Part Two

Five Years Later

By the time they arrived in town, the journey had been so long-going that every surface had become layered with dirt. For weeks Fiona had sat on her wooden seat, reading her Bible and mending clothes. She watched the shape of the land change with dragging surety: from their crowded home in Hartford to a horizon flat and empty, seeming without end. By the time they came to Loveday, nestled in mountains taller than dreams, she thought that certainly she must’ve seen every shape the earth could take.

Inside the wagon, Fiona lifted her shoe and found yet more dust. She wondered if her skirts would ever keep clean again. It scratched beneath her fingertips as she sat, knees pulled up to her chest, and looked out at her dim surroundings.

"Darling, have we arrived?"

"I do believe so."

Fiona knew what towns like this, far west, filled with rowdy men, would get up to. Wild places, gone to ruin without a womanly touch. She had braced herself for such a sight back when she first determined to leave. She had foreseen sagging, dirty hovels where a dozen men lived like sardines, loud saloons, excrement all over the ground.

"But — it's beautiful here."

It was dusk. As James led the wagon through the town, Fiona found nothing but neat homes and businesses, laid out in a row. Freshly painted signs advertised their goods: furnishings, boots, tobacco. The residents perked up their heads at the newcomers; they smiled and waved. Fiona sat, clutching her book, and could not ignore the striking peculiarity. These were women: the sun was going down, and yet dozens of them were milling about, speaking to one another, running errands in their bonnets and shawls.

Were they all prostitutes? Fiona had never seen any dressed so neatly.

But then again, Fiona had never been out west. All she had were the letters her father had written to her, telling of his life running the saloon. Last she heard, he was doing good business — but that was five years ago. Now, his messages had stopped and Fiona, sick with worry, had come to determine, for herself, if something terrible had befallen him.

The decision had come after Collin died, and everything had seemed so dark. The war had taken her baby boy, and Fiona could no longer stand the sight of the home where she had raised him. She wandered every room as if she would turn the corner and find him there, still handsome in his blue uniform, just about to leave. Fiona dreamed of taking the rifle from his hands and convincing him never to go.

The city had grown too loud outside their windows; Fiona resented every laugh she heard, every blooming flower, every ray of sunlight. Once, when taken by the nerves, she told James, "It is like he is following me. As if he cannot be without me, even in death, the poor thing. But I cannot reach him. Oh, I wish I could!"

"Perhaps he is trying to tell you something, my dear.”

Fiona had heard word of something called a "spirit medium" — someone who could communicate across the lines between life and death. Fiona had saved as much as she could, had pawned off the few fine things she had, so that she may have a session with Miss Delilah Zed.

Deep into the séance, Fiona sat in the parlor, the lights gone black, as there came a knocking. Miss Zed's wardrobe creaked open, and Fiona saw her son beneath a ghastly white cloth.

Ectoplasm streamed from Miss Zed's mouth; when she spoke again, she was inhabited by Colin's spirit.

Fiona begged: What should she do now? He, her brave boy, had been brought to her in a wooden box. The war was over, and yet she remained. Should she stay as she was? Should she have another, when so many of the babies had gone young?

And Colin had told her, in the spirit medium's low croaking voice, "Go to your father."

"But he is out in the territories! I do not even know if he's alive or dead."

"It does not matter," she was told. "Go West.”

And so Fiona did: she sold off most of her earthly wares and joined a wagon train. She split from the group in Colorado Territory. When she explained that they were going to Loveday, her traveling companions looked at her queerly.

Fiona explained her reasons. The leader of the wagon had gone off on her, spitting some nonsense about sinners and Gomorrah. Fiona had taken her things, used the last of her money to get the little wagon, and went on her way. It was what Colin wanted, and no man was going to stop her.

That night, huddled around the fire, her fear and uncertainty had brought her to tears. James took her gently, cradled her head in his arms, and let her weep into his breast.

"No matter what happens," he said, "I love you. And I won't leave you, not for anything."

And now, her journey was near its end. James inquired as to the direction of the saloon, and in what seemed so short a time, they were there. Fiona stood on her own two feet, smelling the dirt and the fresh mountain air. She held tight to her husband.

They entered the dim saloon. It was already full of those who gathered in the night — men of all races, mingling with one another. It was the first thing Fiona noticed, and nearly as shocking to her sensibilities as the unaccompanied women. But she was not focused, at that moment, on the saloon or the town's strange culture. She was far more drawn to her father, standing behind the bar.

He stood washing glasses, his head stooped. His hair was gray.

Fiona spoke above the chatter. "Father?"

When he looked up, it was like nothing Fiona had ever foreseen! She had spent so long wondering, should he be alive, what his reaction would be: happiness? Grief? Anger? All such responses she had prepared herself for. They would better than him being dead.

But the joy of seeing him there, worn as he was, was superseded. Her father stared at her with an expression of stark fear.

"Father…" Fiona stepped forward. "We have come a long way. Would you give us the kindness of a small supper?"

But her father only stood there dumbly, a few moments more, before attempting to return to cleaning a glass. His hands shook. "Why have you come here?"

"To start a new life — and to see you again."

"Then you shouldn't have come!" His voice was suddenly strident. "There is nothing for you here. You ought to turn tail, find another place. Forget about me."

"Is that why you did not write, Father? I was worried sick."

His voice shook. "Get out!"

But Fiona stood her ground. "Is this how you treat me? Your own kin? You may cast me out, but you will not be rid of me! If we are to stay here, in such a small town, we ought to make peace, you old fool."

Before, it was only a suspicion. But now she knew for certain that the denizens of the saloon were looking at her. Fiona Brennan was no coward — she looked right back at them. And it was as she turned her hard gaze round the saloon that she realized… so many of these men were small, and clean-shaven. They were…

"Father, why are all these women in your bar?"

A raucous laughter interrupted her. Fiona stood there, indignation turning her face red. She would not let herself be silenced. “A-and why are they dressed so…?”

"You don't understand, Fiona," her father said. "You're in over your head. You must —"

One of the half-breeds leaned its head out of the door. It whistled. "Oh, would you look at that. I think the sheriff's heading this way."

And now, somehow, her father looked even more afraid. All of his anger was gone. He came out from behind the bar and, as the patrons turned their attention to the door, whispered, "Come quickly. You must not be seen."

"Why…?"

Her father only gave instructions, whispering rapidly, so that she might skirt around the back of the saloon, and enter up the outside stairs, into the attic. He held her in a tight grip that, to the outside observer, might have looked threatening. Fiona tried to ask more, but he only shoved her away, and cried out in a gruff voice, "Get out."

The patrons’ eyes had turned back to the scene. Fiona spared a glance at James, who gave near-imperceptible confirmation in his gaze, the touch of his fingers against her back. She left, following her father’s cryptic words. It seemed as if the whole world could’ve been looking at her as she circled the building with confident steps that did not disclose her troubled spirit. Hefting up her skirts, she made her way up the groaning stairs and into the attic.

In that small, black place, filled with sacks of grain and barrels of beer, her father met her. When he entered, it made her jump in fright— and then she heard the tenor of his voice, and knew who it was, and her heart broke.

He pulled close the curtains over a single, shabby window; there were no lights. "This is a place of great evil, my darling. I hoped that you had written me off. But now — now, you must stay here, and not be found, until I find a way to get you out."

"Stay where? In the attic?"

"Yes. The both of you. You are not yet full residents of Loveday. Mark my words, you do not want to be. The moment she knows you're here, there will be no hope for you. Oh — oh, my little darling…"

And then he was weeping, and kissing Fiona on the forehead, and holding her very tight. But he could not stay long. Soon, it was only Fiona and her husband, holding hands in the dark. It was just like the séance. She sat there, shivering in fear, and she swore she saw little goblins frittering across the roof slats. What else would there be, in a place of great evil?

Beneath the floorboards, the saloon raged. Music and drunken shouts echoed through the night. Fiona whispered to her husband, "They have young ladies speaking like that?"

Fiona had little sense of time in that snuffed attic; and yet it seemed as if the revels would never stop. With no light but that which squeezed to the gaps in the floorboards, she was forced to listen with her ear against them. Time stretched on. How long could the beasts go about it like this, ranting and singing and demanding her father pour another drink?

Fiona knew her father — had known her father. He was kind, yes, but he was never the sort to tolerate abuse. "If you let them speak to you like that," he would say, "they will only take more and more. If a patron ever tries to bother you, my darling, I'll whop them upside the head."

"Hey, boy!" A strident voice called downstairs. "Hurry up now, you're leaving me and my sisters waiting.”

Her father's response was too quiet to hear.

"Yeah, that's what I like to see. Nice and docile. Was that too hard?"

Again, only murmuring.

"Now, don't get an attitude. If you get too snappy, I'll call up the sheriff and tell her what I've seen."

Her father grunted.

“Sending that girl running! What were you thinking, you old fool?”

“He’s sentimental.”

Still, her father said nothing. They continued to berate him, to insult him, and it made Fiona sick. She covered her mouth to keep from sobbing, and risk giving away her position, but tears still flowed from her eyes.

The patrons grew rowdy again. They wanted a particular beer, which her father insisted he had none of. "Horseshit! I saw you serving that to the sheriff just last week."

"I ran out."

"Don't give me any attitude," this rough woman said. "Bet you're just hoarding it for yourself."

"I'm not."

And then another in the saloon made a suggestion, possibly as a jest, but it did not matter. "So, we go into the storehouse, and we won't find anything?"

“N-no. sir.”

But this had launched the crowd into a drunken fervor. There was the scraping of chairs and shouting and the breaking of glass. Fiona had to pull herself away, for she was trembling. She found that James had fallen asleep. His hand was still wrapped around hers, but his head was limp. He snored softly.

She almost wished that she could sleep, too, and not hear the commotion. It moved throughout the saloon, the mob a meandering wall of sound. Fiona bit her fingers and rocked in place. It was only the mob coming up the stairs that bade her move, again.

Her father cried over the din, making excuses: "There's nothing! Nothing!"

Boots stomped upon the rickety stairs; those foul, harsh voices spoke so improperly.

Fiona shook James awake. He raised his head, groggy and confused, just as the attic door was forced open. Fiona stood, blinking in the sudden flare of light. She saw the crowd, caught a glimpse of her wilted and beaten father, and she ceased to think. One of the rabble spoke. "Pretty."

They flooded the room; hands on her, grasping, greedy. Fiona kicked and fought, even as they tore her traveling cloak, pulled apart her braids so that hair streamed over her eyes in red waves. She bit hands that reached for her mouth. She spit and swore and cried. She saw nothing but a mass of flesh, heard nothing but their shrieking voices. At last she pushed her way through them and fled down the stairs.

The saloon lamps were dying down. It was like rushing through the aftermath of a bloodless massacre — bodies slumped over the tables, the floor, each other. Fiona watched them with terrified scrutiny even as she continued to run, right out of the building and onto the streets of Loveday.

Under normal circumstances, Fiona would have gone straight for the sheriff. But she remembered what she had overheard: she had never heard tell of a female sheriff anywhere else, but with all the other things she had seen — well, that must've been the source of all the rottenness.

Rottenness she could not recognize now. Were it not for the physical consequences of the attack, Fiona might've fancied she had dreamt such an extraordinary thing. All of these homes were so sweet and inviting where their windows peeked. She wandered in the quiet and caught the waft of something — a stew or pie — and at once, her whole body wailed. She hadn't eaten for the entire long, traveling day. She turned, thinking that she might be able to go and get something from the wagon — but, of course, it was gone.

Did Father take it, Fiona thought, or one of the rabble?

This, strangely, was what set her temper blazing. How dare they! How dare they speak to her father so rudely! How dare they steal her things! How dare they try and assault her, and take her husband and —

James was gone.

Fiona, looking a wretch, clambered up to the steps of a homestead. She knocked on the door.

An elderly woman with fat apple cheeks opened it. Fiona surmised that she must've been a maid of some sort. Whatever she was, Fiona was quick to tell her tale.

With rapid, heavy breathing, Fiona gasped out all that she had endured. She explained that the mob still had her husband, and that she needed to find him so that they may leave together.

Fiona was pulled in at once and settled on a chair beside the hearth. She was in a very modest house, all wood and worn cloth. There were two young ladies there, one with light hair and the other brown, and another older woman who looked the spitting image of the darker-haired one — a mother, almost certainly. Fiona rushed to appeal to her, begging to be let outside, so that she may find her beloved.

"Now, you are not going anywhere in the state like that," she said. "Calm yourself. Warm up by the fire. We will keep you safe."

Tears welled up in Fiona's eyes. "You must think me mad. But — but it is the truth! I don't know what it means, but I know what I saw."

The woman patted Fiona's hand gently. "I never said you were mad. You must trust me. I believe you fully."

One of the young ladies spoke. "But it is very late."

"It is a dark, cold, hostile night," the other said.

"It is not good for a newcomer like you to be wandering out alone. We wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"But — my husband —"

"He is not dead," the mother said, "I can guarantee it."

Fiona was frustrated beyond end. Yes, they said they believed her, and yet they treated all of these happenings as they were a casual, unfortunate thing. Fiona tried to stress how time was of the essence, how the longer they put off his resuce, the more imminent his death was. Did they not have a man in the house that might go with her?

"There are no men here. And you will not find much luck with any of the other homes."

"What do you mean?"

The maid brought her a steaming cup of broth and insisted Fiona drink it to regain her strength. Fiona, despite her hunger, tried to turn it away. She wanted nothing until her troubles were resolved. But, as the insistence grew louder, Fiona took a sip.

"My father's dead," said one of the ladies. "I came here to Loveday, after he was dead and buried, with my dear mother."

As soon as Fiona had tasted succor, she realized how famished she truly was. As she listened to the unfortunate tale of this household, she drained the whole cup. Without word, the maid brought another.

"My father was a wicked man. He used to beat me soundly with his holy book. I ran off to Loveday, and he followed me with a horse whip," the other young lady said. "Now, he is one of the miners."

"And how have you come to live here, with this family?" Fiona asked.

The two young ones exchanged glances. "It will all make sense to you, come morning."

"You need to sleep, you poor thing," said the dark one.

“N—no…" But Fiona’s heart was weakened. Her eyelids drooped. Her soul, once so stalwart, wavered against the needs of her body. "Promise me — promise me you'll find him in the morning?"

"Of course, sister."

Fiona retired to a bedchamber, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. Her protests were drowned in a heavy wave of exhaustion. She dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

But still, she woke.

It felt as if it had been only a minute — but of course it must’ve been far longer. The parlor lamps were lit, however dimly. Though she could not see beyond the fuzzy glow of the wallpaper, she heard the maid, with the obsequious tone of a servant, speaking to another. "Yes. She’s just in the other room! I’ll take you there straightaway."

The mother said, in that same soft voice, "Won't you spare a minute of our company first, sir?"

“Not tonight.”

The two young ones spoke up. "Oh, but Sheriff, it's so cold out! Certainly you can take a moment with a hot drink? She is quite asleep. We've made sure of it."

"Alice, don't be rude. The sheriff will do as she wants."

Even through the fog of sleep, Fiona shot up. She clambered out of the bed, tangling herself in the blanket, before she managed to get upright, and grab the fire poker.

The floorboards creaked.

The room had a small window, paned with thick glass. She first tried to wrench it open. When it did not budge, she struck it with the poker. She did not care about being heard. She broke the window, and climbed out, heedless of the glass that tore her dress, leaving threads behind, dallying in the wind like a smashed spider's web.

Fiona hit the ground. It cracked against her jaw. She fancied she saw blood, though she had no time to confirm. A cry came from inside the house. Fiona took off running.

The drowsy, warm feeling had not left. Her head was heavy, and her vision dark. As she ran, it felt as if she were lugging a horse's carcass behind her. She cried out, words slurring, "Help! Someone, please, help me!"

And still she dragged herself to the town square. Her skirt heaved with dust and mud. The stars above were like flecks of snow in the cold, hostile sky. She was surprised to find curtains pulled back as she cried. There were faces, watching her from all around.

"Please…" Fiona croaked.

They were smiling.

Her father's warnings about the town now trickled back into her addled mind. Fiona understood, then, the sheer gravity of her situation. If she was going to find James, she would have to do it on her own. She would have to do it against the will of every soul on the mountain.

She stumbled as the realization came upon her.

Before she could fall, Fiona sensed someone at her shoulder. She swung for all that she was worth, brandishing the poker, and screaming for her assailant to go away. "You — you are a devil's people! Give him back — let me go —!"

"Calm yourself. No harm will come to you."

"Those damn witches — they put something — something in — I can't — I can't think!"

"There is no need to. Put down your weapon."

Fiona's arms were weak and slow; though she hit her assailant, no harm was done. She might as well have been a child slapping a flat palm against her grown father.

She could not tell if this person was a man or a woman — merely an obstacle, a large figure arrayed in black. Through her hazy senses she made out the dark trousers, the waistcoat, silver rings on its fingers. And the star badge.

The sheriff spoke again. "You will be alright, I can guarantee it."

"Murderers! I am — I am in the den of snakes!"

"We do not kill," the sheriff said, "not if we can help it."

And then — ever so casually — the sheriff plucked Fiona's weapon from her hands.

Fiona supposed she could have fought further: scratched and bit and all that. But in the cold night, completely alone, she found herself only crying. She sank to her knees.

"Please… please just let me and my husband go. We will say nothing of this place. I just — I don't want to die."

"You love him very much."

"I do." Fiona swallowed. "W-why do you say so?"

The sheriff said nothing.

"Please. Please, understand me. I will stay here, if that's what you want. I will stay here, if you'd only let him go."

The next action galled her: the sheriff, hearing her plea, reached into her waistcoat and checked the time on a gold pocket watch.

Fiona had little regard for wealth. Gold and jewels — what use were those, when what she loved most was now gone? She had pawned all of that off in Colin’s wake. She had gotten rid of it all, so that she might come here.

The side of the watch was inlaid with a ring of rubies, each hardly more than a speck. They glittered like fire. On the back, between the sheriff's fingers, there was a pair of initials (or perhaps a Roman numeral): II.

Fiona said, "… if that is what you want."

And still, the sheriff was silent. She closed the watch and dropped it; it dangled from the crook of her finger on its chain. Fiona watched this happen. In her spirit, she walked away from this place, the consequences be damned. She was not this wilting damsel; she was a woman and had been through far worse before. What would this sheriff do if she tried to run? Shoot her? Well, what did she have to live for anyways?

But instead —

"What — what is going on?" Fiona remained on her knees, trembling. She touched her brow. "I feel — strangely. There's something in my head. It was not there before. I —" Tears welled up in Fiona's eyes. "Please let me move."

The sheriff's bored expression flickered. "Stand."

Fiona did, but it was not from her own conviction. She rather felt as if she were floating, lifted up by a whispered spell. The sheriff drew forward and undid the frogs of Fiona's traveling cloak. It fell to the dirt.

Fiona stood there, wholly open, examined under the unfeeling eye of a stranger, who looked at her as if examining a horse for purchase. She even grasped Fiona's jaw (still smarting from her failed escape) and checked her teeth.

She should've been furious. She should've been frightened. For a moment, she even fancied she was.

Then, the sheriff said, "Easy, girl."

Fiona opened her mouth a bit wider. Now, the sheriff was saying things to her. Strange things that didn't make much sense, and yet they had a profound effect upon her. Every utterance became like truth.

"I am nothing, on my own," the sheriff said, "my strength comes from Master electing me her right hand. What you're feeling? That is all her."

"Ahh."

“You are calm,” the sheriff said. “You trust me. I have your best interests at heart."

"Yes…"

"I only want you to learn your true purpose."

"Yes, Sheriff."

She was still holding Fiona's face, a strangely tender stroke of her leather glove across Fiona's cheek. The sheriff said, "What do you feel now?"

"I feel…"

Nothing.

The sudden drop was sharp — Fiona was nothing, such nothing that she couldn't speak any longer. Her mind, which so recently had been full of whirling emotions, became starkly blank and clear. Like the ocean in the lead up to a storm.

But Fiona was not an ocean — oceans have power. Fiona was just…

"That'll do for now."

The sheriff lifted her up in a bridal carry. Her cloak was left abandoned behind them. Fiona, cradled up against the sheriff's chest, made no protest. She carried Fiona through the town. Distant shouts whistled through the tin roofs.

Behind a building, a group of those handsome boy-women whooped. James lay on the ground. His face was red from blood that dripped down his brow. He looked up as they passed.

"My darling!" he gasped in a dying voice. He struggled to reach out towards her.

"Oh, was that your wifey? Well, you won't have to worry about that for much longer. She's going to be real different next time you meet. If you even get to." The boy stomped down James's hand.

The sheriff made her way up the hill, to Master's house.

Loveday had been a bloodless conquest. After the death of the Fowlers, Ianthe moved in with confidence. It was only a simple matter of enslaving the right people in the right places; sure, Tinsley wouldn't see the light immediately, but he could be taught who was in charge. Ianthe turned all of his yes-men in an effortless sweep. "I'm tired of waiting," she said.

"Of course, Master," the soon-to-be-sheriff said. "You'll have everything you ever wanted."

One evening Ianthe crested the ridge, everything having been settled. The rabble were unaware of her ensuing takeover. All of those with the power to stop her bowed as she came riding in. She surveyed the town slowly, her boy holding the reins. There were discussions, in luxurious detail, of the changes she would be making. The people of Loveday looked on with dull faces, already draining in her presence.

One of Master’s first decrees was the construction of her new home. A grand thing, worthy of her title. It stood at the edge of town, a large structure that overlooked the proceedings like a great, benevolent eye; Greek Revival, three stories, with ridged white columns all along the facing. The house was robin's egg blue, and all the fencing in white. All of its neat, tall windows glowed with effused light. It was a house which, like its master, stayed alive through the coldest, darkest nights.

The sheriff carried the girl up to the parlor.

It was a luxurious room. The ceiling was tall and white, the windows gilded. There was a large, ornate carpet and several couches. A grandfather clock ticked steadily beneath the conversation.

Ianthe lounged on her velvet seat. “Wouldn’t you say we had great fun, last year? We should do the festival again — more, this time. I found those martyr plays quite amusing."

"Yes, Master," said the woman who knelt on the floor beside her. She was fat and strong, with a large bosom and an earthy quality to her voice. Mayor Eugenia Tinsley, partially undressed.

Master had decided to keep her as the mayor, since she did well enough with all the boring stuff that Master was quite above. But it wouldn't do to keep a man — even a thoroughly enslaved one — in such a visible position of power. This was noy an issue for Ianthe: all she had needed to do was bite Tinsley's neck, and the new slave had been reshaped to Master's desire. The body followed the mind.

"Write it down, and be sure to make it a priority. Every inch of the town ought to be prepared for the festivities."

"Of what sort, Master?"

"I'll think of something." Ianthe waved her hand. "Later."

“Some opera?” came a voice from behind.

Blackbird had shuffled into the room beneath everyone’s noses. She wore a long silk nightdress, her hair falling in sheets around her. She suppressed a yawn as she added, "Or perhaps a rat circus?"

Ianthe said, "What are you doing up?"

"I am all out of my medicine."

"Well then, go to the kitchens. I'm sure Daphne has more for you."

"I don't care to. I am going to watch the show." And without asking, she sprawled on the couch beside Master, like a lazy cat.

Ianthe scowled at her, but only said, "Do not make trouble."

Blackbird smiled.

Finally, Master turned her attention to the sheriff. "Come in, boy."

The sheriff did so. She hoisted Fiona in her arms, tweaking her head to ensure that Fiona’s empty gaze was turned towards Master.

The sheriff knew quite well what Fiona must've been feeling. The sheriff carried with her, in the form of the watch, only a fraction of Master’s power. If Fiona could be overtaken by that, being in Master's presence would do the rest. As the seconds ticked on, any scrap of resistance that might've been left inside the woman was stamped down.

Master snapped her fingers. "Stand up straight."

When the sheriff pulled away, Fiona rose to her feet.

Master signaled with her hand, and the sheriff began to undo Fiona's dress.

"Was there any trouble?"

"Brennan disobeyed."

"How so?"

"He hid her in the attic."

Master clicked her tongue. She nudged open the girl’s mouth with her thumb. “We’ll have to do something about that. Suppose we send him to the mines?”

“Whatever you command, Master.”

From behind, Blackbird said, “Then you’ll need to train a replacement.”

“Hm. Too much work.” Master looked at the sheriff. "And she herself?"

"I do not doubt that she was made of a strong stuff." Every button popped, leaving shadows of Fiona’s shift visible, the ridges of her spine through it. "But we have nothing to worry about now."

Fiona made a noise — a faint whimper from between her dazed lips. Master grinned. “Oh, would you look at that? She’s still fighting, the poor thing.”

Master laid her hand on the girl’s head, brushing back her loose curls. “Shhh… relax, now.”

Master cut a shadow through the bright room; her rich clothes were all black, matching her curls. She spoke to Fiona softly as a single hand snaked its way beneath Fiona's frock. The girl's head lolled backwards, Master's words in her ears. Master spoke very simply of Fiona's purpose, of her desire to serve and of the pleasure that doing so would bring. The girl's eyes rolled back in her head, and there were no more protests.

Master traced her fingers down Fiona's stomach, towards her delta, and spoke to the sheriff with an amused lilt in her voice. "Would you like to finish her off?"

"I have no desire," said the sheriff, "but to serve you."

"Then serve me."

Master cradled a half-naked Fiona in her arms. The sheriff stepped towards them, but her focus was on Fiona, who sat with her head back, her eyes pinned to the ceiling.

The sheriff said, "You are a slave."

"I am a slave…" Fiona's voice was glossy.

"Your purpose is to serve."

"My purpose…"

"There is nothing you want more than to serve," the sheriff said. "There is no higher pleasure."

"Pleasure…"

"All women are meant to be Master's slaves."

"All women are meant to be Master's slaves…" Fiona shivered.

"And isn't it nice…" added Master, "to fuck all your sister slaves?"

Fiona agreed enthusiastically, though it was doubtful she knew what the words meant. She was completely limp in her master's arms; she had squirmed her way out of her corset. A single tit, its hard nipple like a single blossom, quivered in the air.

Ianthe said, “Be grateful.”

“Thank you…”

The girl repeated it, over and over again. She was on her knees, her hair streaming over her shoulders, gooseflesh beneath her thin shift. "Thank you, thank you, thank you for enslaving me, Master!"

Master gave a signal, a single flick of her hand — though the sheriff hardly needed it. She was already prepared, itching to move her hand (though she wouldn't ever do it before Master commanded). The sheriff withdrew her pocket watch and held it in her palm. Her eyes focused on the steady movement of the second hand.

Fiona continued to ramble. "And this whole town is yours? Truly? Oh, were I to be so fortunate — I have nothing else, no one to miss me. Master, won't you let me stay?"

Master was far past the point of humoring the girl. She said nothing, only looked at Fiona, examining the girl's fine shape. The sheriff could recognize the look in Master's eyes — not quite arousal, but close. Master reached out and raked a lock of Fiona's thin, wavy hair through her fingers.

She told the sheriff, "Start the count."

Fiona continued to thank her master as teeth sank into her bosom. Ianthe clung tight, playing with Fiona’s body as Fiona herself remained quite docile; pain had no meaning to her, not if Master inflicted it. The sheriff kept time, every second counted until a minute had passed. This was to be only a small thing, a first feeding just to taste.

Fiona withered to the floor, bleeding and woozy. She stared towards Tinsley and Blackbird, nary a thought in her mind. Her punctures oozed; before they could drip further, and sully the carpet, Master returned to her seat and took the drink that Tinsley proffered. "Get out of here. Daphne will show you to your new assignment."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you —"

That night, three girls showed up at the doorstep. They did not knock, only stood swaying, and their purpose was well understood. The sheriff let them. They moved in their nightclothes, like a parade of ghosts, as they were directed. Daphne was in the kitchen; she had prepared a picture of sugar water, and as soon as the glasses were placed upon their lips, the women drank greedily. Two of them began to kiss each other on the lips and grew quite excited. The sheriff had to slap them like lazy cattle to get them to desist. She sent them up to Master's bedroom. She herself remained downstairs.

Daphne sat alone in her wooden seat. She bundled up her skirts to expose her cunt, but her few attempts at masturbating fizzled out — the arthritis in her hands had gotten too bad.

“I am just glad that Master is happy…” She panted. “She’s… she’s been waiting for this all week.” She pecked at her pussy, weakly. “Oh…oh… it makes me so hot, knowing she’s up there… knowing how good it feels…”

The sheriff laid a hand on Daphne's shoulder. "Don't strain yourself, sister. I'll help."

Daphne let out a breathy sigh in agreement. The sheriff fell to her knees and pushed back the remaining obstruction of Daphne's petticoats. She gently kissed her slit. Daphne whimpered —and whimpered louder as the sheriff tongued it. The sheriff made sure to go slow enough to make it worth both their whiles. Floors above, Master fucked and fed with abandon. She was making a bloody mess of those girls. Daphne drooled her cum onto the sheriff's eager tongue.

“Thank you…” she gasped. “Thank you, sister…”

The night was still. All was right in the world.