The carriage was waiting outside.

Daphne stood on the front steps, leaning against the doorframe with her shawl drawn tight over her shoulders. She was watching Iphis load the luggage. Along the walkway sat a row of tightly sealed boxes, and a casket bound in heavy leather straps.

The horses snuffled and whinnied, dashing their hooves against the hard ground. Their bridles sparkled in the setting sun. Daphne sighed.

Iphis heard the sound, and paused to glance at the other (spoiling Daphne's view of her shoulder muscles rippling under the waistcoat).

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Iphis. “I’ll be finished soon.”

Daphne took the unspoken prompt and turned to the door.

The house was old, and quite stately. Daphne had seen little of it before the preparations began. It had been emptied of most of its contents— sold off and, in some cases, simply tossed out. The floorboards squealed with oil, and there were no shutters, letting the sun roam across the vast empty rooms as it pleased. There were no chairs in the parlor, no grandfather clock on the wall– only sparse, high white walls stripped of their paper.

“The old owner was murdered by his son-in-law, as the papers say,” Master had told her. “It had gone to his daughter, and she was more than happy to gift it to me.”

“That’s wonderful, Master,” said Daphne, kneeling on the floor, “though I do not know why you are telling me.”

Master leaned back in her chair. “No. You don’t.”

Daphne traipsed through the house, and covered a yawn with a delicate hand. She hadn’t been getting much sleep, between the days of preparing the house for sale, and the nights of pleasing her master. Rest had only come in brief glimpses in-between. 

Not that she minded, of course.

The only servants in the house were her and Iphis. It had been a blissful experience, these past weeks, not having to hide herself or censor her feelings. Master had imparted to her, many times, that she was going to have to deceive others in all different ways once they began their move. Daphne regarded the possibility with excitement— but so, too, did she want to savor the opportunity.

She tip-toed into the bedroom, hiding a giggle behind her hand. It was also barren: only the bed, with its white curtains drawn, the nightstand, and a single wooden chair. Daphne crossed the room to unlatch the window.

The cold autumn air washed over her. Her arms drooped, and the shawl slid from her shoulders. The sky was purple and gold; the rooftops were washed in the dying light, brown leaves shivering on near-stripped branches. Watching it, the wind also stirred something within her: a persistent pain, like a pin latched in her heart.

Daphne went to the nightstand, and from its drawer drew the tinderbox and a box of nice cigars. She struggled to light the candle, failed brimstone matches littering the table.

Lit in the sparse light, beside the cigar she had set out, glinted the butt of a flintlock. It gave Daphne an unpleasant pause. She wasn’t frightened by violence, or the sight of blood. The notion of having to use it was not disturbing: of course she would kill to protect what truly mattered. 

But every time she looked upon it, there was a jolt, a pinprick in her forehead and a dash of white light across her eyes. She did not like it, so she ignored it.

She turned to the bed and pulled back the curtains. 

Master lay on the sheets, stiffened in rigor mortis, in only a linen shirt and stockings. Her arms were folded over her chest and her eyes were open, pointed to the ceiling.

Daphne hiked up her skirt and climbed on. She straddled her master, resting crotch to crotch, leaned forward with her half-curled hands resting on either side of the covers. She whistled like a little bird, watching Ianthe’s eyes.

“Rise and shine!”

Master’s black irises twitched. They flashed left, then right, up and then upon Daphne.

The song fell from her lips. “Good evening, Master.”

Ianthe shifted, so that Daphne felt every minute movement of her muscles. She stretched her arms over her head, like a cat in a ray of sunshine. She rubbed her leg against Daphne’s.

“Good evening, pet.” Ianthe yawned. “Is this really the proper way to rouse me?”

Daphne shook her head. “No… the carriage is almost ready, so I didn’t want–”

“I don’t care.” Ianthe clicked her tongue. She folded her arms behind her head. “Get on it.”

“Yes, Master.” Daphne grinned.

Ianthe sat up against the headboard. She spread her legs, casually, like a man against a cool summer breeze. Beneath the white hem was a matte of darkness, a sea of black curls. 

Daphne buried her face in Master’s cunt. It was pure muscle memory by that point— Master was keen on training Daphne properly, and Daphne had no shortage of practice. She began in a frenzy of passion (the excitement of the move) before a sharp reprimand slowed her. There was no rush. Master’s pleasure was all that mattered.

Ianthe’s guiding hand gripped Daphne’s hair, pushing her further and further until the slave was grinding against the covers, mewling between her master’s lips. Ianthe’s scent consumed all thoughts and senses; Daphne lapped in intervals of small, frantic paces and slow, sensual caresses. She lost all time and reason, focused only on her singular goal. Pleasure, pleasure, it was all that Daphne was good for. She was a good girl. She was a dutiful slave; it was all she was, all she would ever be.

Once her master was satisfied, Daphne stopped. She sat up and waited, cleared of all pesky thoughts, until her next order.

Ianthe grinned at her, shifting her legs, the inside of her thighs still glistening. She lifted a cigar from its box, lit it with the candle’s flame, and held it to her lips.

“Good girl.”

Daphne shuddered.

“Yes…” Master leaned forward. “I’d say I’m living up to my half of the bargain.”

Daphne did not move. Ianthe stroked her face, and fires rippled within her slave heart. “What do you mean, Master?”

“Are you happy?”

“Of course!” said Daphne. “How could I not be?”

“Mmm.” Ianthe ghosted her fingers along Daphne’s waist. She leaned in, their faces lingering a breath apart. “Don’t worry about it.”

She gave Daphne a chaste kiss on the mouth. Her hand drifted up towards Daphne’s neck, which sent her shivering. She pressed her thighs together and suppressed a whine.

Ianthe laughed. “Slut.”

Iphis came up to announce that the carriage was ready. Daphne rushed to the closet while her master settled herself in the wooden chair, leaned back with her legs crossed at the ankles. Daphne and Iphis dressed her; Daphne spit-shined Master’s boots while Iphis knotted the cravat.

Ianthe stared down at Daphne’s bowed head.

“Indulge me,” said she. “What are you?”

“Yours.” Daphne paused in her ministrations to reply.

When Ianthe was quiet, Daphne returned to her task. Her tongue rubbed the toe of Master’s boot in circles.

“Mm.” Ianthe let her eyes flutter closed. “And what were you before?”

“I was—” Daphne froze.

What was she? She could not have always been a slave… right? If Master said so, it must be correct. But, when she tried to sift through her mind and summon some sort of sad, former existence, she found—

She found— 

Master clapped her hands together. 

“Nevermind that,” she said, rising to her feet. She held out her arms, and Iphis draped the traveling cloak over her master’s shoulders. 

As Ianthe began to make her way out of the room, Daphne followed. She was halted at the door when her master turned around, pointed a finger at her chest, and said, “Clean up, first.”

“Yes, Master.”

The door swung closed. Daphne was all alone. 

It was no issue, in and of itself. But as she walked around the bed and began to tidy the nightstand, she swore she heard something… something strange.

“Agh… guh.”

It was coming from the window.

Daphne froze, her hand lingering around the candle’s flame. From the window came a collection of noises, inconsequential if not in concert with the others. A scrabbly scratching, the groaning of wood… and a human voice, huffing, moaning. 

Daphne approached, half-crouching for fear of being spotted. The noise continued, and in fact grew louder. Then– 

A hand gripped the edge of the windowsill. 

It was pale and grubby. Short, torn fingernails bit into the wood, quivering with exertion. A second hand grabbed the side of the window frame. 

Daphne backed away. The rest of the intruder wriggled its way inside, like a horse being born.

It was a man, red-haired underneath his sheen of grime. His clothes were torn and yellowed, and he wore no stockings. He had the look of a wild, feral animal. His breath came out in wet, ragged breaths as he lay, collapsed on the floor.

“W– what–?” Daphne drew back against the bed. 

“Pearl!” The man scrambled to his feet.

Daphne looked around, but there was no one else he could be speaking to.

“Pearl, darling, it’s me.” The man crept towards her with his hands outstretched. “Aubrey. Your husband.”

“You m-must be mistaken,” she said. “I am not married. I do not know you. You– you will have to speak to my master.”

“Yes!” Aubrey rushed her. 

Daphne yelped, and twirled out of the way. She ended up with her back pressed against the door.

“Take me to her, please!”

Daphne gripped the door handle, pushing it more firmly closed.

Aubrey noticed. “You can trust me, Pearl.” He doddered towards her on uneven feet. “I give up. I’ve seen the light. I wish to submit to her at last!”

“My–my name is Daphne!”

He continued as if she had not spoken at all. “I have thought of her endlessly! She has ruined me utterly and thoroughly, and all I want is more. She may transform my body, my mind– whatever she wants. I understand my place now!”

“I don’t believe you.”

He dived forward, and she slinked out of his path. She rattled the candle on the nightstand. 

“Don’t you understand? It’ll be perfect.” He stood hunched, as if trying to shrink in on himself. A large, stinking hand was held out towards her. “We’ll both get what we want.”

She slapped the hand away. “M-Master!”

“Yes, yes!” The man grinned. “Bring her here. I’ll show you! I’ll show you all!”

Daphne stumbled, scrambling onto the bed.

“Please, darling!” He climbed on, crawling on his hands and knees. “I would never hurt you.”

“S-stay away!” Daphne cried. She tried to back away, but only hit the headboard.

Aubrey continued to crawl, smiling. He rose upright, looming above her. His pale eyes shone with a mad glitter. 

She said, “Stop! If you’d only– please–”

Panic was crawling up her throat, threatening to consume her. It was awful– the worst thing Daphne had ever felt, and it came upon her in a torrent, like stabbing a hole through a barrel. 

When she moved, it was without the guidance of her senses. It was pure muscle memory that brought her hand to the nightstand. She took the first thing her hand fell upon. 

Bang! 

The curtains fluttered. 

The body remained upright for a moment, its face still stuck in a state of apparent excitement. A red flower bloomed through his white shirt; he raised his hands to poke at the spot, looking between Daphne and the fatal wound. Then– thump!

Daphne squeaked. Blood sputtered up from the impact, landing in droplets on her face, the covers, across the white bed curtains. Aubrey hit the backboard as he fell, crumpled, twisted, strung-up. His tongue lolled from his mouth and licked the floor.

She dropped the gun. Her panting throat stung with bile, and she could not stop shaking. She folded in on herself, hugging her knees, squashing her side against the headboard. She tore at her hair and a scream escaped her throat.

The door creaked open, slowly, shedding awful light upon the fresh corpse.

“Ah,” said Ianthe. “Shame.”

“M-Master!” Daphne could hardly speak. She bit into the side of her fist. “Master, this man– he-he came into the room, I was frightened, so I–”

She opened her hands, and was shocked to find her palms clean.

“So I can see.” Ianthe swept inside, her cloak billowing with the movement.

Daphne shivered. She finally noticed the wet chill throughout the room. Ianthe, still in black, bled into the darkness; her figure almost seemed to twist away from the single flickering candle flame. She held a leather gloved hand, fingers dancing, towards Daphne’s face.

“You must calm down.”

“But I–I–”

“Shh…” Ever closer she came. “You must.”

“H-how can I?” Daphne’s voice broke. “I’ve… oh, I’ve caused you a whole mess of trouble, Master! And for what?” Tears streamed down her face. “For my own sake.”

She noticed a warm presence at her side, and instinctively held on. Iphis wrapped her arms around Daphne, who pressed her sobbing face against the woman’s chest. 

“It is no trouble at all,” said Ianthe. “I am going to take the pain away.”

Daphne, still sobbing, could not help but lift her head to gaze upon her master. Through the tears, the hushed light, the white face through the sea of darkness, Master sparkled.

“Focus on my voice.”

Daphne swallowed. Iphis’s hand tightened against her back.

“There is only this moment, there is only my will,” Ianthe said. “Let everything else go.”

Daphne grew slack in Iphis’s hold. “Yes, Master.”

Ianthe’s cold fingertip touched Daphne’s forehead. Her eyes glazed over, and her panicked breathing slowed in time with the rushing of blood. 

Somewhere beyond the glimmering, defused land of Daphne’s senses came a cacophonous chittering, a sea of vermin feasting upon useless refuse. Ianthe, her glorious eternal owner, held her in an inescapable grip. Her voice was Daphne’s. Her will was Daphne’s. Daphne did not exist, only this limp scrap of soul and body to be used at its master’s discretion. 

Still, something rebelled inside of her, underneath the red-tinged, dripping certainty. This thing that had happened– it was horrid, yes, but she yearned to cling to it. To hold it, let it consume and shape her further. To rid herself of this pain would be tantamount to an undoing.

“You will obey.”

But Daphne would obey.

It was the mindless heat of pleasure welling up in her, the sharp smell of smoke and blood, the cold pinprick against her psyche. Yes, Master. Yes, Master.

Snap!

Daphne sat, clutching a lace handkerchief in her lap. She rubbed elbows with her master in the narrow space of their elegant carriage. She smiled, though she did not quite know why. 

Her master craned her neck around the curtains, and peeked outside. It was a great show of leaning forward, frowning, and collapsing back into her velvet seat. The subtle crinkle of her brow, the way her lips curled back to reveal but a hint of her handsome canines– it was worthy of a standing ovation.

“Get me a drink.”

The light danced over them as the carriage rattled along. At her feet, Daphne found a basket containing a bushel of apples and a bottle of champagne. She looked around, but saw no glasses.

“Go on.”

She popped the cork. It thumped against the ceiling. White foam spilled between her fingers, all over the carriage. She gasped.

Ianthe laughed, and leaned forward. Daphne tipped the bottle into her master’s mouth, though most of it ended up on the carpet.

Daphne’s face burned in shame. Master ran a finger along the edge of the bottle, cutting through the foam. She thrust her thumb between Daphne’s lips.

“It’s no matter,” said Master. “I only wanted to toast to our new home.”

Daphne nodded. Master let her slick finger trail down Daphne’s chin, stroking the base of her throat.

“But I suppose I’m a different sort of thirsty.”

Daphne’s lips parted. “Please…”

They fell in together, folding into shape like the well-worn creases of a letter. Ianthe pressed her teeth to her slave’s neck, and it was as if it had been waiting for her all along.

Long behind them, in a silent standing house, no one had taken care to notice the still-burning candle. Wax puddled down the night stand, dripping onto a discarded leather boot. A spark caught, and caught further. There was no one there to catch it, or to care, and so the house went up in flames.