I sit dreamily in the bath, breathing in steamy air scented with lilac and cherry blossom. The hot water reddens my skin and makes me feel lightheaded, but does wonders for relaxing my muscles. I’m completely limp; my head lolls, my back slouches, and my limbs float up and away from the bath’s porcelain seat, bobbing from time to time as if pulled by an invisible tide. I’ve been here…forever, now that I think about it. Since I came into existence, and presumably until I am no more. One would imagine the water would grow cold over the course of forever, and yet it hasn’t. I decide to ask someone at the academy about that as soon as I get out of the bath, which will never happen and so I immediately forget the idea. Before I can latch on to a new one, though, my head gives in to gravity’s whims and lolls over to the right. The new position is somewhat shocking at first, being so radically different, but I soon come to like it as much as if not more than lolling over to the left. Being over here stretches new muscles and redirects my senses, allowing the room’s distant hissing and rasping sounds to come into focus as whispered words: 

“...the changes…recovering…few days at least…”

“...threatening our…too tenuous for…are enough?...”

“Yes.”

My slack and dripping wet body is lifted upward by a hand beneath each armpit, as limbs stronger than I imagined possible defy the rules of my reality and pull me from the water. This changes everything; I can hardly keep pace with the new possibilities around me. In this brave new world I’ve been dragged to, anything can happen—I feel cool air hitting parts of me that until now have only known bathwater and gentle pressure from an entirely new substance (some kind of fabric?) as it absorbs droplets from my skin and banishes my chill. I find myself drawn to the Great Powerful Limbs and their kind offerings, doubly so once they swaddle me in the mystery fabric and cradle me against a warm body. The rhythm of their motion is a blessing; it’s a sign they have chosen me! They have offered me warmth, comfort, and an entirely new world, asking for nothing in return. I love them. How could I not, when they’ve shown such selfless generosity? From above, a sweet low melody sounds, rumbling against my ears.

“Can you hear me?”

I struggle to recognize the sounds for several seconds, considering what they might signify, until I’m struck by the answer: words! Yes, I can hear the words, O Great Powerful Limbs! I try bursting into joyous movement at the discovery, but only my eyelids respond, fluttering briefly. The rest of my body remains still.

“Ah, good. Can you open your eyes for me?” 

Another test to prove my faith. Or worth. Or something else. Regardless, it’s one I won’t fail. My eyes open wide, only to be met with painfully overwhelming brightness that forces them to shut again. I can tell the Limbs aren’t satisfied with this, as they grip me tighter—not with crushing rage, but with a reassuring squeeze of encouragement. They believe in me, and their belief inspires me to try again. Slowly but surely, degree by degree I crack my eyes open until I’m able to triumphantly gaze at the Limbs themselves, at their owner, at…

…at Miss Helena.

“Aha! Do you see that? That little spark of recognition? She’s in there,” Lady Francine declares from outside my vision. Countless memories rush toward me, jamming into the doorway of my conscious mind and getting stuck. Yet glimpses still make it through: I see Eshe, the lounge, a kiss, teary eyes, teacups, a string of saliva, a handshake, Her Majesty’s ritual room, and then…the bright white heat of molten ideals and beliefs. Dancing sparks of joy and fury locked in an uneven duet. A rain of passion pouring over a blood-soaked canvas.

“Finally.” Miss Helena looks exhausted; dark circles lurk under Her emerald eyes, and worry creases Her brow. I want to hug Her, ease Her concerns, and reassure Her of my love, but the most I can do is blink repeatedly. “Don’t fret, Vera. You’ll regain movement over the next few days.” My attempt at a grateful stare is thwarted by the room going in and out of focus seemingly at random. Miss Francine approaches, her hair a flaxen smudge in the corner of my sight.

“‘Vera’?” 

“It seemed appropriate.” 

“The same but less?” A subtle note of distaste creeps into Miss Francine’s voice. 

“Not less. Cuter. More affectionate. Simpler, perhaps, but only just so.” Simpler sounds nice, especially with how complicated my life has gotten recently. I can’t actually remember how or why my life got complicated, but I know Miss Helena would only make things simpler if it had. She’s kind and considerate that way. 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” The royal spymaster sighs. “Will she still have some fire in her?” 

There’s a beat of silence before Miss Helena speaks.

“She will be fine.” 

I want to thank her for caring so profoundly, but “Mmmnnaa…” is all my vocal cords offer after significant coaxing on my part.

“Hush. Listen closely, okay?” 

I blink my eager affirmation. 

“I have business to attend to for much of the day. Unfortunately, the delicate nature of said business means you cannot attend. In the meantime, you’ll be with Celeste and Lyla. I want you on your best behavior, understood?” More blinking. “Excellent. I’ll see you this evening.” Miss Helena passes me over to her ladies-in-waiting and brusquely departs with Francine. The sudden nature of Her absence is unpleasant, like developing an emotional itch, but I focus my efforts on behaving well to soothe the distress. Not that I’m really doing much behaving at all; Celeste and Lyla make my movements for me, carrying me to the royal wardrobe, removing my towel, and positioning me on my back.

“I finally cornered Max yesterday.” Lyla smirks. “He told me the knight had an insatiable appetite. Worked their way through half of the bathhouse before they left.” Each servant grabs one of my shoulders, pulling me into a sitting position. My head slumps forward.

“That’s what, two per day? I’ve seen old barons manage twice that.” Celeste grabs a bunch of cool-colored silk scarves and begins tying them around my wrists and ankles.

“Not like this. They did the ‘passionate lover’ thing every time. Really played up the knight angle too, apparently.” Lyla pulls my hair back into a high ponytail.

“That does sound hot.” 

“Doesn’t it?” 

Something about their discussion disquiets me. I glimpsed memories of Eshe earlier, images of the strapping figure with bronze skin and a mop of short dark curls, but I don’t remember what they meant. For whatever reason, hearing about their sexual exploits with others sends pain stabbing through my heart. Not the sort of pain Miss Helena or Miss Francine puts me through to help me improve, but the deep-down kind that predates their noble efforts. The sort of pain one finds anchored to their sense of self, stuck underneath it so tightly that one ceases differentiating between the two. Pain powerful enough to burn off some of the fog in my head, allowing a more familiar kind of thought to enter:

Eshe didn’t want me. I must have done something wrong, must have been somehow insufficient, and they pushed me aside in favor of bathhouse servants. 

I expect my distress to escalate at the realization, for the sense of inadequacy to make me hide within a darker, angrier corner of myself. But instead, a foreign sense of relief blooms to dull the edges of my sorrow. A gentle pressure in the back of my mind redirects my attention: I’ll be fine without Eshe—Miss Helena loves me! She’s the only one who ever will, and the only lover I’ll ever need.

“D’you think they’ll ever come back?” The servants reposition, with Celeste grabbing my shoulders and Lyla my hips. I realize the scarves are the extent of my clothing for the day, and my eyes widen.

“Hah! You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But I really can’t say—their visit seemed hard on Her Majesty, but not entirely negative. You lonely girls will have to pray on their return. Three, two, one…” they lift me into the air. “Gods, she’s light. Surprises me every time.” I’ve no choice but to stare at Celeste’s corset as they move me, my peripheral vision showing our journey out of the royal chambers to some unknown destination. I almost wish I didn’t have my newfound lucidity for the trip—guards, couriers, and clerks steal curious glances at my naked body as it’s paraded through the palace, and I don’t even have the muscle control to squirm or tilt away for some tiny measure of modesty. Any slim pretense as to my role in the palace is altogether cut, and my only recourse is blushing furiously and shutting my eyes tight. Miss Helena wants this. I trust Miss Helena. Therefore, this must be what’s best.

The ladies-in-waiting stop. I open my eyes and see Sir Yonah, Arlunn’s most dashing and incompetent knight. We have little history; I tried bribing him once, but he was too dumb to understand, thinking it was a genuine gift. He casts lewd glances my way with absolutely no subtlety. 

“Hmm, here I thought it was morning, and yet I’m presented with such shining stars!” Yonah makes a grand gesture of kissing Lyla and Celeste on each cheek. “Some knights may praise the sun, but I cannot if Sol attempts to block such beauty as this.” 

“Good morning, Sir Yonah.”

“Good morning, Sir!” The two greetings couldn’t be more different—Celeste’s is dry and disinterested, while Lyla’s is sultry and drawn out. 

“Good morning, my stars. Say, I think moving furniture is rather beneath your station!” He chuckles at his own joke, then leans down and tugs my nipples. My breath catches and my ass clenches. “Oh, it’s Veronica! My apologies.” 

Lyla giggles. “Don’t tease Vera, Sir! She’s had a rough few days.”

“Vera, hm? Well, I can only imagine. All part of her next big scheme, no doubt!” Yohan’s hand smacks against my pussy and asshole with a resounding crack, igniting tingling pain that quickly becomes glowing heat. Another older, more familiar kind of thought enters my mind:

I should have killed him. I never had a reason to, but right now, I truly regret never having had him drawn and quartered. Preferably in public. 

“What’s the game this time, ‘Vera’? Widening those holes until you can smuggle in a ‘friendly’ regiment? Converting guards to your cause with daily fellatio? Mm…I’m sure they love you, down on your knees with your little mouth full. Because then they don’t have to listen to you whine!” He cackles, and from Lyla’s shaking arms I know she’s holding her own laugh back as well. I give him a glare spiteful enough to light fires.

How dare he! Doesn’t he know who I am? I am…Vera? Is that right?

As his words sink in, the fog returns and the heat drains from my expression to my sex. What if he pulled me off to the side and face-fucked me right now? Left me barely twitching in some distant corner, unable to stop the spit and cum from leaking out the corner of my mouth? Fuck, he’s as low as one can get in the court, and I’m still barely fit to be a temporary sheathe for his cock. What I wouldn’t give for the chance. My gaze submissively drops to his feet, I start salivating, and a passing draft is cool against my now-slick folds. I hope he breaks me.

“Unfortunately, Sir Yohan, we are expected elsewhere. Good day to you.” Celeste rides the line between deference and contempt with the expertise of a career servant. I take a deep, shuddering breath as we leave him behind, caught entirely unaware by my own thoughts. What the fuck? Why did…is this what Miss Helena intends for me? Groveling at the feet of insects for rough sex? No. No, definitely not. She respects me too much for that, loves me too much to sentence me to such a fate. I am her lover, bound to her with the fabric of reality, and the passion she gifted me with is powerful enough to backfire at times. That’s all.

“Bye Yohan!” 

“Goodbye, girls! Goodbye, sofa!” The dolt doesn’t know how lucky I am. When his family line is nothing but dust, I’ll still be perfectly content in Miss Helena’s arms. 

“Lyla, can you go on ahead and ready our little nook?” The servant nods, transferring me fully into Celeste’s arms and skipping off after Sir Yohan. Not a very dutiful girl, it seems. Or perhaps she just knows I can’t complain about her conduct any time soon. Celeste kneels down and pretends to adjust my scarves.

“Don’t give him any mind, Veronica. Man’s got extra testicles where his brain should be,” she whispers. I look at her appreciatively. The servant is reaching the end of her youth, and as such carries herself with more dignity and self-respect than Lyla and her peers. She has fair, freckled skin and often a wry quarter-smile on her face when she believes nobody’s watching. Kindness radiates in her brown eyes. I never noticed that before. “You can’t talk, right?”

Doing nothing is my answer.

“Okay. How about one blink for yes, two for no? Can you do that?” 

Blink.

“Good.” Celeste stands again, hoisting me up with her. “We’ve got the day free; I thought you might enjoy some time in the gardens.”

Blink.

“Lovely. Would you like a coat? Her Majesty said to keep you this way, but I figured we might be able to skirt that particular rule if we took you outside.”

I blink hard, the corner of my lip twitching upward. 

Celeste smiles, pushing a strand of hair out of my face. “I thought so. Palace is full of old leches anyway if you ask me.” She grabs a long, thick coat in the vestibule before the royal gardens, wrapping my entire body in its warm embrace. I let out a big sigh as it banishes my nudity. I’d managed similarly skimpy outfits before, but wearing one while completely frozen brought on an entirely new level of vulnerability—one I couldn’t stand for more than a few minutes at a time. Miss Helena would understand. She only wanted me naked because it was best for me anyways. Yet it…wasn’t? The logic makes no sense, but a comforting presence in my psyche firmly tells me to ignore the contradiction.

Celeste holds me tighter in my bridal carry and exits to the royal gardens. The ample sun and high stone walls do wonders to block the cold autumn breeze, leaving us comfortable to wander among the rows of flowerbeds and fruit trees at our own leisure. She sets the pace, only occasionally stopping to ask if I’m comfortable. My favorites are—

“Chrysanthemums.” Alice picked one of the pink flowers out of the veranda’s planter and offered it to me.

“Kur-sanna-mum.” I scrunched up my face. “What do they mean?”

She rolled her eyes. “They don’t ‘mean’ anything. They’re flowers.”

“But Miss Annalise said—”

“—I know what the finishing school says, but they don’t know what they’re talking about. You know better than to listen to their nonsense.” Alice crossed her arms. 

“Is that so.” 

We both started at Mother’s sudden appearance behind us. She was in another one of her nightgowns, this one dark red with a matching shawl. I watched nervously as she walked closer, the thin loose fabric concealing her narrow, almost gnarled body. Mother liked saying she used to be beautiful, but childbirth had stripped away her health and curves. I didn’t really know what that meant.

“I was joking, Mother.” Alice instinctively took a half step in front of me, and I eagerly slid behind her. But despite the teenager’s bluster, Mother easily ignored her and focused on me.

“Vera.” 

Did…is that what Mother used to call me?

She was using the special voice, the soft one normally reserved for apologies and bribes. “Your sister is lying to you.” 

“That’s not—“

Mother knelt down, wincing in pain at the motion. “Chrysanthemums symbolize triumph over the cycle of life.” She put a hand on my shoulder. I stared at her with wide eyes, still uncertain of her intentions. “To bloom in autumn is to face imminent wintry death, yet the chrysanthemum does so with spectacular beauty. Even as its fellow flowers are devastated by harsh winds and frosts, it feeds on their corpses and refuses to bow.” The image of roots digging into the earth and eating dead bodies sent chills down my spine, and I grabbed Alice’s skirt.

“You’re scaring her.” 

“I’m telling her the truth. You could have yourself—this is all in your studies. Unless, of course, you’ve been slacking in your schoolwork?” It wasn’t a question; Alice was beyond slacking at this point, and we all knew it. She didn’t even bother responding to the barb. “I thought so.”

My sister peeled my hand away and stepped forward to confront my now-standing Mother, successfully goaded. I knew what was coming next, and so I busied myself with my new flower, gazing at the rings of petals and drifting away.

“…completely useless! Only fit for a pampered little…” 

“…built our home, girl. Our fortune. Don’t mistake your lack of work ethic for…” 

The kris-anta-mum smelled like grass, not perfume or sweetness like the other flowers. It felt soft against my face, though; I liked that. 

“…do you even bother? None of them like or respect you, you know that, right? You may as well…” 

“…come to expect selfishness from you, Alice, but so long as you’re in my home…”

I wandered away slowly but surely, humming an aimless tune.

“…ambushing us out here, wandering around the manor like some miserable spirit…”

“…over dramatic. I’m merely enjoying a walk in my own home, and I will not be talked to…”

“…UGH! I HATE you!”

I didn’t have to look up to know what was going on; the crunch of boots on gravel and my past experiences told me Alice was storming off toward the main road of the noble quarter. Off to wherever she went, doing whatever she did. I had tried to join her once, but she said I was too young. 

“Vera! Come here.” Mother offered a hand, and I wandered back as if magnetically drawn toward it. “I’ll not have both my daughters abandoning me.” 

I wrapped my fingers around her cold and bony ones. We stood on the veranda for a while that way, with Mother clenching her jaw and staring at the path while I twirled my flower and swayed gently. She often got like this after fighting with Alice, wanting me by her side while she was distant and quiet. I didn’t understand but knew better than to ask why.

“The chrysanthemum is often funerary. It symbolizes celebrating a life well-lived, rather than mourning its end. That’s what I was trying to say.” She sighed. “Before your sister interrupted.” Her energy and presence were rapidly diminishing as if she was shrinking right before my very eyes. It was an odd thing to imagine, her getting smaller and smaller. What if she got so small I couldn’t find her? Alice might like that, but I didn’t think I would.

“Mother?”

“Hmm?” She looked away from the path down at me, releasing some of the tension in her neck and shoulders. 

“Does it really eat dead bodies?” I offered the flower to her. She took it and tucked it in her hair with the practiced grace of someone who’d been courted a thousand times.

“Only when it has to.”

The memory fades as quickly as it arrived, leaving me slightly dazed and staring into space. Once again, the expected emotional reaction doesn’t come, blotted out by a surge of affection and gratitude for Miss Helena. Celeste doesn’t even notice; dazed and spaced out isn’t exactly a change from my normal demeanor, and so she continues bringing me down the narrow path of the gardens.

“There you are! I must have checked half the palace for you.” Lyla ran over to us, now donning a coat similar to mine and panting. “Sorry I took so long.”

“Uh-huh. How’s Yohan?” Celeste drily asks.

“Quite well now…” Lyla pauses, and then the two servants giggle.

“Slut.”

“Bitch.”

“Here, take Veron…Vera. My arms are tired.” Celeste passes me down to Lyla, who grunts as she receives my dead weight. Her grip is stronger but less comfortable, lightly jostling me whenever she moves or speaks. “Did you at least have the decency to do as I asked?”

“Uh-huh!” We reach the center of the gardens, a tranquil pond surrounded by mossy stones and soft grasses. The sweet scents of the flowerbeds are subtler here, overtaken by their muddier and earthier counterparts. Lyla takes the lead, walking us beneath a tree where she organized a picnic—blankets, pillows, and baskets of finger foods which the pair happily hand-feed me during their busy, energetic conversation. I eat when they offer food, and enjoy watching the ducks lazily drifting across the pond when they don’t. It’s idyllic. It’s serene. It’s refreshing in a way I haven’t experienced in two decades—not since my childhood adventures with Alice—and it’s fundamentally wrong.

Why am I enjoying this? Because the weather is nice and the food is good. Why am I not planning my next steps? Because they’ll be planned for me. Why is my ambition failing to drive me forward? Because I’m where I want to be. Enough! I will never be content to sit and watch the world go by. It’s not in my nature. Let them bear witness to my sheer mental fortitude!

“…like the other ones, anyways. More of a blue-ish color, and…oh! Look!” My fingers clench and unclench one or two at a time, slowly and rhythmically. Celeste squeezes me close in excitement, shifting to get a good view of the show. “Wow! There’s our girl!”

“Yes!” Lyla claps excitedly, and both ladies-in-waiting take turns kissing my cheeks and offering encouragement. My progress is slow and steady, met with a constant supply of their kindness. By the time I can manage a decent range of motion in my hands and wrists, I’m pushing myself entirely because of them; kisses and compliments are far more concrete and satisfying than ‘proving my mental fortitude’, or whatever other nonsense my old mind might want.

I’m back in court the next day, sitting in my rightful place by Miss Helena’s side. Progress has been significant—while I can’t walk or perform precise movements without aid, I can stiffly and clumsily manipulate my limbs, neck, and torso. Even speech is possible, given enough time and focus. Miss Helena has doubled down on yesterday’s clothing theme, offering me absolutely nothing to shield my nudity save for an ankle bracelet marked with Her seal. I don’t love displaying myself so thoroughly, but after some initial discomfort, I’ve grown used to it. If Miss Helena believes I should be displayed, then so be it.

The atmosphere beneath the dome is one of subdued fear and anger, with countless members of the court standing to assert their concerns and verbal ripostes. Even courtiers who do not speak still sit at rapt attention, their eyes and ears carefully marking every word and motion. It’s as if political miasma floats throughout the room, promising some future disaster everyone recognizes but cannot name. 

It’s miserably dull. The conversations are political chit-chat, dry people discussing dry topics like ‘trade disruptions’ or ‘financial conduct’ in the driest possible manner. I stop paying attention within the first hour, content to doze off. How did I used to do this every single day? My shoulder blades thump against the cushion as I fall backward, trying to find the best position to sleep. Of course, I’d have an easier time if it weren’t for the gods-damned yelling.

“Slanders!” Baron Kutje stands tall, his wide back arched and his square face red and splotchy. “Pure slanders! Legitimate business meddled with and besmirched to justify excessive snooping!” Tense jittery murmurs shoot back and forth between courtiers, audible only during the Baron’s frequent pauses for breath. I sigh and resign myself to watching the spectacle, hoping he’ll quiet down soon.

“And what legitimate business might that be, Baron?” Miss Francine paces before the court’s rows of desks and pews. I noticed long ago she walks at different tempos depending on her emotional state, and her current long strides indicate she’s in control and on the hunt. My heartbeat quickens, subconsciously recognizing the posture that often precedes strikes of her whip—Kutje should be so lucky.

“Improvements in my Barony. North-south roads, mostly. And what with the storms this spring and the lack of action regarding the Order, unexpected costs have cropped up and I have had to deal with them in haste. That’s what your pointless crusade against me has found, Lady Francine: late fees, favors, and adjustments, all of which are normal for such an endeavor and all of which will prove perfectly legitimate by the project’s end.” The Baron bends at the hips for a few deep breaths, his ill-fitting garb pooling in front of his belly at the motion. “Nay, the real story here is not my money. The real story is vagabonds ransacking my estate based on rumors and petty grudges. The real story is a concerted effort to defile the rights and dignity of the gentry.” 

Kutje is on thin ice, and the room grows electric as they wait to see whether or not the husky man cracks through and drowns. But Miss Francine doesn’t respond, only tilting her chin up to signal someone in the crowd. It’s the tilt of a woman savoring her victory; the least possible motion necessary to seal the fate of her opponent.

“If we may?” Several rows behind Kutje, two gruff-looking men stand. They’re dressed in a mix of merchant finery and peasant work clothes.

“Go ahead, gentlemen,” purrs Miss Francine.

“Right. Ah, g’day Your Majesty, good folk of the gentry, n’at. Name’s Kiern.” The man on the left gives a tentative bow.

“Ye! G’day, n’at. I go by Banson.” His partner does as well.

“Well, we’re with the mason’s guild, see? N’ the thing is, we been gittin naught but hot wind from the Baron ‘ere on ‘is project, so to speak.” Kiern almost spits out of habit, then thinks better of it and swallows instead.

“S’right. Materials, labor, transport, it don’t matter one lick. Always delayin’ and shufflin’ coin ‘round like ‘e’s dealin’ cards or summat.” 

“Always!” The pair nod. “There’s the reasonin’ behind your delays, Lady Melia. We got plenty a other work been hit by rains and soldiers n’at which still got done fore too long.”

“Yee. Got a bridge goin’ for Lord Lannith not too far from the Baron’s land, n’ she’s fit to be done ahead o’ schedule.” Banson awkwardly stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Ay. Good bridge, that.” 

“Ay, ‘tis.”

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Kiern and Banson look around, uncertain.

“Yee, s’no problem m’Lady.”

“‘Appy to ‘elp.”

Miss Francine raises an eyebrow and they sit, throwing out a few extra ‘Your Majesty’s’ and ‘g’day’s’ for good measure. “Theirs is but one of many testimonies I have regarding Baron Kutje’s unlawful management of funds. But we will see it in your trial, as is your right. Gentlemen?” A pair of strategically placed guards nearby escort the Baron out of his pew and into the aisle. I watch eagerly, vaguely sensing something important occurring but mostly just hoping I can go back to sleep. “As far as your incendiary accusation, Baron, I have only this to say: I was investigating you individually. I myself am a member of the gentry, after all. There’s no broader conspiracy or—”

“You lie!” Paolo jumps to his feet, and the room erupts into a full boil, with courtiers in every row rising and shouting. 

“Hang Kutje, hang Berinni, hang the lot of the corrupt bastards!”

“This conduct is completely unacceptable! We are not squabbling children, we are—“

“—need to know the full scale of the investigation, not the Crown’s heavily edited story!” 

“—don’t forget about House Tiern! The royalists showed their true intentions months ago!”

Chants of ‘gods save the Queen’ and ‘remember House Tiern’ layer over each other in an ugly dissonance, and pointing becomes shoving becomes brawling in a matter of seconds. Doors around the perimeter of the domed court fly open, with guards filing inside to take part in the melee. A half dozen surround Miss Helena and begin escorting Her out, with one slinging me over his shoulder on the way.

“Hang on!”

My carrier headbutts a clerk, knocking him onto the floor. I see and hear everything, but my mind refuses to connect my senses to any understanding of the world. Why? Why are they fighting? Did I miss something? Are…are they mad about the roads taking so long?

It’s not the damn roads, idiot. This is part of…it’s because…I…

As soon as I put effort into putting the pieces together, they slip out of my fingers as if coated in oil. Don’t these people understand that Miss Helena is good and loving and that if they behave She will shower them with praise and affection? Don’t they understand that Miss Francine is tough but fair and that she hurts people to show she cares about them? And why are they shouting ‘remember House Tiern’? I’ve lived my entire life in Arlunn and have never heard that name before. 

As my escort brings me to the back door, I see Paolo push his way through the crowd. He’s clearly taken a few swings but is still strong and nimble enough to navigate the fight. Our eyes meet; his are determined and fiery while mine are glassy and confused. He points at me and shouts:

“Look at what She’s done! Behold the enormity of Her disdain for us! So long as She—“ 

The door shuts. My mind blanks, unable to process what I experienced in a way that satisfies the stipulations of Her Majesty's magic. I know this distantly, know Her mental barriers are protecting me from some unknown pain, and it’s a tremendous relief.

“Take me to my chambers.” Miss Helena smooths the front of Her dress, seeming relatively unconcerned. The guards obey and bring us to Her room, my personal escort throwing me onto the bed. I land in a tangle of limbs and loose hair, struggling to right myself once more. 

“Your wishes in regards to the inciters, my Queen?” 

“Arrest Kutje, let the rest be.” Behind me, I hear fabric hit the floor with a soft thud.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Would you like a personal guard detail outside?”

“For a bunch of doughy nobles? No.” I manage to get my arms out from beneath my torso after some jerking and wiggling.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Shall we bring you our report when the situation is resolved?”

“Tomorrow morning. I’m taking an early night. Oh, and summon Lynn.” The request passes my notice as I’m far too busy attempting to roll over onto my back. 

“Understood.” Behind me, the door shuts.

“Ugh.” The bed jostles as Miss Helena sits on its edge. “I must give it to those idiots: it’s a special kind of incompetence to start a courtroom brawl and not bring any swords.” 

“Oof!” I roll onto my back, stopping just short of the edge of the bed.

“Oh, hush. Don’t be dramatic,” Miss Helena snaps, not looking back at me. “You’ve already gotten plenty of attention today. ‘Remember House Tiern.’ How absurd. Three months from now, they’ll only remember you as Vera the little fuckpuppet.” The idea is a welcome one; I can think of no greater title. Already I can feel Her Majesty’s presence soothing away my earlier confusion, Her love paving over the disorienting fragments of memory. I gaze in wonder as She strips down to Her thin shift, stomping back and forth between Her dresser and bed.

“What a mess,” she grumbles. “What an absolute mess.” 

“You…look…beautiful,” I murmur, almost as if in prayer. My scratchy and thin voice barely carries across the room, the staccato exhale of sound not seeming to register with Miss Helena. I decide to try again; there’s no cause greater than pleasing Her. “…Miss?”

“What?” Her Majesty barks, removing her earrings.

“You…look…”

“I heard you the first time.” I go quiet. Miss Helena seems angry, and I’m not sure if I did something wrong to cause it. Something in the courtroom, perhaps? My conception of what happened there is still unfocused at best—maybe I made an error without realizing it. Nevertheless, I decide She needs support and that as a good partner, I should offer it.

“A…are you al—“

Her Majesty whips around to face me. “Vera. Stop talking. I’m not in the mood to deal with any more of your antics, so just sit there and shut up.” 

I nod, happy to help. That’s what makes Miss Helena and I the perfect couple—She always knows what’s best, and I’m always ready and willing to support Her. I wouldn't even be surprised if we got married someday. My adoration only grows as I watch my lover prepare for her evening, changing into a white lace romper and brushing out her chestnut hair. She only forgoes the services of Her ladies-in-waiting for such tasks when She’s particularly pent-up—it becomes less obligation and more ritual then. A hint of wetness graces my sex, as I grow excited at the prospect of pleasing Her and fulfilling my duty.

And then there’s a knock on the door. “Helena?” A voice calls out softly behind it. I frown at the informal address, though Miss Helena doesn’t seem to mind. She takes a deep breath, lights a few extra candles, then replies.

“Enter.” 

The door opens and Lynn slips inside the chambers, her tall body dexterous in its movements. She’s still in uniform, the white robes providing a pleasant contrast to her orange, frizzy hair. By day, she’s a priestess, but by night she often serves her duty as a royal consort—a frequent companion rather than a spouse. I don’t know much about her, and not because of gaps in my memory; she was too minor a figure for me to focus on in the days before Miss Helena’s gift.

“Good evening, Helena.” Lynn’s eyes flick over to me for a split second. She doesn’t move away from the door. “Is this a bad time?”

“You’re perfectly punctual as always, dear. Would you like wine?” Miss Helena approaches her small liquor cabinet and pulls two glasses, pouring the fine red without waiting to hear an answer. 

“Okay.” Lynn ventures forward, taking measured steps to an armchair. 

“I’ve had an absolutely rotten day.” Her Majesty passes Lynn her wine glass, then sips Her own and plops down in the priestess’ lap. My core warms rapidly in excitement as I imagine what the three of us might do. Lynn is rather gorgeous, what with her pale skin and magnificent curves. Her demeanor is understated, yet even her tiniest gestures show a level of precision and care. Exactly the sort of discrete, talented lover Miss Helena would enjoy. I even feel a little jealous, what with my diminutive stature and near-flat chest, like Lynn is more woman than I somehow. A ridiculous thought, obviously—I’m custom-made to suit Miss Helena’s desires, which must mean I’m the most attractive a person can be. She knows best. 

“I heard about the scuffle in the court.” Lynn’s alto is low and soothing, like a lullaby or distant waterfall. She places her glass on a side table, freeing her hands to work the muscles of Miss Helena’s shoulders. “Word is, you were remarkably composed.”

“Hmm. Thank you.” Her Majesty sighs into the massage, thighs shifting to straddle one of Lynn’s. “Depressing business, though. At least Vera operated with some flair. This? This is a bunch of buffoons clumsily riding a wave of change. No cleverness, no tactics beyond brute force. Makes me feel exhausted.” 

“Well of course you’re exhausted, dear. You’re handling the affairs of an entire kingdom.” Lynn moves her hands lower, methodically pressing on the small of Miss Helena’s back. My thighs begin rubbing together to a similar rhythm. The consort’s next words are whispered directly into Her Majesty’s ear, and I would have missed them had I not been holding my breath: “But there are people who are happy to relieve your burdens, to help carry away the strain so you can relax. People who care about you a great deal.”

“Mmm. Did you have someone in mind? A sexy redhead, perhaps? I always did enjoy those.” Miss Helena takes another gulp of wine, leaning slightly forward to put pressure on Her sex. Lynn puts a hand on Her chin and tilts Her face to the side for a long, slow kiss. 

“I’ve missed you, Helena.” 

“And I you. Our separations are Berinni’s greatest crimes.” 

Their kisses are faster now, more insistent. Small bubbles of impatience form within me, urged into being by the heat in my loins. I want them; I want Her.

“Tonight, I will take care of you. Understood? You need this.” Lynn runs a hand through Miss Helena’s hair, her eyes shining with firm, gentle confidence and just a dash of mirth. 

“Understood,” Her Majesty exhales, tension melting out of Her muscles. The two return to kissing, a sweet and simple affair with frequent breaks to gaze adoringly at each other or for one to run their kisses along the other’s earlobe and neck. Miss Helena squeezes and then grinds against Lynn’s thigh, Her breaths growing faster and hinting at tiny moans. 

“Oh, Lynn…”

I don’t know when I started touching myself, but when I look down I realize my hand is cupping and pressing on my delicate slit. The sensation is nice but entirely insufficient—I lack the motor control for any complex movements, meaning the best I can manage is simmering arousal. Low as its temperature may be, it still intensifies my adoration. I need Miss Helena. And She needs me! Comforting and pleasing Her is what I was made for; She doesn’t have to bring someone else in for that. Once Her clothing comes off and Lynn’s fingers trace around Her dark areolas, I can no longer hold myself back. I begin to hump my hand harder, letting out quiet gasps with each thrust. 

Lynn looks my way once more after a particularly noticeable whimper. “I see you’ve got a conspirator of your own here with us.” I perk up at her words, awaiting their transformation from a duet to a trio.

“What?” Miss Helena’s eyes open, blearily seeking an explanation as to why Her pleasure has slowed. She catches sight of Lynn’s gaze and follows it to me. I bite my lip as the two gorgeous women look over my naked body. “Oh, you mean Vera.”

Lynn’s hands reach down to Her Majesty’s behind, squeezing and peeling apart Her cheeks while lowering Her clothing further and further until it’s merely a change in position away from coming off entirely. “Did you want her to join us?” My breath hitches. I know the offer was inevitable with me in the room, but hearing Lynn’s willingness still makes my pussy soaking wet. It’ll be Miss Helena and Her two lovers, and I’ll show why I’m the best She could ask for.

“No.” I masturbate for several more thrusts before realizing what She said. And then I freeze.

“No?” Lynn asks curiously, looking back and forth between Her and me.

“No. I only want us. I only want you.” Miss Helena wraps her hands around the back of Lynn’s neck possessively. My mouth is wide open, a fact I can barely even register. This is not right. “Besides, I fear I’ve spoiled her somewhat. She’s already so full of herself.”

“I am not!” I squawk, voice cracking. How could She do this? I’m Her lover! I’m meant to be Her most intimate partner, the one who sits by Her side and sleeps at the foot of Her bed every night! And yet here this redheaded bitch is, comforting and relaxing and sharing love with my Miss Helena. She knows what’s best for me, but clearly, She’s made a mistake about what’s best for Herself. “‘m…don’…wha…” In my agitated state, my control worsens, and I can only speak a jumble of unrelated sounds and syllables. I resolve to communicate through movement instead, gripping the duvet and pulling myself to the corner of the bed nearest Miss Helena. Even when all else fails, I can still show Her my devotion.

“Stop.” Bolts of pain and pressure shoot across my body from Her sharp word alone, and I crumple onto my back, staring at the ceiling sucking in deep breaths. “My apologies, Lynn. She won’t be disturbing us anymore. Shall we continue?” 

There’s a pause, the silence ringing harshly in my ears. The pain doesn’t stick around, but it leaves behind a sense of exhaustion and a steadfast conviction to follow Miss Helena’s latest direct command by staying absolutely still. “Is she…?”

“Awake and unharmed. Here, we can work around her.” I hear shuffling footsteps before Miss Helena enters my field of view, completely nude with a disapproving look in Her eyes. The glare hurts far worse than any sorcery could. She leans down and murmurs in my ear. “Know your place.” She slaps me hard, drapes her lingerie over my face, and then walks away.

“Easy, Helena. Come on now, come back to me. You need to relieve some stress.” Lynn sounds a touch worried.

I can’t move. I can’t move, the smell of Her and Her arousal is pressed against my nose, and the gentle suckling and kissing sounds in the distance remind me of what I’m not good enough for. Fat tears roll down my cheeks, most getting absorbed by the lace mid-descent. I misunderstood. The jarring gaps and contradictions in my mind weren’t born from errors in the spellwork but from my own mistaken assumptions. I am no Lynn. Miss Helena loves me not as a partner, but in the way one might love a favorite poem or painting. One might adore or even treasure such a piece, but they would never ask it how it feels or what it wants. To Miss Helena, I’m the same way, a work of art carefully crafted to satisfy Her emotions—a doll to cradle when She needs comfort, a weak rival to torment when She needs to feel in control, a willing participant in any of Her fantasies, and a quiet bystander when She’s in the company of others. And while I must admit it’s not the type of love I expected or even wanted, I realize with absolute certainty it’s the only kind of love I’ll ever get. Perhaps the only kind of love one could possibly offer a girl as shattered as me. 

Lynn and Miss Helena retire to the bed soon after, nude and entangled in each other’s arms. They begin their coitus working around me, keeping me at the edges of the bed so I only hear the addictive sounds of fingers sliding into a wet cunt and Miss Helena’s delighted screams of pleasure. I squirm in place, defeat failing to resolve my frustration. 

“Fuck me! Oh, yes, like that my dear!” Once the two have worked themselves into a passionate frenzy, however, my limp body becomes the altar upon which they fuck. Lynn grinds against my face while fingering Her Majesty, restricting my breathing with the heady scents and heavy weight of her ass and pussy enveloping me. Later, Miss Helena gets on all fours right above me, Her sex dripping down onto my breasts and collarbone as Lynn pushes an ivory phallus into Her. I’m an object to them, degraded to the point where I’m no different than the sex toy curling into Her Majesty and lowering Her voice several octaves. My senses of shame, jealousy, and arousal overload to the point where I meekly acquiesce to the feelings and remain still, even once the sorcerous compulsion is gone. As Miss Helena rapidly approaches climax, a stray leg kicks out and rolls me off of the bed and onto the floor with a dull thump.

“Oh, Lynn! I love you!” I listen as my Queen’s cries overcome the sounds of Lynn’s tongue hard at work, rising higher and higher in volume until She crescendos in a romantic cathartic orgasm the likes of which I know I cannot offer. And that’s okay—Miss Helena knows what’s best for me, Herself, and everyone else. I am nothing but a living slutty sculpture, practically an automata save for my ability to emote for the pleasure of my owner, and I accept that. On the bed, the Queen and Her consort lie together, basking in the comforting waves of afterglow and whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. I wait forgotten on the floor, soaked in the pair’s essences and panting quietly. I want to be hugged, cry, and cum at the same time. I want to be accepted back on the bed, where I could put my tongue in Miss Helena’s asshole while She calls me a filthy whore, for even harsh attention is better than this. But that is not my right or even a privilege I can earn. It’s a gift to be offered or withdrawn as She pleases, and I can only accept my rightful place in this dusty corner and hope my good behavior pleases Her. 

Crack! “Eighteen. Thank you, Miss Francine.” 

Crack! “N-nineteen. Thank you, M-miss Francine.”

Crack! The final hit from the crop elicits a choked sob from me, but my posture remains constant: face down on the floor, ass stuck high in the air. “Aah! Twenty, thankyouMissFrancine!” My muscles tremble and spasm. Beads of sweat run down my forehead, dripping onto Melia manor’s basement floor. Most of all, however, I feel content—I’m pleasing Miss Francine, and being offered her complete attention. It makes my submission bliss.

“Present!” I shakily rise into a kneel at Miss Francine’s command, arching my back to push out my meager chest. Over the last several days I’ve regained most of my range of movement, though my stiffness hasn’t disappeared entirely. “Open!” I open my mouth into a perfect ‘O’ shape and shut my eyes. Miss Francine’s hands wrap around my throat, not yet applying any pressure. She can if she wants to; we both know I’m depraved enough to love the feeling of being choked and low enough to deserve the treatment.

“Who do you obey?”

“Miss Helena and Miss Francine.” The responses have been drilled into me over the course of several sessions with the spymaster, reinforced by slaps and pinches when I err. 

“What do you obey?” She squeezes lightly, restricting blood flow but leaving me my breath.

“Anything and everything.”

“Why do you obey?” The head rush begins as her fingers tighten around my neck. 

“Because I was made to.”

“Recite.” She’s choking me hard enough that my carefully prepared speech no longer comes out easily.

“G-greetings, kind folk. My n-name is Vera, and I’m here to serve y-y-you however you wish. Her Majesty only asks that you leave no permanent marks or damage.”

“What are you, Vera?” A touch of lightheadedness upsets my balance.

“Property of the crown.” 

“What were you?” 

“A t-traitor to my kingdom, one granted mercy by Her Majesty.” I begin to swoon, the cold sweat and prickling numbness of a faint overcoming me. Miss Francine releases just before I topple over, leaving me gasping for breath. 

“Eyes on me.” I open my eyes and meet her inquisitive stare, the skin around her right eye purple and swollen from taking a punch in the courtroom brawl. Miss Francine towers over me, wearing an equestrian outfit of tall black boots, tight beige trousers, and a white buttoned shirt. She said she came from a ride, but I can tell it’s more than that—the clothing makes her feel powerful. I certainly have no reason to object, enjoying how it clings to her lithe figure. “Not bad. We’ll have to work on the stuttering, though.” 

“Yes, Miss Francine. Thank you, Miss Francine.” 

“You’re welcome. Follow, crawl.” She goes to the stairs and begins to ascend, and I scramble on my hands and knees to keep up with her. I haven’t quite gotten the hang of crawling yet, especially not on stairs, and I have a few slips and bangs before I reach my correct position three steps behind and to the right of Miss Francine. My outfit for the day—a white lace choker and gray underbust corset—doesn’t exactly help with mobility either, but I know from her glances Miss Francine likes it, and that’s enough to make the discomfort unimportant. I’ve been visiting her frequently over the past week for both a new round of training and the satisfying sting of her leather implements. The warm wooden halls of Melia manor have even started to become familiar to me, promising constant if intense affection as opposed to my sporadic time with Miss Helena in the palace. Her Majesty has been busy as of late and prefers to spend the little free time She has with Lynn. I don’t mind at all; She knows best, and I know my place. 

“Sit.” I rest my sore knees on the pile of blankets Miss Francine was kind enough to have put in the corner of her office. The room, once busy, has now become absolute chaos, with maps and charts pinned over one another on various walls and tables. Scrolls, letters, and reports spew out of cabinet drawers and shelves as though they were rejected by the storage spaces, resting precariously or lying on the floor where they fell. Miss Francine sits down and gets to work, then sighs and pushes her chair back after only a few minutes. “Gods. Vera?”

“Yes, Miss Francine?”

“Before you were like…this, did you ever feel like all you were doing was constantly putting out fires?” 

I contemplate her words. Most of the sorcery blocking my memories has faded as I’ve recovered, but delving into my life before Miss Helena’s gift can still be somewhat murky. If nothing else, simply because it lacks the clarity of purpose and ever-present love I feel now. Eventually, I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so. Mostly I was starting fires.” 

Miss Francine chuckles, rubbing her temples and tilting her head back to rest against the top of her chair. “I suppose you’re right.” She takes a few deep breaths, then grins. “Remember when you drugged Lord Pieter before he came to court? Didn’t he go from discussing cattle to explaining why he was a demigod over the course of one speech?”

I giggle. “Mhm. That was more spite than political maneuvering if I remember correctly.” 

“No.” Miss Francine sits up, then turns her chair to face me. “It was brilliant. A reminder that you could reach anyone and would punish any infraction.” 

I shrug. The compliment means little—I was a different person then. At least reminiscing seems to bring Miss Francine pleasure. 

“Say, Vera. What did you think of the brawl the other day? Genuine? Planned? Convenient? Her Majesty has little interest in pursuing the culprits other than Kutje, so I’ve mostly been in the dark as to their intentions.” 

“I…” My voice trails off. “I’m glad you and Miss Helena made it out safely.”

Miss Francine waves her hand dismissively. “We were never in any real danger. No, I mean, what was the power play? Say you were in their shoes, what would you have done?” 

The answer to her last question comes quickly, a streak of clarity shooting across a muddy sea of confusion. “I would have obeyed you and Miss Helena.” 

The spymaster's face drops, losing its humor so quickly I worry that I did something wrong. “Oh.” Miss Francine stands and walks over to me, kneeling down so we’re almost face to face. “…Vera.” 

“Yes?” I ask timidly, hoping I didn’t upset her. 

“Our sessions, are they…do you like them? Or do you come because you’re supposed to obey?” 

I twitch for a moment with indecision, then take a chance and lurch forward to wrap my arms around Miss Francine in a big hug. She awkwardly pats my back after getting over the initial surprise. “Of course I like them, Miss Francine!”

She pulls away and swallows hard. “Tell me what you like about them.” 

“Hmm…” I bite my lip as I consider what answer will make Miss Francine happy. “I like surrendering to someone as capable and kind as you. I appreciate the gift of pain you offer me, and how generous you are to offer it. Oh, and I like how your training reminds me of my place!”

Miss Francine goes pale, realization dawning on her face. Her next words are even and flat, and she watches carefully for my reactions. “Vera. You never stood a chance against the Queen.” 

The statement rings truer than anything else she could possibly say. “Absolutely.” 

“You’re a failure of a politician.” 

I nod in agreement. “Mhm. Until Her Majesty was kind enough to grant me mercy, and I became property of the crown.”

“You were the dumbest, least competent person in Arlunn’s court.”

A flash of anger surges within me, but it’s quickly smothered by the constant presence of Miss Helena’s love in my mind. Miss Francine is right, of course. I stood against Her Majesty and by extension my own best interests—a very dumb and incompetent act. “I suppose you’re right!”

Miss Francine recoils, then stands and paces about the room. “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck.” She turns to me. “I’m sorry, Veronica. You were a real bitch back then, but this is…fuck.” 

I’m certain I did something wrong now. But before I try to determine what so I can atone, I automatically offer a correction: 

“My name is Vera.”