gaze. “Just tired. I apologize, My Lady.”

“You can call me Lily when it’s just us.” Lily huffed, tilting to the other side. “Just… behave yourself when it’s not! For both of our sakes! You’re the one always telling me about the expectations we’ve got to meet.”

Poinsettia nodded slightly. She still wasn’t meeting Lily’s gaze.

Unable to bear it any longer, Lily gave up and turned away, stalking over to the horses for the main carriage. She glanced up at Mr. Telview, her coachman, a tall man with striking red hair usually covered by his flat cap. “Thank you, Mr. Telview.”

Mr. Telview smiled slightly. He reached to the side and tossed Lily a small bag. “Their oats, m’lady.”

Lily beamed up at him. She took out a handful and offered it to the two old mares, giggling slightly at their eagerness.

“M’lady.” She glanced back up at him. Mr. Telview’s eyes were narrowed. “She was right, y’know.”

“A-About…?” Lily pet one of the mares’ snouts. It knickered in ambivalence: it was exclusively there for the treats.

“Bandits.” His brow furrowed. “I didn’t want to say anything and trouble the Mistress Witch’s sleep, but I did see campfire smoke. Not quite far enough from the road for comfort.”

Lily’s breath caught. “Where was this?”

“The Harmony Cliffs.” He scratched his chin. “Not a usual habitat for their get. Unless they’ve made friends with mountain goats.”

Lily giggled uncertainly. She took out another handful and held it out with her hand flattened; the horses’ lips tickled her palm as they munched contentedly.

“Or monsters,” Mr. Telview added. “Or a mage of their own.”

Lily’s laughter faded at that. She frowned up at Mr. Telview. “But you didn’t wake Poinsettia?”

“I come prepared for mages.” His eyes hardened, and he patted his side meaningfully. Lily couldn’t quite see what was there, and she preferred not to wonder. “And a well-rested witch is a better match for monsters, anyhow.”

“And mountain goats,” Settie said, and Lily jumped as she felt her chin grasped and her face forcibly turned. Settie smiled slightly up at her as she dabbed at Lily’s cheek with a wet handkerchief. Lily realized after a moment that she was wiping away the Baroness’s lipstick mark. “Well, it’s good to know, Mr. Telview. We’ll have to be careful on the journey back.”

“That some people have to resort to banditry when the nobles can live like this…” Lily looked around at the lavish estate and bit her lip.

The other two didn’t say anything. Lily felt embarrassed and cleared her throat. “Well. Mr. Telview, can you and Ms. Gany make sure the horses are stabled and—”

“Of course, m’lady. You just head inside.” Mr. Telview chuckled. “Wouldn’t do to go ‘spoiling’ us, would it?”

“Ha ha.” Lily shook her hand free of remaining oats and turned to Settie. “Come along, then, Settie. Let’s go see who else has arrived.”

She started walking. After a moment, Settie followed.

“As you wish, Lily,” she heard Settie say quietly.

Lily smiled.

* * *

“I don’t understand.”

Motley wasn’t really talking to anyone in particular. Talking to herself in the cities was a bad habit, she’d learned, but her habits were among the few things about her that felt difficult to break. She adjusted her grip on the bags in her arms, frowning.

She’d gone ahead of the rest of the unpacking crew. She needed fresh air and a clear head after the unbearable tension of that carriage ride—garden incident aside, Enid and Ayika had mostly behaved themselves since the Princess’s reprimand, but hours alone with her in a cramped carriage had been severely testing their resolve.

“What don’t you understand, little Motley?” Motley jumped, broken from her reverie by a warm, husky voice and delicate gloved fingertips brushing the bare patch of her shoulder.

She turned to see the Baroness gazing down at her, leaned over the veranda railing. Her grip on the bags tightened. “I—ah—”

Motley realized she had gone much farther ahead of the rest of the unpacking crew than she’d meant to. She stood at the base of the veranda steps, her former mistress above not quite blocking the way to the top.

“I apologize, m’lady!” Motley squeaked. She hefted her cargo a little higher, as if bags of dresses could serve as a shield. “I-I lost myself a little. I’d best get back to work!”

The Baroness’s smile made her eyes crinkle at the corners. The fingers stroked Motley’s shoulder. “That’s quite a big load for a little creature like you, don’t you think?”

Motley teetered. “Well, I can—” She started up the steps. “My new Mistress trusts me with these, m’lady, so I should like to—”

With perfectly calculated casualness, Baroness Isma leaned over across the top of the stairs and into Motley’s path.

Motley was forced to stop short, doing a little dance between footings to keep from falling backward. She stumbled back to the base of the steps, blushing—

The hand on Motley’s shoulder trailed up her neck to slightly tip up her chin.

“What don’t you understand, my little darling?” the Baroness of Wellmint whispered. “Come, now, there’s no need to swoon. You aren’t mine to punish anymore, Motley.”

Motley’s eyes drifted from Isma’s chest to her sharpened-silver eyes. She wanted to cringe back, but she made herself be brave, because Princess Lily would be brave. Which reminded her—

“I don’t understand why everyone insists on calling her Countess.” She shifted her weight a little, advancing carefully back onto the first step. She tried not to think about what would happen if she fell—forwards or backwards would be equally treacherous. “Did she not already long ago earn the title of Prince?”

The Baroness laughed. It was a good-natured sort of laugh, but her eyes weren’t sharing the same sort of nature at all, Motley thought. “Oh. I have missed you, Motley.”

Motley bit her lip.

“You’re just so… inexperienced with our world. It’s refreshing.” The Baroness’s head tilted. “Motley, a princess—or prince—is a little like a thoroughbred.”

“A thoroughbred?”

“A racehorse, darling. Thoroughbreds are racehorses. Very beautiful, very swift, and very fragile. A thoroughbred needs four healthy legs to stand on.”

Motley nodded uncertainly. She was trying to focus on keeping her bags steady and ignoring the Baroness’s wandering hand.

The Baroness leaned forward over the stairs, hanging onto the railing for balance. Motley whimpered softly, staring helplessly now at Isma’s ample bosom. Isma’s hand briefly slipped lower, touching her breast, and there was nothing Motley could do but take it—if she twisted away, she’d drop the bags.

“As a prince,” the Baroness went on, “her claim stood on solid footing. She had the bloodline. She had the allies. She had the resources, and she had the respect. A good horse, fitted and groomed and ready for racing.”

Motley didn’t like talking about Princess Lily this way. Her lower lip quivered. She wanted to say something, but—

Motley gasped as hot, steamy breath caressed her ear. But—but the Baroness was still leaning above her, practically forcing those breasts into her face, so who—

Someone else moved in behind her and patted her rear.

“But if she wants to be a princess…” Ayika’s little sigh sent tremors of pleasure through Motley’s body. Her shoulders rolled against the waves of tingles. “She still has the bloodline. She has the resources. Her allies seem to remain faithful. But the respect? Well, wearing eggshell-white, the respect has to be earned back.”

“Hello, Ayika, dear.” The Baroness’s hand stroked through Motley’s hair. “Any noble can claim the title, Motley. Many do. The Rose Valley is overrun with would-be princes and princesses in all corners of the land. But if a thoroughbred tries to trot on uneven footing, it’s… well, it’s tacky. It’s just not how it’s done.”

“And she might just break a leg,” Ayika murmured. Her chin settled on Motley’s shoulder. “And then she’s nothing.”

“But she is a Princess.” Motley wiggled, blushing hot, trying not to press into the Baroness’s petting. “She is to me!”

Ayika laughed softly. But the Baroness was quiet. Motley felt that hand stroking her hair tense, and for a split-second, she thought she was about to be shoved in, but—

“And to me,” Isma whispered, and Ayika’s laughter stopped. “My Princess.” There was a pause. “But these things take time, kitten.”

Baroness Isma released Motley’s hair and moved out of the way, and Motley bounded up the steps, nearly tripping in her eagerness to escape. She only slowed her pace when she was inside and fully out of sight of the pair. Out of their reach, at least for a few seconds.

Motley shivered.

As she entered the grand hall, Motley sensed a pair of eyes on her.

There was a strange girl leaning against an open doorway up ahead, halfway the way across the hall from Motley but definitely looking at Motley. The girl was clad in the colorful attire of a jester, with very bright red red eyes, bright pink-painted lips, and a face painted in the hues of a soft lavender twilight.

Motley paused, then hesitantly nodded toward the jester. She had never seen this person before in her life, she was sure. She’d never known Wellmint to retain a jester. Maybe they’d arrived with one of the guests? Or she’d been hired as special entertainment for the ball?

The jester smiled at her, then winked and ducked through the doorway, disappearing into the hallway beyond.

Motley blinked. Then she shrugged and continued looking for the way to the service stairs. She wasn’t used to entering the castle through the front like this; it and the teasing had her all out of sorts.

Oh, she had become so, so accustomed to how things worked in Wellseek. She hadn’t even been back in Wellmint for an hour, and already she’d been touched and groped.

A prayer ran through her heart that the other visiting nobles wouldn’t share Baroness Isma’s fondness for tormenting their servants.

* * *

“Again, pets.”

One knight lay on the ground, panting for breath and clutching her leg. The other knight crouched above her, sword pointed at her throat. Their armor fully covered their bodies, but it was crafted to fit the form, and these were lovely feminine forms the armor embraced. Red ribbons dangled from their helmets and wrists and billowed in the wind.

The command seemed to catch both knights like fine wires. They each snapped to a prim, posed standing position—though a whimper of pain escaped the loser as she struggled to her feet. “P-Princess, my leg…”

Princess Anairete giggled. She leaned over from her lavish seat, lashes fluttering. “Yes? Is something the matter, Shard?”

She knew the pretty face under that helmet by heart. She knew those quivering doll lips, those wide green eyes, those thick lashes no doubt glistening with tears. She knew those ornate designs patterned across Shard’s neck, cheeks, and forehead—unique patterns drawn just for Shard to complete the patterns carved into her armor.

But that pretty face was only for her.

“No, Princess,” she heard Ser Shard whisper. Then, louder, “No, Princess.”

Anairete smiled. She rose from her throne, suppressing a laugh at how her two Damselfly Knights instinctively flinched at her approach. She drew in close, her long blue-green dress sweeping behind her—its seafoam trim trailing through the dust of the sparring ring—and reached up to cup Shard’s cheek.

Ana and Shard could both feel through the armor. She felt the heat of Shard’s cheek, the involuntary intake of breath, the softness of her pretty little warrior’s ever-tender scars. Ana felt Shard shivering with pleasure at the mere touch of Ana’s hand, and knew Ser Gossamer, behind her, was probably squirming with desperate envy.

“Shard,” Anairete said softly. She leaned in closer; she wanted her voice to echo inescapably within the metal shell. “Are you worried about your leg?”

Hesitation. Then a tiny, adorably unsure nod.

“Oh, pet.” Anairete’s fingers left Shard’s cheek to trail through the ribbons. Each was covered in tiny, fine script, drawn in red ink to be barely visible against the silk organza. “My poor, stupid little precious girl~”

“A-Ah—”

“You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to it, don’t you?” Ana’s other hand slipped down to feel the damage. As she’d guessed, Shard’s leg had gotten twisted beneath her and was badly sprained. “I could make you fight her again and again and again, make you break those pretty bodies over and over, but I would never let that leg get really seriously hurt. You know that, don’t you?”

“I-I… I~”

Break was a triggerword for this one. Ana licked her lips, savoring the sight of Shard struggling to withstand it. The sound of Shard’s pathetic little voice slowly melting into the Knight’s Trance almost had her purring.

“Because.” Ana’s grip tightened on the ribbons, and she slowly twisted them around her wrist, reeling Shard’s head back. Her lips brushed against Shard’s jawline, feeling the tenderness of the knight’s cheek through the armor, the tiny vibrations of Shard’s trembling lip. “It’s not your leg. Is it?”

Shard was panting. Her whole body was shaking with the effort of remaining standing. Inside that armor, Anairete knew those pretty eyes were glazing over, and any silly pain was being totally drowned out by the desperate, stupid need she’d been programmed with. So much need.

The Princess felt her own hand trembling slightly as she brought it to touch Shard’s far cheek. She turned her knight to face her. Good. Need more. “Is it?”

Shard nuzzled against Anairete’s hand. “No, Princess.”

“Whose is it?”

“Yours, Princess.” A dumb, drunken smile pulled at Shard’s voice, even as her words quivered with useless, unfelt bodily rebellion.

Ana beamed. “There’s my good, sweet knight.” She released Shard’s ribbons. “Gossamer, pet, you’d better take your sister to get that leg fixed up. By the girls, not Witness.”

“Yes, Princess!” Ser Gossamer chimed, taking Shard by the hand and wrapping an arm around Shard’s waist. Shard leaned heavily upon her fellow knight as the pair withdrew. “Come, sister. The Handmaidens will take care of you now.” Gossamer leaned in to whisper something in Shard’s ear. Ana couldn’t hear it, but she saw Shard flinch.

She watched the pair depart with a lingering smile. The Damselflies would be having fun tonight ‘punishing’ their loser. This was, what, the third loss for Shard this month? I wonder if she’s being pushed a little too hard.

She blew a stray lock of rosy dawn-red hair from her eyes and turned away. I’m sure she enjoys it. Or else she would start winning.

She noticed that one of her servant maids had entered the courtyard from the other end. The maid’s eyes were cast down toward the path. She was carrying a saucer and a cup of tea. Odd.

Anairete’s eyes narrowed. This maid was a lovely little ornament like all of her servants, but Ana always struggled to trust anyone she hadn’t drawn on yet.

“M-My Princess,” the maid whispered as she approached, “this—”

“I didn’t order any tea.” Anairete smiled sweetly. She took a step forward, closing the gap faster than the maid had clearly expected, and her hand took the hand holding the cup. “So what kind of poison did you pour into it?”

“P-Poison?” The maid blinked rapidly. Ana noticed the rise and fall of her chest quicken a little. “I-I didn’t—”

“Or do you not know the kind?” Ana raised her eyebrows. “Did you just take the packet from your contact and pour it right in? But I feel like they would have known to warn you not to surprise me like this. It’s really very sloppy.”

“No. It’s not poison.” The maid’s hand was shaking in Ana’s. “I-I was just…”

“You were just…? Come on, now, you’ve got to have some kind of story prepared!” Ana giggled. “This is really kind of pathetic.” She squeezed the maid’s hand. “And it’s increasingly in danger of getting boring.”

She squeezed hard.

“P-Please!” the maid cried, pain streaking across her pretty features. “L-Lady An—!”

The maid froze, instantly realizing her mistake. Her eyes shot to Anairete’s in pure panic.

Anairete’s heart leaped. Yes. Yes.

She released the maid’s hand.

“P-Princess,” the maid whispered. Too late. “Princess Anairete.” Much too late.

Anairete’s hand rose in front of the maid’s face. Her fingers joined and pulled slightly, slowly, as if tugging at a fine, delicate thread.

“Tell me your name,” Anairete said softly. She made her voice tender, intimate.

The maid licked her lips. She stared at Ana’s fingers. “Dulcia.”

“Dulcia. You know, you’re really very pretty, aren’t you?” Ana’s hand repeated the gesture. Her fingers joined, then pulled. Slow, gentle, spiderlike motions.

“I-I—” Such an adorable little stammer. “Th-Thank you, Princess.”

“Did you know that you were pretty?” Join and pull. Tug.

Dulcia’s eyes slipped from the fingers and met Anairete’s. Pretty brown eyes fell into Anairete’s oceans of deep lavender-blue, and Anairete smiled.

“I don’t think you did,” Anairete said, and she giggled. “You’ve never been told that before. Poor, silly girl.”

“I—I have, um—”

Join and pull. Ana’s delicate gloved fingers just kept pulling those invisible threads out, and she could tell Dulcia was trying not to look, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. “You’ve never been told what a gorgeous, adorable, pretty little doll you are.”

“I…” Dulcia was scared. Scared of contradicting her. It made it so easy.

“Dulcia,” Anairete whispered. She reached under her pannier and drew out a sleek, slender paintbrush. “You don’t need to be afraid of me.” Join and pull. Tugging, drawing out. Dulcia’s eyes had slipped back to Ana’s fingers, unable to bear the extended eye contact. “You’re such a lovely, precious little girl, and you love your Princess, don’t you?”

Dulcia nodded uncertainly. She hadn’t seen the brush yet. Her eyes were on those fingers, and they both knew what would happen if she looked away, but they also both knew what would happen if she didn’t.

Pull. Tug.

“You think so little of yourself,” Anairete cooed. “Shy, nervous Dulcia. Plain, unwanted Dulcia.”

Dulcia whimpered. She wanted to shake her head. But the fingers tugged. Pulled.

“Just a dumb, blushing, plain-faced little wallflower.” Pull. Tug. It was a bit like working wool, Ana imagined, though she’d never bothered to see the work being done. Drawing out the threads, stretching them into a more workable shape. “Barely worth anything to anyone.”

“Princess,” Dulcia whined, and it was as much a plea as it was an apology, but what was done was done. And Anairete was staring to get worked up watching the way Dulcia’s eyelids were starting to quiver.

“But I think you’re adorable, Dulcia. So pretty. So cute.” Anairete brought the brush up to her lips and licked it, sucked the tip of the bristles, wetting them generously. The bristles came out sparkling like lit gunpowder. “And do you know what? I’m actually the very first person to tell you so.”

“Oh,” Dulcia whispered. Her eyes had briefly strayed to the brush. Anairete could see the panic starting to ignite inside the girl, but Ana just kept tugging and pulling, and Dulcia’s eyes were already back where they belonged.

“And Dulcia? Sweet, lovely, shy, meek little dumb Dulcia?” Fuck, looking at her squirm, Anairete couldn’t resist lathering a little. “Your perfect Princess’s pretty, brainless, adorable, neglected little girl?”

Dulcia was whining and writhing in embarrassment. Much more praise and she might actually panic and try to run, and then they would have a proper hunt. But Ana was pretty sure that the drop would come first. She could already see certainties starting to waver in Dulcia’s eyes. Tug. Pull. Pull…

“I suspect,” she went on sweetly, “that this blushing little useless lovedoll is about to develop a bit… of a crush~”

“Nnn—” Ana saw Dulcia’s throat constrict, choking the word down. She gave her head the tiniest shake.

“That’s right.” Anairete’s voice lowered. Her fingers tugged. “You can already feel it, can’t you?”

Dulcia blinked rapidly.

“Aw, that’s so cute!” Ana giggled. “You think blinking’s gonna help.” Tug. Pull. “But my fingers are still here, aren’t they? So slender and pretty. Reaching right into your brain and just…” Pull. Nice and slow. “… drawing you out~”

“I. I?”

Without even noticing, Dulcia’s breathing had begun to match the motions of Ana’s hand.

“You.” Anairete smirked. “You’re going to say something for me, Dulcia.” Pull. Tug. “Just one little thing.”

“My…” Dulcia blinked again. Her lashes weren’t rising quite as high now, though. She looked confused. Lost.

“Yes. Good girl.” Dulcia’s cheeks reddened. “That’s gonna be the first word of it, actually! You might be a meek, shy, timid little thing…” Anairete brought the paintbrush up to Dulcia’s neck. “But you’re not completely stupid yet.”

Her thumb pressed against her fingertips and mercilessly drew Dulcia out. Tug. Pull. Dulcia’s lashes were fluttering weakly, and the confusion in those eyes was thickening into a glassy daze. Her lips moved soundlessly.

“You can feel it,” Ana whispered. “Can’t you?”

Dulcia’s lips mouthed a ‘no’.

“That’s right, of course you can. Feel my nice, soft, slender fingers taking hold of your mind.” Tug. Pull. “Nails digging in a little. Pulling. Drawing you out from under all those silly protective layers and into the cold open air.” At that moment, perfectly on cue, the wind picked up around them. Dulcia visibly shivered. “Gooood girl. That’s right. All helpless and exposed. How does it feel, Dulcia?”

Dulcia’s lips quivered.

“Aw, so shy~!” Anairete laughed at her little maid. “But tell me now.” She deepened her mimed tugs, drawing those invisible threads farther and farther away and watching how Dulcia’s head swayed closer each time. “Tell me how it feels to be drawn… right… out. Now.”

“Cold,” Dulcia whispered.

“What was that?” Pull.

“Cold,” Dulcia said, squirming. Her eyes were locked on Ana’s painted crimson nails. “F-Feels cold, Princess.”

“Cold. Exposed. Raw.” Anairete twirled the paintbrush in her fingers and drew the tip of its handle along Dulcia’s neck. Dulcia squeaked. “Your mind is right here in my hand now, my dumb little doll.” She pushed her hand in closer and then pulled a little farther. “I’m pulling you right out of yourself, Dulcia.”

“Y-Yes, Princess.”

“Your mind is in my hand.” Pulling farther. “Be a good girl and say it for me?”

“I-In your hand,” Dulcia whimpered.

“What was that?”

“My…” Dulcia bit her lip. “My mind’s… in your hand, um… Princess…” Her eyelids were sinking lower. She stared at Ana’s open palm.

Princess Anairete smirked.

She clenched her hand into a fist, and Dulcia let out a helpless squeal.

“That’s riiight~!” Ana sang. She brought the closed fist up to her lips and blew on it gently, and giggled as Dulcia whined and squirmed—she hadn’t told Dulcia to feel it yet, but the little traitor was a fast learner. “It’s mine now, Dulcia. That means I know everything about you, so there’s no more secrets, okay?”

“P-Princess—” Dulcia was panting. “Princess, Princess—”

“Drop.”

Dulcia’s eyelids dropped.

Ana partially opened her hand and gave her palm an audible little kiss. She smiled as Dulcia twitched. “What a stupid little failure of a spy. You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

“A-Ah.”

Ana’s smile widened. She cupped the maid’s chin with her hand and leaned in very close, so her open palm was directly between the two of them and her lips were inches from Dulcia’s.

“I know you’re a meek, shy, blushdrunk little weakling,” she whispered to her palm.

Dulcia wriggled. Her cheeks were getting very red.

“I know you’re pathetic, and awkward, and just no good at talking to people at all, poor little thing~”

Dulcia’s lower lip quivered.

“Just a poor, pent-up, whining little wallflower.”

Dulcia let out a lost mewl, rubbing her thighs together.

Anairete bounced on her toes with excitement. She lowered the paintbrush, took Dulcia by the hand, and slowly, she guided the tranced maid’s hand down. The little slut could figure out the rest all by herself. “And above all else… I know what you think of yourself, little Dulcia.”

Dulcia’s eyelids were twitching, but her breathing remained perfectly even. She couldn’t wake up. Her own hand was pulling up her skirt…

“You think that you are plain, Dulcia,” Anairete purred, and she felt a thrill of glee at Dulcia’s tiny little flinch. “You’ve never been told anything else.”

“Ah.” The noise was deliciously pathetic. Dulcia’s hand shoved up the skirt to press right between her thighs.

“You’re a plain girl, you suppose,” Ana went on sweetly. “When people say anything else, it’s really just to mock you, to tease you, to make you squirm.” Ana leaned forward and kissed Dulcia softly on the cheek. “And it works, obviously. That cruel, sarcastic praise just pours all over you and makes you more flustered, shyer, weaker, and so… so… needy~”

An adorable breathy moan split from those quivering lips. Dulcia was rubbing herself through her underwear right in the middle of the castle courtyard.

Anairete hummed to herself as she brought the paintbrush back up. She drew a slow line across Dulcia’s throat with the handle’s tip. “Except with me.”

Dulcia’s eyelids twitched. She whimpered.

“That’s right~!” Ana kissed Dulcia on the cheek again. “When I say it, I mean it, little Dulcia. You’ve never, ever been told how pretty you are before, how adorable you look in that dress, how lovely and precious and beautiful you are when you blush, so when I say it—” Her lips brushed Dulcia’s earlobe. She gave it a little nip. “—your mind just turns into lovey, melty goo. Isn’t that right, gorgeous?”

“A-Ahn~” Dulcia’s breathing was still perfectly even, but her lips were parted, and she was panting.

“Thaaat’s right. Because you know how shy, stupid, insecure introverts get when a pretty girl shows them the slightest bit of affection, when a pretty girl gives them even the teensiest drop of praise, don’t you?”

Dulcia moaned hopelessly. Of course she knew. Maybe she’d even been that pretty girl once for someone, Ana thought—maybe she’d been that charming flirt who could hold a whole room’s attention with her smile, who could push herself into shy virgins’ fantasies with a single compliment. And now she never would be again. She knew just what it did to someone’s brain, and now it was happening to her.

Ana couldn’t resist giving Dulcia another wet kiss on the jawline. “You’re just going to fall helplessly,” she hissed, “pathetically, adorably, wantonly in love~”

Dulcia cried out hoarsely and grinded her hips against her own hand, drooling on her tits as her whole body rocked to the rhythm of those slow, tranced breaths.

“But before we get to that. Just one more thing.”

Princess Ana brought the hand ‘holding Dulcia’s mind’ back…

… and gave Dulcia a little slap.

Dulcia’s eyes shot open as wide as dinnerplates. She stared at Ana, panicked, her gaze unfocused, her lips quivering. Her eyes shot down, and she squeaked and tore her hand away, frantically shoving down her windswept skirt—

“Dulcia,” Ana said sweetly, and raised the hand again before Dulcia’s eyes. “Dulciaa~”

Dulcia blinked.

Pull. Tug.

“I want you to say one thing for me, little Dulcia,” Ana cooed, and giggled, because it was always too fucking hot when they thought they got to be Up. “Just one thing. There’s just one thing I want to write on that little mind before it finishes slipping back into that dumb head of yours. Okay?”

Dulcia visibly swallowed. She blinked again, and as Ana’s hand drew out, the glaze in those pretty brown eyes was already pouring back in.

Ana twirled her paintbrush around until the wet tip of the bristles met the hollow of Dulcia’s throat.

“Tell me,” she whispered, “what makes you plain.”

* * *

It hadn’t been poison, as it turned out.

It had been a message, delivered by kettle-send. A second message, this one delivered by a paper bird, had arrived soon after.

Anairete lounged back on her fainting couch, listening to Dulcia whimper and whine as the crushdrunk little kneeling slut pathetically nuzzled Anairete’s leg.

Anairete looked up from the newly unfolded letter to admire her handiwork. Two patterns had been drawn across Dulcia’s skin in dark scarlet ink: one on her neck and one on her bared chest. They were twisting, twining patterns of renewal. Just to make sure that Dulcia didn’t forget what she’d learned about herself today.

Even Ana’s eye contact made Dulcia’s cheeks go red with shame. Her head dropped, and Anairete heard her babble something grateful.

Anairete sighed airily and turned back to the letter. Even the glee of breaking in a new servant felt a little cold at the moment.

Another ball I’m not invited to.

Her tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth.

The Lady of Hopesway lowered the paper to her lap, but held onto it. She took in several deep breaths, trying to disentangle the sick, twisting knot forming inside her.

They would have invited him.

“Echo,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.

“Yes, Princess?” Ser Echo stood at attention beside the door. Echo was dressed just like the others, though Anairete had made her armor just a little bit tighter to show off those curves—and to ‘help’ Echo with her little claustrophobia problem.

“We had a good harvest this year, didn’t we?”

“Yes, My Lady.” Her knights were allowed to call her that. Only her knights.

“And the people are fed and happy?”

“Yes, My Lady.”

Ana smiled fondly up at Echo. She could tell her scent was carrying over by how the last word quivered on the dumb mutt’s tongue.

She parted her legs slightly and guided Dulcia inward, underneath her dress. “My peasants are happy. They adore me. Can any other noble in this whole valley say that, do you think?”

Echo hesitated. “Of course not, My—”

A short laugh from behind Ana cut off Echo’s words.

Anairete’s head turned to face the new arrival. Witness stood in the closet doorway, smiling.

Ana stared at Witness, hating the pretty creature.

“Do you disagree?” she asked coolly. She didn’t bother asking what Witness was doing in her closet; there was never a good answer.

Witness kept smiling. She raised her hand and pointed one bandaged finger.

Anairete looked down at the letter.

She smiled slightly, suppressing a pang of hurt. “Wellseek. Well, of course they would.”

For several uninterrupted seconds, Dulcia’s soft whimpers and kisses and licks—and Ser Echo’s cute, pathetic rattling breaths as she started huffing the scent Anairete had trained her on—were all that filled the room.

“Dame Echo,” Princess Anairete declared, shoving Dulcia away—the humiliated maid seemed to instantly remember herself, her eyes widening as she scrambled out of sight—and rising to her feet. “Be a good girl and get my carriage ready.”

“Princess?”

Princess Anairete strode out of the chamber, humming to herself.

“I adore dancing,” she said happily, flashing Witness a defiant smile. “And I simply must give my congratulations to the ascendant Princess in person~”