The House on the Edge of Midnight

The world shifted as Lucien Lascaux stepped into the land of the fae. The change was subtle, as though the shadows of the great oaks around him now tilted towards the evening sun, as if the leaves – a strange, unnatural orange – now blew into the cool evening breeze. The young man took a deep breath as he tucked a lock of strawberry blonde hair behind his ear. He had been trained for this, had studied the wild places of the world from the safety of the adventurer’s guild, and even ventured to other realities, for short periods of time, accompanied by his mentors. Yet here there was no safety, for it was a real mission – one of his first, save only a pair of perfunctory goblin assignments that were really just a way for the guild to put coin in his pocket that he might buy proper gear.

His hand went to his rapier, the fruit of those labours, and he walked on into the forest. There was no path, as such, but the trees and brambles seemed to adjust slightly at his approach, almost funnelling him towards an unknown destination.

The whole forest, in fact, gave the strong impression of watching him. stepping over a tree root he heard a skittering of tiny feet, “Intruder,” came the intangible whisper echoing off itself a hundred times as though a gossip passed between all the small creatures of the forest.

There was birdsong too, but the notes, while pretty, seemed harsh and cruel. A song not of joy but of vicious, mocking laughter veiled only with such sugary shell that its cruelty might be plausibly denied.

Lucien furrowed his brow, trying to find that meditative calm that might turn his anxiety into readiness for action. The task was dangerous to be sure, but success in such an adventure might yet make his name as a hero. Three had come before him, to the woods outside the village of Chardonne, that they might investigate the area. Village folk in the area had been going missing for two years or more and, while the first such instance had been ascribed to wolves, all that had changed last winter when ‘little Jenny’ had gone missing. The village girl, a scrappy tomboy of ten summers, had returned a week later a crippled old lady, telling mad tales of a magical house in the woods that had stolen all her years from her.

‘Fae,’ the guild had said the moment the village had put out the call for assistance. They had sent their best first, Sir Mortimer Bearheart was a hero in the warrior mould, an enormous bear of a man with a thick black beard and arms the size of most men’s torsos. He rode off three months past, riding his fearsome black charger and carrying his great Warhammer by his side.

A month later they sent Paladin Galwyn, the beautiful and honourable champion of the moon goddess. Lucien could still see her in his mind’s eye, her silver blonde hair streaming behind her like a battle standard as she reared her white palfrey up onto its hind legs and raised her silver sword, the image of a romantic painting brought to life.

Another month passed, and, with neither the knight nor the paladin returned, the guild had sent Reinhardt. The young man had been an attempt at a more finessed approach, his field of expertise lying more in stealth, trickery and quick actions with his twin daggers than some vainglorious battlefield charge. Lucien pictured the man, his twinkling blue eyes and rosy cheeks, the way his auburn hair fell into his eyes just so. He blushed slightly; the man was his friend, and never mind that the guild had forbidden it, he was going to get him back.

“Good evening, young one!”

Lucien looked about – who had said that? There was no one but him for what seemed miles around.

“Up here, young one!”

His eyes shot upwards, alighting on a pretty bluebird perched on a branch overhead.

“Did you just speak?” The young man knew to expect strange things from the fae wilds, but it was no less disconcerting to find himself in conversation with the strange creature.

“I should hope so,” the bird chirped, its voice light and sing-songy; “Else you’d be talking to yourself, and that’s always a bad sign.”

Lucien gave a wan smile. “Madam Bluebird, erm, do you have a name?”

The bird looked pensive, “Once, perhaps I did, but for my life I can’t remember it. You might call me a bird-brain, but I wouldn’t thank you for it!”

“I see, in that case, what might I call you?”

“Madam Bluebird, you called me? It sounds well enough and will serve fine for our purposes.”

“Well, Madam Bluebird, I wonder if I might ask for your assistance. You see, some of my friends have gone missing,” he told her of Reinhardt and the others with a pang, “and I would ask if you have seen sight of them in the course of your daily business?”

The small animal paused; Lucien almost fancied he saw it thoughtfully thumbing it’s chin with one of its wings. “A young red-headed man? Yes, I’ve seen him before. As for the others, I couldn’t say.”

Lucien felt a jolt at the news, “That will serve, Madam Bluebird, now if you could tell me where he went?”

She shook her tiny head sadly, “He was on his way to The House on the Edge of Midnight. You should turn back, young man. Nobody should ever go there.”

Lucien took a breath. The whimsical name did not inspire confidence, his eye going back through his studies to think on any number of powerful fae lords with similarly bizarre sounding abodes. Yet, he was a hero, after all, and such things were his speciality. And Reinhardt…

“Madam Bluebird, how might I reach this house?”

“Such a thing is easily done,” she sang in response, “Simply walk on this way until you reach the great oak, then turn left, then left again, and then go straight.”

“Left and left again?” Lucien raised his eyebrows, “That will only lead me back to where I started.”

“No,” her voice suddenly seemed as though it held great sorrow, “No, it won’t.”

*

Lucien reached the great oak and did the mandated about turn, realising anew just how unnatural was the forest in which he now found himself. Where once his path had been a carnival of autumnal orange, almost too bright and pastoral to be real, now that same path was in the throes of winter. The bough he had pushed aside but a moment ago hung heavy with frost and a light powdery snow clung to the black, gnarled roots of the trees that surrounded him. He set off forward again, his feet making a light squishing sound as they imprinted into the frozen white.

The sun was setting now and the orange sky and mocking birdsong had been replaced by a pale white moon – bigger by far than any he had before seen – and the intermittent hoots of far off owls. The woods seemed to lead him there, subtle movements of branches and arrangements of blackberry thorns pushing him on but lilting slightly to the right, so that eventually he saw before him the House. It was a wonder he hadn’t seen it before, its endless spires of ebony and ivory silhouetting against the moonlight and its vast gardens, marble pathways and bush mazes seemed to cut an area the size of a small town from the woodland.

How hadn’t he seen it? He took a step back, curious in spite of himself. A thick thornbush came into his line of sight, blocking the thing from view. So, he slipped his hand into the thornbush and, ignoring the pinpricks, fashioned for himself a small view. Nothing – only more thick forest where but a moment before had been the House. The experience sent a shiver down his spine, and he gripped the handle of his rapier as though to steady himself.

‘Take a breath,’ he thought, ‘you knew before you arrived how strange this might be,’ his eyes narrowed with determination, and he stepped forward again – ‘remember Reinhardt.’

The treeline dropped, and the wintery snow covering along with it, leaving only neatly manicured lawns of blue grass that fluttered pleasingly as the springtime wind blew over their blades. Lucien crept forward, following the winding marble path that led towards the great building but looking around furtively as he did so – it would not do to be seen.

The gardens contained all the trivial amusements of the idle rich. There was a great game of lawn chess paused in mid-game, pretty ponds filled with koi and goldfish, and peaceful promenades leading through flowerbeds of red, blue, pink, and several other colours he had never seen before.

Then, from the corner of his eye he caught a flurry of movement, felt sure as anything he heard the galloping of hooves, and whipped his head around in alarm. It was the chessboard, serene and quiet as ever. Except, he wondered, had that knight always been on the left side of the board? His stomach lurched but his heart was brave and so he ventured on.

Amidst the flowerbeds and the little orchards dotted with pink cherry blossoms there was hidden a recessed little amphitheatre, a hemisphere of stone seating focused on a wooden stage, upon which stood a small applewood harp. Lucien crept closer, his eyes drifting to the harp strings in wonder – the harp was playing itself!

A soft, dreamy melody came from the harp, as if to assure Lucien that all would be well. ‘Sit down,’ it invited, ‘enjoy the music for just a few moments. There will be time enough to find your friends – why, one of you is here already!’

Lucien nodded, looking blankly to the back row of benches. Sir Mortimer, sure as anything, his head resting on his mailed fists as he gazed, enraptured at the instrument.

“Stop!” came a cry as Lucien stepped forward, and he checked himself, eyes whipping up to the nearby cherry branch.

“Madam Bluebird!”

The little creature gestured to the floor intently, “Do not step over that line!”

Lucien stared down in shock. Beneath his feet, he saw the markings of a circle, razor thin and yet glowing an infernal scarlet. He took a quick step back and cried out, “What is that?”

“Tis The Harp of Waking Slumber,” the animal said gravely. “To step over that line is to be beholden to that thing. Mark your comrade, who even now lies in its grasp.”

He looked more closely at the mighty knight, suddenly realising how loosely his mail now hung. His bull’s strength had left him, his once thick neck and shoulders now as thin and atrophied as if he had the wasting illness. He watched the harp with almost obsessive vigilance, yet there was a weariness now to his countenance, and heavy grey bags hung under his eyes. His cheeks were sallow and pale, and the black brambly beard was now heavily streaked with grey.

“But – Sir Mortimer, there must be something we can do to help him?” Lucien asked, feeling a little faint at the sight of the great hero, sat in languid torpor for what seemed like years.

The bluebird only shook her head. “The House is the creature of its Master, only He can break the enchantment on your friend.”

“Then, where may I find this master?”

“He has his apartments adjacent to the main ballroom. The safest way might be through the kitchens,” the bluebird offered, gesturing across the garden to a small, whitewashed, wooden door.

Lucien took a last reluctant look at Sir Mortimer and stepped forward.

“A word of caution, young man,” the bird chirped, “Whatever else you might do be sure not to eat anything that old cook offers you.”

Lucien nodded, “I won’t, Madam Bluebird. And I thank you once again for your advice.”

The bluebird gave a sorrowful chirp, “He knows you are coming.”

*

The whitewashed door opened with a quiet but steady creak, and Lucien eased himself through the half-open door cautiously. The room he found himself in was far from the luxury of the outer gardens, a variety of smoked hams and sausages dangled from a low-hanging timber ceiling and the floor was hewn from rough stone. There was however a wonderful smell percolating through these lower rooms and as if by instinct Lucien found himself following the scent through the corridors until he found himself in a large kitchen. The room was stiflingly hot, owing to the enormous central fire. Upon the stood a great brass cooking pot being stirred by a plump old lady with a wooden spoon.

“Hello flower,” she said cheerfully, meeting his eye as he entered the room and wagging her spoon at him coquettishly. Her eyes were warm and friendly, but Lucien knew from his studies the telltale green glint that spoke of arcane fae magic. “Not many of the master’s guests find their way down here.”

Lucien gave her a nervous smile, “Actually, I’m just trying to find my way up to the ballroom. Perhaps you could tell me how I might…”

“But look at yer – all skin and bones. Never fear, we’ll fatten you up,” the woman interjected jovially, “Come, come!”

She turned and led Lucien through another door into what seemed to be a small dining room and the young man’s heart stopped as he looked about – ‘Reinhardt!’

Yet this was not the Reinhardt he remembered, his merry young friend seemed to have been ensnared by this old cook and the effect was no less pronounced than the fate visited on Sir Mortimer. The lad’s handsome face was now blotchy and round, his nose a mess of broken blood vessels. The effect was far, far from the full, joyful countenance of one who enjoyed good food and wine, instead his cheeks were pallid and sweaty as though he had been eating compulsively for months. His rich auburn hair was languid and greasy, and a thin line of meat sauce ran from his lips down his chin.

“What have you done to him?” Lucien demanded, hurrying over to his friend. The man would barely look at him, so intent was he on clearing his latest plate.

“The boy was starving - thin as a rake! I’ve been merely feeding him up is all!” The woman dusted the baking flour from her hands nonchalantly. “Speaking of which, you’re another that could do with a good meal.” She produced as if from nowhere a hearty bowl of steak and ale stew. “Sit down and dig in!”

The old cook turned back to the kitchen, allowing the door to swing shut behind her, and in an instant Lucien grabbed his friend by the shoulders. “Reinhardt, its me, Lucien! Come on, we have to get out of here!”

Reinhardt simply shoved Lucien to one side and dug his spoon back into the bowl.

“Damnit, Reinhardt, the stew is cursed! Leave it, it’s just a fae trick!”

In desperation Lucien grabbed the bowl from his friend and held it away.

“No, give it,” Reinhardt said, sounding as though he had not spoken for weeks. He grabbed Lucien by the lapel and tried to seize the dish from him.

“What’s all that fuss?” came the call from the kitchen, and a shuffling sound gave notice that the woman was on her way back.

Lucien thought quickly, tipping the remains of Reinhardt’s bowl atop his own meal and switching the dishes around. “All finished here auntie!”

The woman smiled indulgently, “Ahh that’s what I want to see, a healthy appetite. Now then, you’ll be wanting more I take it?”

Lucien nodded dutifully. “It’s wonderful, auntie, another bowl would be a treat!”

“You’ll just have to wait a moment, flower. Take your seat and I’ll be back with another bowl for yer.” The woman clucked approvingly and vanished back into the kitchen.

‘Only the master can break the House’s enchantments,’ Lucien remembered the words of Madam Bluebird. “I’ll be back for you, I promise,” He gripped Reinhardt’s shoulder tenderly for a moment and then vanished out of the next door.

*

There was a clean route from the kitchen up into the main area of the House, whitewash and timber giving way to lavish gold and scarlet wallpaper artfully decorated with oil painted landscapes. Lucien emerged into what seemed to be the banqueting hall, judging by the long trestle tables complete with unreasonably elaborate place settings. Lucien allowed himself to glance with puzzlement at the forty-seven forks, each one smaller than the last, that framed the single gold rimmed dinner plate. The room appeared to be out of use; the tables were covered with a light dust and there were shimmering spiders webs across some of the red velvet armchairs.

He hurried forward, noting at the end of the hall was an enormous doorway, hard oak on bronze hinges, and behind it the faint sound of activity, of music. He crept forward, moving past the ghostly tables on the balls of his feet until, reaching the end of the room, he opened the door and slipped through.

He had found the main ballroom, emerging out of immediate notice of the revellers behind the bandstand. The music was an eerie melange of harp, fiddle and flute, played in the time of an endless waltz by a trio of pallid yet breathtakingly beautiful youths. Lucien crept out from behind the bandstand and taking care to keep to the side of the hall, prowled carefully to the other side of the ballroom.

‘The Master’s rooms adjoin the ballroom,’ Lucien again remembered the words of Madam Bluebird. He saw his destination, a pair of double doors, immaculately polished ebony and scarlet mahogany, and stole towards them.

As he walked, he found his attention drawn by the dancers. They were dressed in the old fashions, the cut and style of their suits and ballgowns far more appropriate to his grandfather’s time than to his own; and yet the material was exquisite. Blue silk seemed to reflect moonlight that wasn’t there, while the deep red of another’s shawl seemed to flicker as though the tailor had captured within it the essence of fire itself. The dancing itself was impeccable, disconcertingly so. The steps unfolded as though according to rigid laws of geometry, with each dancer moving precisely in both space and time relative to their fellows. The spectacle was perfect, that much was inarguable, yet there was as much humanity there as in watching the mechanisms of a clockwork pocket watch.

Lucian slipped through the great double door and into the Master’s apartments. There was a bottle green carpet on the floor, leading as an arrow up the steps of a stone dais to the foot of a great armchair - perhaps to call it a throne may have been more accurate. From what he knew of fae society, Lucian assumed this to be where the great lord took requests from his protégées and supplicants. Around the room were gold framed oil paintings, the pretty trees of one orange orchard seemed to tremble from a gust of wind. There were four doors set into the mahogany walls behind the throne: each, perhaps, leading to one of the Master’s personal quarters.

Lucien walked up to the central throne uncertainly. He was here, in the very heart of his quarry’s stronghold, and yet he felt uncertain how to proceed.

“Hello?” He called out. The thought had crossed his mind to explore the four other rooms, perhaps try to take the thing by ambush, yet a Fae Lord was not a foe to treat lightly, and he reasoned that at least at first pass it might be better to reason with the creature.

“Good evening, Master Lucien,” Came a courteous yet playful voice from behind him. Lucien turned around to face the man he sought. Tall, elegant and cultured, his every movement evidenced an aristocratic etiquette of such mathematical precision no human could ever have hoped to have looked but a lumbering oaf in comparison. His skin was pale white, it almost would have tended to indigo but for the candlelight of the room, and his raven blue-black hair was combed meticulously back on his head. His features were sharp and in perfect proportion and symmetry, and his ears had the faint pointed tip that in lieu of the rest of his otherworldly air marked him as unmistakably fae.

“Good evening,” Lucien began with an elegant bow. He knew well that the fae approved above all else of etiquette and good manners, and, if he were to win anything from this exchange, such airs would be of crucial importance. “Forgive that you have me at a disadvantage, lord, for I do not yet know your name.”

The man returned the bow with courtesy, flavoured with the slightest aftertaste of mockery. “My name – my true name - is not something that it would be to your advantage to know. Please, address me as Lord Danton.”

Lucien nodded, “As you say, Lord. I come before you to ask that you release the hold you have over my colleagues,” he thought of Reinhardt, “Over my friends.”

Danton waved away the approach nonchalantly, strolling up to his throne and turning to regard the young man as he sat.

“They are mine,” he grinned wolfishly.

Lucien shook his head, “Then tell me, what is your price?”

Danton steepled his fingers, “My price is immaterial, since you have not the means with which to meet it.” His eyes, still mocking, now held a glint of fiery steel.

Lucien’s hand hovered over his rapier. Surely it would not yet come to this? “You have admitted then that you have a price. You have only to name it and I will see it paid.”

“There is no price that you can pay me, young man. Your companions belong to me, all of them. As now do you.”

“Do I?” Lucien narrowed his eyes.

“Indeed, from the moment you stepped within the bounds of my House, you belonged to me, young man.”

“You over-reach, fae!” Lucien snarled, unsheathing his rapier and holding the point out before him.

The fae, provoked, allowed its face to shift for a moment, revealing a being of pure animal hate. Then, as if it had never been, all was once more a smiling courtesy.

“Come, young man,” he said, “There might yet be room for a fruitful discussion. But first, the niceties must be observed.” He clicked his fingers and there was a table, suddenly, besides Lucien. On the table was bread and salt.

“The visitor’s gift,” The fae smiled. “You have been given bread and salt and so are officially my guest. On my honour, no harm will come to you in my house.”

Lucien allowed his lips to flicker upwards in a grim smile. It seemed as though some reproachment yet might be achieved. And yet, the lord had as good as flat out told him that no bargain was possible. Had said in fact that he owned Lucien himself.

Lucien considered a moment, deciding finally that the diplomatic option was yet his best chance of success. “I thank you, Lord, for this gift of bread and salt,” he said, formally, bowing his head to complete the ritual.

“Would you then, accept my hospitality while pointing your weapon at me thus?” The man smiled, “Etiquette dictates that, having accepted my protection, you must now lay down your arms.”

Lucien furrowed his brow, ‘give up his weapon?’ The thought seemed alien, to disarm himself in front of so powerful an adversary as a fae lord would leave him at the being’s mercy. He gripped the weapon tightly, his knuckles whitening with his growing doubt.

Danton rose to his feet, shaking his head sadly, “You would dishonour yourself then, dishonour my name as well by forcing such a breach of the noble trust that is between host and honoured guest?”

‘Dishonour?’ The thought of being forever stained, of ruining his honoured name and his place amongst the heroes of the kingdom sent a shiver down Lucien’s back. He thought back to his lessons on the fae and their ways.

‘Know always and foremost when dealing with the fae folk, that it is crucial to respect their notions of etiquette and propriety.’ He heard his tutor’s voice as if he was in the classroom still and he dropped the rapier with a loud clang on the floor.

Danton let out a mirthless chuckle, “Very good, very good! It is clear that you have a firm grasp of good practice amongst our sort. Now, can you tell me what comes next?”

Lucien racked his brains, having committed to this game he suddenly found himself eager to play it well. “The next step is that I must reciprocate your hospitality by offering you a gift.”

Danton gave an encouraging smile, “And what do you have to offer me, young man?”

Lucien looked about himself, for some reason he felt his cheeks blush with embarrassment. There was nothing of appropriate value that he might offer to his host. His eyes fell to the ground, “You might have my weapon, lord – it’s value is not immense, but it has served me well.”

Danton sauntered over to the blade, bowing his head to pick it up and gave it a perfunctory swing. “Come now, young man, the blade is serviceable enough but I’m sure you would not contest my objection that the thing’s value is not commensurate with my rank, and of the prestige of this house? I fear that were you to present this as a gift it might yet be an… embarrassment for all parties.”

Lucien blinked – had he not been ready to fight this thing moments ago? Why then did it suddenly feel so important to meet its convoluted rules? He tried to think, tried to force his mind into one set for action, yet his thoughts were clouded by doubt and there was a nagging insecurity – what if, by his foolishness, he dishonoured himself?

“Do not doubt yourself,” Danton pressed, smiling wide enough that his polished white incisors gave way to serpentine fangs, “For there is something yet that you might give me.”

At the back of the room, one of the four doors flew open and something small and silvery flew into Lucien’s hands. An ivory knife and a small glass vial. Lucien gaped in bewilderment. “What would you have me do with this?” he asked.

“In lieu of a material gift, you might simply offer me your service, until, let us say, midnight tonight.” Dandon said, “You simply make a small cut with the knife and present me with a vial of your blood. It is… similar to your vow of homage.”

“I would be your vassal?” Lucien asked incredulously. He took the knife but his hand had begun to shake.

“In a manner of speaking,” Danton waved his hand. “As I say the specifics are more particular, but the essential idea remains the same.” He paused, pinching off the tip of his thumbnail and offering a slightly condescending ‘tut’, “In all honesty, young man, it is I who am doing you a favour in this. In view of the fact you are unable to fulfil your obligation to present me with a suitable gift, I am offering you the only way by which you might escape societal humiliation.”

Lucien took the vial in his off hand. The thought of what people might say, what the whispers might be if he were to fail in his obligations had suddenly become the only thing on which he could think of. To pledge himself to serve the fae was no small thing, but the commitment was only until the clock struck midnight. He glanced up at the windows – surely an hour or two at most! And yet, looking down at the instruments he had been presented with, he couldn’t help but think that something was very wrong. His tutor had said something of this ritual, this gift of blood, and he strained his mind to remember – ‘Above all, never…’ no, he was sure that wasn’t right – ‘Above all, it is crucial to respect their notions of etiquette and propriety?’

That sounded right, and yet…

“Master Lucien!” Came a call from on high.

He glanced up, seeing Madam Bluebird coming to rest on his shoulder.

“Master Lucien,” she said earnestly, “Come what may, you must complete this ritual. You must offer this gift in order to bring your quest to a successful conclusion.”

Lucien regarded the small creature intently. The thing that had led him to the fae’s House, the thing that had saved him from the music of the enchanted harp and from the food of the evil cook. “Very well,” he nodded, cutting a thin slice along the ball of his thumb and allowing a streak of dark blood to leak into the glass vial. “Lord, I offer you my service, in gratitude for your hospitality.”

He handed the vial to Danton.

“Very good, very good!” Danton gave a mocking laugh, and, with a gesture, the vial flew back into its room where, Lucien suddenly saw, it took its place amongst a thousand others.

“And very well done to you, as well, Paladin.” He offered a small nut to Madam Bluebird, who had alighted onto his shoulder.

“Thank you, Master,” She chirped happily.

‘Paladin?’ Lucien thought with a sudden lurch of the third of the heroes lost to this part of the fae; Paladin Galwyn, beautiful of face and resplendent in her silver armour. Lucien suddenly felt the confused clouds break from his mind and he rushed for his rapier – or would have, yet he found that though his mind was suddenly clear, instead he could not move a muscle.

Danton gave a mocking laugh. “Your brave hero made it as far as you did, Lucien. And like you her journey ended with a pledge to my eternal service.”

Galwyn gave a happy chirp as she finished her seed.

“You bewitched her?”

“No, I own her. As now I own you.” He paused, allowing the small bird to nuzzle at his thumb.

“But... why? Mortimer? Reinhardt? Galwyn – you have made of these people only ghoulish monstrosities. Their lives are of no value to you!”

“No value? On the contrary, Lucien, the other one costs me a great deal in seed.”

‘The other one – he couldn’t mean?’ Lucien’s stomach gave a sick lurch as he imagined, somewhere in the bowls of the house, the ruined shell of the beautiful Galwyn, chirping and flapping its arms helplessly as the bluebird inside tried to take flight.

“Monster,” Lucien spat, he felt as though he was going to vomit.

“You appear to have misspoke,” Danton gave an indulgent smile, “The address is ‘Master’”

“Yes Master,” said Lucien, gasping in shock as the words came from him unbidden.

“Now then, young man, the question remains as to how you might be deployed for your allotted term of service.” He looked up, “The gardens are well maintained, we have music, food and so on. How would it be, if I were to deploy you to dance?”

“Dance? You would consider that a service?” Lucien looked bemused.

“Of Course,” Danton laughed, “After all, what is a ballroom with no dancers.”

Lucien blinked away the strangeness of this assertion and eyed him intently. “Are you telling me that I have only to dance the waltz in your ballroom until the stroke of midnight and my service to you is ended?”

“That is correct.”

“And, after that, we might speak of terms to secure the release of my friends?”

“I cannot promise that we will come to an agreement, but you have my word that we will discuss terms, yes.” Danton gave an indulgent smile.

“Very well, I accept.” Lucien nodded.

“That is very well,” Danton continued amicably, “Now, there is a small… might we call it a hiccup? You see, of the dancers on the floor there are fifty gentlemen and only forty-nine ladies. An unforgivable breach that risks leaving at least one of my guests without a suitable partner.” He smiled, “An unforgivable breach of etiquette.”

“What? Wait…” Lucien opened his mouth, struggling to puzzle out what the man was trying to imply. It only became clear to him as a lock of strawberry blonde hair fell over his face.

“You… Master, what have you?” Danton was suddenly taller, moments ago Lucien had been of a height with the man, yet now he was the taller by almost a foot.

“It is as I told you, Lucienne,” Danton smiled, stressing the feminine of the name, “We are short by one woman.”

“Lucienne? My name is Lucienne,” He tried to speak his true name but his lips would not form the words and in any case his voice had become a lilted feminine husk. His – Her hands went to her chest as the cloth and soft leather of her jerkin warped and changed around her. The simple blue-brown material fell about her hips and legs and the colours of the fabric arranged themselves into a simple picture – the browns formed themselves into tree branches while the blues became little blossom petals that sat upon them.

The front of the clothing dipped daringly low, revealing the front of her chest as it rose beneath her hands. She looked down at her fingers, small and dainty, and beneath them the ample bosom that rose and fell gently with each breath.

“You have turned me into a woman!” She snarled, stepping towards Danton before stopping as she realised that she was now walking perfectly in petite glass slippers. “Turn me back, now!”

“Have you forgotten, young lady, that you have pledged yourself to my service until the clock strikes midnight?” Danton gave a cruel chuckle, “Come, see how pretty you have become!”

He conjured a looking glass, of sorts, that hovered between the two of them. Lucienne eyed the image before her and couldn’t help but feel approval. There was still much of the man, Lucien, in her features – the same green eyes and blonde curls – yet the eyes curved a little now, like those of a cat, and the curls were fuller and richer, most of the hair held back in an elegant bun that allowed only a few locks that served to frame her face. Her cheeks were lightly rouged and her lips were a pretty light pink.

Lucienne fought off the feelings of approval that seemed to be invading her in a flood, “No!” Her face flushed scarlet as she stalked away. “I am not beholden to you, Master!” She scowled, noting that again she had spoken the word unintentionally and ran for her rapier.

Immediately she felt sick. There was a bond, she knew, with the small vial of blood in the next room and her leash tugged at her. The pain was beyond any suffering she had ever felt, the experience was like having the soul ripped from her body and she sank to her knees in agony.

“Bad girl,” Danton tutted, “You no longer have such a say. It is as I said, you are mine now.”

“Until the clock strikes twelve,” She gasped, trying not to wretch, and staggered back to her feet.

“As you say,” Danton smiled. “Now, apologise.”

Lucienne glared at him. She might yet have refused but she felt again the leash tightening around her. “I’m sorry, Master.”

“You have been a very bad little girl,” he prompted her.

She paused, flushing red. “I have been a very bad little girl.”

“Excellent,” He walked around her, slowly, taking in every inch of her voluptuous body. “It must be said,” he whispered from behind her, “you truly are an exquisite specimen.”

She felt his scent and could not but turn to it. She sucked in a deep breathless gasp as a pang of arousal shot through her. She could no more turn from this man than a morning flower could turn from the sun. “Thank you, Master.” She found herself whimper.

“Now then, Lady Lucienne,” Danton smirked, “Are you ready to begin the dance?”

She gave a short, self-conscious nod of assent and followed him forwards into the ballroom.

*

The Lady Lucienne, it was agreed by all, was a most creditable addition to the ballroom of the Lord Danton. The woman was a rare beauty, fresh of face and rosy of cheek. Her outfits were impeccable, much was made of the ballgown in which she made her debut, the flowery branches that seemed to part as she moved, giving the wonderful impression of a girl running through the woods, perhaps being pursued by wolves. Her movements too were graceful and precise. It was said of her that she knew every dance as if by heart, indeed it was as though she never missed a step. Before long she was well acquainted with all the other guests of the ballroom, many of which begged leave of Lord Danton to allow the girl to attend their own parties.

There was once small quirk which, allowing for her other estimable qualities, almost all of her many well-wishers were willing to overlook. Every now and then, her eyes would flick over to the old grandfather clock in the corner. The broken thing’s hand had stopped at the eleventh hour. It was sometimes said in jest that it was as though she were eager for the thing to strike midnight, though of course it never would.