In the kitchen of Vincent’s hilltop manor, Manny was engrossed in a mixture of all of the new passions in life she’d had the privilege of discovering in the last few weeks. The primary activity of the day was—ostensibly—cooking. But it wasn’t only cooking, fun though that was. She was also in charge of reading the recipe—they were making a strange kind of frozen custard called ice cream—and she was obeying Vincent.

And she liked nothing more than to obey Vincent.

In a big pot on the eternally-stoked stove that was such a lavish part of the kitchen, Manny was stirring a mixture of eggs, cream, and milk, sweetened with honey and brown sugar. Steam was billowing from the pot, though she was sure not to let it get too hot as the recipe instructed. This wasn’t that special, though—she’d had custard before.

What Vincent was doing at the same time as her was the special part. He was chopping up ingots of brown candy called chocolate, as well as cherries and strawberries, to flavor the custard once she was done making it. It made the kitchen smell like something out of a childhood dream to Manny.

It smelled like what she imagined the royal palace’s kitchen smelled like, lavish confections and desserts fit for the king and his family, made of milk and honey. And now, she was making it herself. Sure, she wasn’t allowed to eat any of it yet—her Master hadn’t been pleased when she scarfed down the first piece of the chocolate she’d seen—but she would eventually.

And it all made her so, so happy. She’d learned to read, and was now putting it to use in a way that made Vincent radiate approval and contentment at her. His attention and love made her feel humble—like she finally understood the priests that had dominated her childhood. They all spoke about Shala like she was their savior and best friend—like she personally had protected them from everything bad in the world, and was personally the cause of everything good in their lives.

That was what her Master was, to her. He did protect her from everything bad, and he was the cause of everything good in her life. He fed her, clothed her, and told her what to do. When she had his attention, the world was good, and reasonable. She knew what to do, as long as he told her. And because of him, there was no stress, no shortage, no hunger, and no fear.

Only a voice that rasped in her ears, and a mind that dripped liquid contentment into hers, and a set of sharp fingernails that scratched her hear.

As she stirred the pan, the big wooden spoon she was using slowly became heavier in her grip as the custard thickened. According to the recipe, that meant it was done, and so she poured the contents of the heavy pot into three smaller ones—one each for the three flavors Vincent wanted.

The first flavor was the easiest. It was a cup of spices she’d ground up with a mortar and pestle—a mixture of more sugar, some strange pink salt that tasted better than any she’d had before, cinnamon, and vanilla. It was delightfully decadent, and it made her mouth water as she added it to one of the bowls, and stirred it in.

She wondered whether her blood would taste better if she ate the spices raw.

Next came the fruit. Vincent had sliced some of it, and mashed more of it down into a paste, and now it was her responsibility to integrate it into the custard. She poured in the paste first, stirring with a new spoon until it was delightfully pink, then added the rest.

The last one was the chocolate. Vincent offered her the bowl of the candy, then wordlessly watched her as she poured it into the remaining custard, and placed it back on the stove. The chocolate melted into it quickly, forming brown streaks that stretched and swirled in unusual ways as she stirred. Once it was a homogenous beige color, she added a little more of the brown sugar and cinnamon, then removed it from the stove, and placed it to the side.

The recipe called for letting all three of the dishes cool off, then to freeze them with either the help of an enchanted wand, a Touched or Talented magic user, or by simply finding a cold enough place, and hoping for the best. Obviously, her Master wasn’t about to delegate this, or wait until winter.

“Nas fhuaire,” he said, and one by one, each of the three pots turned frosty, with streams of cold air flowing away from them like clouds rolling over the hills.

“They even look cold,” she said as she tried to stir the three pots again, the custards now thick as bread dough. She was impressed by the simple—though probably far from easy—spell. “Water’s condensing onto them.”

“It’s actually called deposition if it goes straight from vapor to a layer of frost,” Vincent educated, fondness as rich in his voice as it was palpable through their bond. She smiled at him in turn, and he stepped closer. His body pressed hers against the stone of the kitchen’s countertop, and he scratched behind her head with one hand.

The simple touch made her feel good—made her feel his. “I… I guess I did a good job?” She sighed, letting her eyes slip shut.

Nearby, Sean and some of the other manor staff—Judy and Adrian, she guessed—were storing a few crates of food in the pantry, then made a hasty retreat.

“You tell me,” he said, then she felt something cold pressed to her lips. She could smell and taste the chocolate before she opened her eyes, and she’d worked up enough of an appetite from making the damned stuff that she was more than eager to accept the spoonful. She opened her mouth, letting Vincent feed it to her, and it was delicious. Sweeter and softer than the chocolate on its own, it was rich and flavorful. Manny wasn’t quite convinced that it being frozen made it better than it would have been when it was hot, but… she certainly didn’t mind it, after slaving over the hot stove.

“I definitely did a good job,” she sighed, and felt another rush of approval from Vincent. It made the sigh linger and stretch until it was a moan, and before she knew it, she pressed her lips to his, sparking another surge of contentment.

It was barely even intentional, at this point. She simply… reacted to him. She knew what he liked because it was what she liked. And even though she knew she’d liked different things before she met her Master, she just… didn’t, anymore. She’d tried some of her old habits—she’d enjoyed alcohol and dazeweed almost as much as Zorah did—but they just didn’t do much for her, anymore.

They didn’t need to. Vincent was her joy and succor, and drugs had only ever been a poor stopgap until she found her place at his feet, where she felt she belonged down to her very bones. There wasn’t so much as a fiber of her being left that was stupid or stubborn enough to say otherwise—she’d killed that when she’d given Zorah to him.

Because she loved him. She’d been dancing around that thought for a while, and she certainly hadn’t admitted that she loved him out loud, yet—but she did love him. She loved how he made her feel tame, loved how he taught her, and loved how fucking good he made her feel.

“You look happy, Little Elf,” he purred when their kiss broke, fingers still dancing along her scalp like he was rewarding a beloved pet.

She only nodded at him, and said “I am,” with a dreamy smile on her face.

Nearby, Sean, Judy, and Adrian were still placing crates of food down, now spilling from the overflowing pantry, out into stacks and piles in front of it. Manny glanced at their contents, and couldn’t help but notice it was all fresh, raw ingredients. Vegetables and fruits which would last only days, of which everyone who lived at Vincent’s estate combined would only be able to eat half before it spoiled.

Even the frozen custard they’d just made was—now that she thought about it—more than they could eat.

“Master?” She asked. “What’s with all of the food?”

Vincent smirked at her. “That took you long enough to notice,” he said, gesturing at the newly delivered produce, as well as the pots of ice cream. “In two days, some… associates of mine are coming to visit. A few are friends, a few are rivals, but all of them are important. And you, my dear, are going to prepare to host them.”

“Host?” Manny asked, daunted by what her imagination thought such a task would be, even as she thrilled at the fact that Vincent was trusting her to do it.

Vincent nodded. “Eight guests. Three vampires, their thralls, and two priests of Alara’s cult. They’re all here for the eclipse, later this week, and the dinner will be an excellent time to present you to them.”

“Present me?”

Vincent’s smirk grew into a wicked smile, and his dominant thrill surged, as he heard the question. “You’re important to me, Little Elf—practically a part of me,” he said, then switched from scratching her scalp, to unbuttoning her blouse. “I need to make sure this is known and understood. You’re my property, inviolate without my consent. I’ll make that clear to them, and I’ll get to flaunt you like the prize you are, in the process.”

The word property echoed through her mind, making her swell with pride and belonging. She was Vincent’s, and… and if other vampires and priests like Alara were coming, that meant more people would know that, and would be impressed that she’d earned the privilege to serve him. And by undressing her without so much as commenting on it, he only highlighted her place.

He urged her out of the blouse, and cautiously draped it over a rack that was really meant to hold towels. “I’ll mark you as mine, with them as my witness,” he said, reaching up and touching the scar below her lip, now fully healed. Then, he tapped her throat, and both of her wrists. “Most of my bites won’t leave scars, but these ones will—I’ll make sure of it. For the rest of your life, you’ll be branded as mine.”

Manny gasped. She found she desperately wanted these scars. She wanted to brag about her service to her Master, and wanted the whole world to think of him when they saw her. And she really, really wanted him to sink his fangs into her. Though, something occurred to her. “Don’t your feeding stock have scars, too?”

“They do,” Vincent confirmed, then tapped her wrists again. “But not here.”

“My lord?” Sean asked, before Manny had an opportunity to say or ask more. He’d placed a crate on the kitchen’s island, and she could see it was tarred, and water was leaking out from somewhere. “You said you wanted to inspect these when they arrived.”

“So I did,” Vincent said, as he approached Sean. Manny followed, and watched as the butler produced a prying tool and peeled the lid off. She felt a wave of disappointment from Vincent as soon as he saw what was inside, and quickly recoiled herself.

The crate was half-filled with water, and a dozen big, reddish-purple bugs were crawling around inside, and on top of each other. “What in the world are those?!” She demanded, glaring at Sean. “Why would you bring an infested crate in?!”

Sean blanched. “E—excuse me, madam?” He asked.

Bizarrely, Vincent didn’t share her revulsion at the bugs. He was disappointed, yes, but… Manny wasn’t sure what to make of it. It was as if his disappointment was hiding underneath a layer of amusement, at her expense. “What?” She asked, the ire melting from her voice.

Vincent pointed into the crate. “What are these, Manny?” He asked.

She glanced down at the gross bugs. “Fishing bait?” She guessed, though that was being charitable.

Vincent sighed good-naturedly, and reached right into the damned water to pick one of the bugs up. He held it up towards Manny by one of its two giant claws, letting its gross little legs kick uselessly in the air. Its antennae flailed around like a cockroach, and its tail wagged back and forth like a frightened fish. Manny was reminded of the lessons at the orphanage, warning that Nerielle’s oceans were full of unspeakable horrors. “It’s a lobster, Manny,” he said. “A depressingly small lobster, given their price.”

“You paid for these?!” Manny blurted out. “On purpose?”

“I did,” Vincent explained. “I’d hoped to serve them as the main course.”

“Not in a million years—there’s no way you can eat those,” Manny scoffed.

That careless remark made Vincent’s disappointment surge. “Yes,” he sighed. “They’re far too small to serve. Perhaps… Perhaps we can acquire more, Sean?”

“In time for the dinner, my lord?” Sean asked, scratching the stubble on his chin. “I can try, but…” He trailed off, his silence saying more than any words could have.

“So… You were serious about eating these?” Manny asked, skeptically cocking her head at the bugs.

“Yes, Little Elf, I was,” Vincent growled. He wasn’t pleased that his plan was falling apart, and it made Manny feel lousy. “But it would be a travesty to serve these piddly things to my guests.”

“Well, I… I don’t know much about eating these… horrid-looking things, but, when Zorah and I got our hands on something that was smaller than we’d like, we usually just made soup with it.”

The suggestion seemed to raise her Master’s spirits almost instantly. “Soup?” He asked.

Manny nodded. “Alara said these dinners involve soup. Couldn’t you use these for that?”

“I suppose I could,” Vincent said, tapping his chin in thought before nodding. “Lobster bisque is definitely worth considering. But that does leave me without a main course.”

Manny considered that, then turned where she stood to glance at the newly-delivered ingredients. They were mostly vegetables—onions, peas, carrots, potatoes, and the like. Presumably, they’d been meant for the soup Vincent had been planning to make. But just looking at them made Manny think of something else, entirely. The food at Shala’s Embrace had often been pretty simple, often using the same ingredients over and over again.

“Shepherd’s pie?” Manny half-asked, half-said. Just suggesting it made her feel stupid, though. He’d wanted to make something that impresses guests, and the best she’d come up with was something an orphanage served regularly. She expected he’d dismiss it out of hand, perhaps even tease her for it—instead, she felt a surge of approval that made her gasp

“Shepherd’s pie!” He repeated, snapping his finger and smiling at her. “It’s the same ingredients, I can make most of it ahead of time, it’s a little rustic, and it’s… Well, it’s such a very you idea, Manny. Perfect for when I introduce you to my peers.”

Her Master stepped in close, wrapping one arm around her and burying the other hand in her curls as he scratched her head and swept her off of her feet. His smile, his approval, his petting—it was like she was wrapped up in joy itself.

“Good girl, Little Elf,” he praised. “Such a very, very good girl.”

In the heat of the moment, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. She’d never felt so useful—so beloved—before. Her heart swelled with pride, and she let out a moan as arousal began to creep in. This is my purpose, she thought. Surely all I was ever meant for was… was this.

When their kiss broke, she felt weak in the knees and lightheaded. She was torn between an urge to drop to her knees and kiss the very ground this magnificent man walked on, and to take charge and make his every dream a reality. Actually taking a moment to rest—to recompose herself—was hardly an option. Pleasing her Master felt better than any rest ever could.

A knock on the manor’s front door snapped her out of her reverie, though. She blinked several times and shook her head, even pinched herself to muffle the surge of existential satisfaction enough that she could be useful. Her Master was staring at her with the most delightful, bemused expression on his face, as if she’d finally done something he’d been waiting for her to do for weeks.

“Uhm… m—more food?” She stammered out.

“Probably,” Vincent agreed with a nod.

Manny grinned, latching onto the opportunity to be useful. “I’ll go take care of it!” She eagerly said, then waited for her Master to let her go, before she darted out of the kitchen, towards the foyer.

She skidded to a stop in front of the twin doors, the stained-glass windows showing a silhouette on the other side. In one motion, she stepped forward and pulled the door open—only to recoil when she remembered her hatred of sunlight.

“F—fuck!” She groaned as she staggered back. It did not—and likely never would—burn her skin, but it still repulsed her. It gave her a headache just to see it, and it cleared the last vestiges of her bout of pure euphoria away. Instead, it left her clear-headed enough to remember she’d forgotten to put her blouse back on.

“Hello there,” a soft, androgynous voice chirped. “I’ll wager just about anything you can tell me where Lord Borohon is.”

Manny nodded, holding up one hand to block the sunlight to the best of her ability, trying to get a good look at the person. “Can I… I mean, are you here to deliver?”

“I suppose,” the person said. “May I come in?”

“S—sure,” Manny hesitantly replied. She ushered them inside, and breathed a sigh of relief when she was able to close the door behind them, shading her and the house from the sun. “Who are you?”

“Alara and Lord Borohon call me Artisan,” they said. In the comparative darkness, Manny could finally get a good look at them. They carried a leather bag, and were as androgynous as their voice—a human a little shorter than Vincent, with dark skin, neck-length dark hair, and the kind of face that felt viscerally wrong to refer to as either he or she. “You may do so, as well.”

“Alright…” Mumbled Manny.

“Please,” the Artisan began. “Inform your master I’m here. I can assure you he’ll be pleased.”

Manny nodded hesitantly, then scampered off back towards the kitchen, only to find it empty. She went from room to room, occasionally calling out for him until she found him in his bedroom, sitting by his writing desk. “Master?” She quietly asked. “There’s an… Artisan here to see you.”

“So I see,” he softly said, gesturing behind Manny.

Confused, the elf turned around, only for her chest to seize when she saw Artisan had already stalked in behind her—evidently very light on their feet. “ISHARA’S EYES!” She spat out, backing away from them to Vincent’s amusement. “JUST MARCH RIGHT IN, WHY DON’T YOU?!”

The Artisan cocked their head, as if to acknowledge their trespass. “My apologies, thrall,” they said. “I simply did not wish to make your master wait.”

“I have a name,” Manny huffed, under her breath.

“So do I,” the Artisan said. “But if you’ll do me the courtesy of keeping yours to yourself, so I don’t feel pressured to share mine?”

Manny blinked. “What?”

“Never you mind, Little Elf,” Vincent soothed. “Alara’s friends can be a little… odd.”

“I can see that,” agreed Manny.

Manny felt a pulse of amusement from her Master as he adjusted himself to face the Artisan. Then he snapped his fingers, and pointed down at the floor, right next to his chair. That roused a surge of excitement in her. She’d knelt next to him a lot over the last few weeks, but he’d never actually ordered it. She obediently dropped down, and felt a mixture of her own sense of belonging and his approval as she carefully leaned against his legs so she could place her head in his lap, where he quickly began to pet and scratch.

“I must say, I’m glad for the invitation,” the Artisan said. “I was growing tired of blowing glass and sealing ampules.”

“I’m sure you were,” Vincent agreed. “Before we continue, though—cotan nad chluasan.”

The unexpected spell drew a gasp from Manny as the sheer force of will behind it overwhelmed her for a moment. She felt the spell settle on her, influencing her somehow. It wasn’t immediately obvious what it had done, but soon, she noticed the Artisan’s lips were still moving, despite the fact that she couldn’t hear a peep of it.

She could still hear her own breathing, but—now that she was paying attention to it—she noticed everything else, from Vincent to the sounds of the staff moving about, had fallen silent. She felt the briefest surge of fear at the loss of one of her senses, but… when she turned around, and looked at her Master, that simply… vanished.

He was her Master—her owner—her guide. She trusted him deeply and utterly, and… if he decided she shouldn’t hear right now, she couldn’t help but rationalize that she agreed with the decision. She didn’t have any right to hear what he was saying, or know what he was planning—she was only a thrall. She was a thing, his possessed pet. Her only rights in this world were to serve him, and to feel his guiding hand in her mind.

Manny settled down anew, a shiver of pleasure running down her spine when Vincent began to pet her again, and she felt his approval of her. She watched him talk to the Artisan for minutes that felt like hours, and it was a treat, at first. Those fierce red eyes, the stubble on his face, the set of his jaw—she was just resolving to ask him whether they could take a bath so she could shave him, when his mood started to dampen.

She felt that grief that suffused him whenever he looked at the door in his room, the very same door that was now squarely behind him. Manny wasn’t sure what to do about that, whether she was even supposed to do anything at all. He was still petting her, after all. There was no reason to think he wanted her to do anything but lie there and wait.

When he stopped petting, however, and instead took off his gem-studded ring, she gave him a curious look. He’d only taken that off once as far as she knew, and that had been to let her look at it. He placed it down on his writing desk, then started to rise from his chair, leaving Manny on the floor, looking up at him.

He met her gaze briefly, and intoned something that let her hear again. “I’ll get you the stone so you can get to work,” he told the Artisan.

“Of course,” they answered, as they took the seat Vincent had just risen from, and started to place tools on the desk.

Vincent stepped towards that door, unlocking it with a key before he looked at Manny. “Come along, Little Elf,” he said with a tilt of his head.

She rose from her kneeling position quickly, rushing towards him as he opened the door. The space on the other side was dark, illuminated only by the light that made it in from the bedroom. The mere sight pained him, fanning the flames of his grief. It made Manny feel nauseous—made her want to curl up and wait until it was over. But she couldn’t. Her Master was strong enough to come in here of his own volition, and she would follow him anywhere.

He whispered another spell, “sradag,” and as a wave, a line of candles at chest height lit up around the room, starting from the middle of the wall opposite the door and radiating out in either direction. Between every second candle, Manny could see an urn, and above each urn hung a beautiful, lifelike portrait.

“Your thralls,” she whispered, knowing what this place was by instinct. Nothing else would be as sacred to him, surely. There was a single chair in the middle of the room, and Vincent walked right past it, up to one of the paintings. It was of a human man who looked like he was in his thirties, with a loving sparkle in his eyes, and streaks of gray in his brown beard and hair.

Vincent picked up something that laid by the urn below it—a tiny gem, that sparkled even in the candlelight. He made to leave, and Manny would have followed him out of there were it not for another snap of his fingers, and a gesture at the floor, right by the chair. Manny obediently knelt where he indicated, looking at the paintings as Vincent quietly talked to the Artisan, outside.

They all looked so much like her, she noticed. The shapes of their bodies and faces varied wildly, from a stocky dwarven woman depicted in one, to a big strapping orc in another, but… the expressions on their faces looked like her, somehow. Their eyes were big with wondrous love—adoration for the Master she’d inherited from them. She felt like she understood all of them—like they would be her best friends in the whole world, if only they were still alive to talk to.

After a few minutes, Vincent came back into the room, closing the door behind them and sealing them in with just the light of the candles. With a sigh, he settled into the chair, and Manny let out a satisfied hum as she leaned against him again, facing towards the paintings. “The Artisan is setting Florian’s stone into my ring. It will take a while, and it seemed like a good time for us to talk.”

“Is that him?” Manny asked, pointing at the centered painting.

“It certainly is,” Vincent confirmed. “Such a… wonderful boy—at least when I first met him. He was fifteen years past this painting when he…”

Vincent trailed off, and Manny rubbed his thigh, compassionately. “He looks nice.”

“He was,” Vincent agreed. That pain burned in his chest like the embers at the heart of a bonfire—hidden, but hot. “A bit of a snob, but I suppose that goes for all of them. Lovely, gentle snobs, who didn’t deserve the things I did to them.”

“What?” Manny asked, lifting her head and turning to look at him. “Master, I… How could… You didn’t do anything to anyone. You… You’re kind, and wise, and—”

“Manny,” Vincent interrupted. “There are twenty-three paintings in this room, and only two of them are of people who died of natural causes.”

“What do you mean?” Manny asked, softly.

“Florian—” He paused when his voice broke. He felt so… so guilty, it was awful. “Florian died when he stepped between me and an assassin’s spell—the foolish boy thought it would have killed me. Adrianne, over there”—he pointed at one of the paintings, depicting a blonde human woman—“died after our ship ran aground on some miserable little island, and she begged me to take every drop of blood in her body, so I’d have the strength to make it out alive.”

“They… They died for you?” Manny asked, her voice rich with awe.

Her Master swallowed, and a tear rolled down his face as he nodded. A moment later, he reached out towards Manny, wiping a sympathetic tear off of her own cheek. “Almost all of them did—you probably will, too. Early on, I was careless, and… I drove my first thrall, John, so insane with my reckless use of my powers and magic that he had a psychotic episode, a—a—and he got a knife, and…”

When he trailed off again, she could only think to kiss his hand, and whisper reassuring noises. “I’m sure he loved you, Master,” she whispered.

“Of course he did!” He cried. “They all loved me, they all adored me! And I didn’t protect any of them from…” He suppressed a sob, then finished his sentence.”I didn’t protect any of them from anything.”

Before she knew it, he’d broken down and begun weeping, and she felt powerless to stop it. He was practically doubled over in his chair, his head low enough that she could kiss his cheek, and run her hand through his hair. Not in a possessive way, like he did with her—but a gentler, chaster way.

His crying wasn’t that unpleasant, she realized. She was sad, likely sadder than she’d ever been. Tears ran down her face just from the intensity of it. But she could also feel the catharsis—the release—of it, and that bolstered her a little, and it let her be as strong for him as he’d been for her, all this time.

“It’s okay,” she promised, her voice quivering a little. “I know how happy you made them all.”

“I know!” He said. “I—I—I know I made them happy, but where did it get them?!”

“Safely in Tenebor’s care, after a lifetime in yours,” Manny said, repeating the kind of words she’d heard Abbess De La Cornon say as a child. “I—”

He cut her off by pulling her into a kiss, silencing her platitudes and banishing them from her thoughts. “You’re a fantastic thrall,” he promised her. His red, puffy eyes were full of love she suddenly felt unworthy of.

His other thralls had risked their lives for him, even volunteered to die for him. She adored him, truly loved him, and she knew he loved her. But… next to Florian and the others, how could she possibly deserve to love—and be loved by—him? She had such big shoes to fill, she now knew. And she might never be able to do so, and live to tell the tale.

He doesn’t want a dead thrall, idiot. He wants a devoted and obedient one. A new part of her—the part that pushed her to be better and better in her service to him—said in the back of her mind.

“Master?” She asked, softly.

“Yes, Little Elf?”

“Would you enjoy telling me more about them?” She gestured at the paintings around them, at his diverse collection.

“Not about all of them,” Vincent answered. “I will eventually, but… I don’t think I’ve got the strength for that today. Besides, I don’t want to hurt you by—”

“You can hurt me, if you want to,” she blurted out, then covered her mouth, as her eyes widened. Had she really not only said that, but interrupted him to do so? Strangely, Vincent didn’t seem to mind, though she still whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven,” he said, raising a bemused eyebrow. “And I can assure you, I’m very, very aware that I can hurt you. I bet you’d even thank me for it, depending on the circumstances.”

Manny smiled and nodded. “I probably would,” she confessed with a blush.

“But, that does remind me of something,” Vincent said, conspiratorially. “My second thrall, Siama”—he gestured at one of the paintings, which depicted a feline beastkin woman with a mischievous grin on her face—“Siama Borohon, actually. I chose her because she was wealthy, and married her to legitimize my claim to her riches.”

“You took your wife’s name?” Manny asked, amused.

“My thrall’s name,” he corrected. “Wife implies equality. She knew her place, and the marriage business was just as far as Ishara and the magistrates knew.” He shook his head. “But—you make me digress. Siama was wealthy, and that’s how I decided I wanted her. I didn’t discover that she had a masochistic streak the size of Artemia until after I’d made the bond.”

Manny let out a snicker. “Really?!”

“Oh, yes. She enjoyed a firm spanking as much as you enjoy it when I scratch your head.” He underlined his point by burying his fingers in her hair again, and scratching her. “She liked how much it humbled her—how she’d gone from being a rich heiress, to the adoring possession of someone who’d been a peasant in her eyes.”

“I think I can… see the appeal,” conceded Manny with a happy groan.

“Of course, you’re nothing like that. You went from a destitute stray to my most pampered pet.”

His splayed fingers combed through her hair, moving down to her neck, and along her back. If she were a beastkin like Siama, her tail would surely be going wild. She sighed in satisfaction. “I’m not… just a pet,” she contested, half-heartedly.

“Oh, of course not,” Vincent agreed, sagely. “Sometimes, you do little chores for me—like a hound I’ve trained to fetch my slippers.” When his slow stroking hand reached the base of her spine, he leaned forward, and hooked a thumb into the waistband of her pants. “Pets really don’t have any business being so overdressed, though.”

“Master, I… in here?” She asked, quietly.

“I recall teaching you several tricks, Little Elf. And I don’t believe objecting to what I want was one of them.”

Manny nodded feverishly as she kicked off her socks and shuffled out of her trousers and underpants. His bout of melancholy seemed to be gone, swept away by lust and nostalgia. Instead, he looked at her with naked desire, and it wasn’t remotely unwelcome. When she was bare as the gods had made her, she dropped back down onto her knees in front of him.

She felt watched by the eyes of her predecessors. The weight of what she imagined their standards to be was hard to bear, and almost impossible to live up to. She didn’t think she could ever be as good as them, but she wouldn’t let that stop her from making him as happy as she was capable of.

Her instincts were screaming at her, pulling her in several directions. Part of her wanted to bow, make herself prostrate before him in a display of submission. While another insisted she should take action and be assertive, to make him feel good with her body, rather than her respect. A third part wanted her to keep talking and ask questions, so she could learn more about the thralls before her, and even herself. He said he’d taken Siama because of her money, but what about the rest—what about her?

Before she could ask, though, there came a knock on the door. Manny felt how deeply unwelcome it was, and how badly her Master wanted to have some intimate time alone. He let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, pet,” he said. “I have to take this.”

“O—o—of course,” Manny stammered, watching as he rose from his seat and checked the door. She felt a pulse of happiness radiate from him as the Artisan said—and perhaps showed—something to him, and he beckoned her close with a twitch of two fingers.

“What do you think?” He asked, holding his ring out towards her once she’d rushed to his side once more. Frankly, she couldn’t tell the difference. It was still covered in little sparkling gems, and she only knew that one had been added in an academic sense.

Still, when she said “I love it,” she meant it wholeheartedly. She loved it because he did. She watched him slip it back on his finger, then met his eyes as he considered something.

“The Artisan and I have more to talk about, Little Elf,” he began. “Leave us be for a moment.”

“Oh, o—okay,” Manny said, nodding before she rose to her feet. She noticed the Artisan was watching her with an approving smile on their face. She wasn’t sure whether they were enjoying the way she looked naked, or the way she looked at her Master—she guessed it was a bit of both. Either way, it reminded her very much of how Alara looked at her, sometimes. “But… What should I do?” She asked.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You don’t have anything you want to do?” He half-asked, half-said.

Manny considered it for a moment, then shook her head. All she wanted was to get back on her knees, and be allowed to be close to him—but if he had other plans… Her thoughts fizzled out as she felt a surge of satisfied approval from him. Somehow, she’d just made him very happy, and it drew a dull giggle from her lips.

Vincent reached up and fondly stroked her cheek for a moment, then gestured at his writing desk. Beneath a paperweight, shifted to the edge of the leather writing pad by the artisan, lay a thick folio. “The guestlist is in there, love. Acquaint yourself with everyone we’re expecting.”

Manny blinked as she parsed it, then nodded once as she stepped over to the desk, and picked up the bundle of notes and lists. “I… I’ll be in the library, Master,” she said. “Will you find me when you want me?”

“You’ll know when it’s time to come back, Little Elf,” he promised, then shifted his attention fully to the Artisan as she left. Then—mindful of the fact that he didn’t want her to know what this conversation was about—she deliberately didn’t listen to a word of what they said as she slipped into the hallway, and made her way towards the library.

Manny’s head swam from reading the files about the guests her Master had invited. Three vampires and two priests, as he’d said. The information about them on the slips of parchment was rather limited, but useful enough. The profiles were written in her Master’s delightful, easy-to-read handwriting, though, and on stationary decorated with his personal emblem of stars and the crescent moon. That alone meant they were a treat to read.

Vincent’s thoughts on two of them were fairly neutral. One of the Vampires—a man named Aladias—was from Astoria, and apparently a close business partner of his. Vincent described him as prim and proper, and having a deep fascination with elves that bordered on a fetish. She supposed that meant that he would probably approve of her.

Another of the vampires—Ibrahm—was marked as trouble. He was apparently a particularly cruel master to his thralls, who tended not to live very long lives. Manny could only shudder at the thought. Less than a month with Vincent had seen her life get better in every way, and he had her absolute loyalty and trust because of it. She couldn’t imagine how twisted someone would have to be to betray that kind of trust, as this Ibrahm apparently did. Manny would be cautious around him.

The last of the vampires was a woman—one whose file was written in a more careful hand, with far kinder words. This woman—Lady Ashlander—was from a city called Lavie, far up the Torine. She was to be shown every possible courtesy, treated to the very warmest of Vincent’s hospitality. It didn’t say why she was so special to Vincent, but Manny resolved to find out.

There was hardly anything about the two priests that were coming—only that they were sent by someone in Cornon called Bathavar, and that they would be staying until after the eclipse, to help with Vincent’s experiments. There was even less about the three thralls. Aladias’ thrall was an elf named Edith, Lady Ashlander’s was something called a nymph, and the file did not so much as hazard a guess about who or what Ibrahm would show up with.

Manny’s leg twitched anxiously. She could feel Vincent was having fun, and was more than satisfied to have her wait for him. Which she would do, of course—but… she could only read these files so many times before it got boring, no matter how much she loved it. She could have helped herself to any of the other books here in the library, but they were almost all dense, jargon-filled textbooks. She would need her Master’s help just to learn how to read them, and as much fun as that sounded, she did not feel like getting a head start, and seeing what she could learn by herself.

So, instead, she rose from the sofa with a groan and went to find someone she could ask to tell her more about the guest list.

Alara’s room was only a short walk away from the library, past the kitchen where Sean and the rest were still stacking ingredients and bottles of wine, ale, and spirits. Manny could only guess at how much all of this would cost, and loathed the idea of having to balance those books. She crossed the foyer, then found the right door and knocked on it.

“Sounds like we’ve got a guest,” she heard Alara tease in a sing-song voice, before the door opened. It revealed the priestess herself in her robes, the elven guard they’d invited from the Aldressan embassy… And Zorah, sitting naked on the floor with her hands tied to one of the bed’s posts behind her back. “Hello there, Sunset,” the priestess purred. “I see you’re dressed in your best outfit, again.”

“What do you mean, I’m—” Manny started, already looking down at herself before she got the joke, and she smiled despite herself. “Oh, that’s… I see what you mean.”

“Manny, you’ve got to—” Zorah started, only for Alara to silence her by scratching two lines into a wax tablet she was holding. Manny cocked her head at that, curious about why that would silence the bound human.

“Oh, this?” Alara asked, gesturing at the tablet as she answered the unspoken question. “This is dear Zorah’s impermanent record—it’s one of my favorite teaching aides. When she behaves like a good girl, I put a merit in the top column. When she misbehaves, it’s a mark in the bottom column. And at the end of the day, the tab is settled, and the slate is wiped clean.”

Manny looked at the little wax board. There were well over fifty marks on the bottom row, and only a dozen or so on top. “Settled?” She asked.

Alara nodded. “She’s in for one hell of a punishment tonight, but… afterwards, she’ll get a reward, too. She’s learning very, very quickly. The first day had her earning well over two hundred marks compared to zero merits.”

“And… what did she do to earn two just now?”

“One was for speaking up at all. Nobody asked her a question, and she had nothing to say, so she should have been quiet. The other was for incorrectly addressing you.”

“Incorrectly addressing me?”

Alara smiled. “Lord Borohon has given you a title. His other property is to refer to you as madam, if you recall.”

“Oh, yeah,” Manny faintly said. “I noticed that.”

Alara smiled, then looked at Zorah. “In fact, if you apologize to her, I’ll turn your marks into a merit, Zorah.”

Manny watched as Zorah swallowed, clearly weighing her options. Her body was covered in bruises, and Manny could see several barely healed lash marks on her. She felt bad for her, but… she also knew that the human was stubborn and reckless enough that she’d need to be taught like this to thrive in Vincent’s service. “I… I’m sorry I spoke up and disrespected you, Madam.”

Manny took a deep breath. “And I forgive you,” she said, as Alara smiled and corrected the wax tablet. It felt oddly exhilarating, having such power over Zorah. It made her feel good, and important. Her favorite—second favorite—person in the world now had to show her respect, and she liked it. Manny had spent such a long time dependent on this woman, looking to her to take care of her, and willing to tolerate how unreliable she was. It would never happen again. Alara would fix her—make her docile and consistent. Manny would never be left behind in a dive bar by her again, and that made her happy.

“But, I doubt you came here just to help me train your friend, Sunset,” Alara said, looking toward Manny. “How can I help?”

Manny nodded. “Master asked me to prepare for the dinner, and learn about the guests. But… the information he gave me isn’t very thorough. Do you think you know anything else about them I should know?”

“Oh, sure,” Alara said in a friendly voice as she shuffled a little closer, placed the wax tablet down on the room’s vanity, and ushered Manny outside. “A bit of boredom does them wonders,” she conspiratorially whispered as she closed the door behind them. “I don’t know much about the vampires Lord Borohon invited, but I do know the priests.”

“Those are exactly who I need to know about!” Manny exclaimed.

Alara grinned. “Well, the more important of the two is Ursula. She’s a big, butch, beastkin of a woman from Cornon. She’s brash, domineering, very important among Lord Darishi’s priests, and… kind of sexy.”

Manny snickered. It figured that Alara would have a crush on someone like that. “Beastkin. Like a cat or a dog?”

“No, not quite,” Alara said.

“Then what?”

“Well, I could tell you, but… it’d be so much more entertaining to keep it as a surprise,,” Alara said with a grin.

“Okay…” Mumbled Manny, utterly unconvinced of Alara’s mischief, but unwilling to force the issue. “What about the other one?”

“Marchion is… fine,” Alara said with a shrug. “Human, tall, very nomadic.”

“Nomadic?”

“Well, he travels a lot. I’ve lived here in Astoria most of my life, Ursula tends to stay in Cornon when she can help it, and he… just kind of tends to pop up in places. One week he’ll be in Cerene, then the next time you hear from him is in a letter from Abania. He’s very bossy, of course—you have to be, to become a priest of my Lord Darishi—but… well, he’s often quite eager to move on /after he’s had his fun for a while. He’s made the most of that, and supports that lifestyle by spreading news between the diaspora of my Lord’s servants.”

“So he’s an asshole,” Manny concluded.

Alara shrugged. “Not in any way you have to worry about, Sunset. As far as he’s concerned, you’re not even a person—only an extension of your Master. He might be a little crass, but you can rest assured he won’t bother harassing you.”

“How… comforting,” Manny deadpanned.

“I certainly think so,” Alara remarked. “After all, it means you can devote yourself completely to your master.”