It's common knowledge that people don't have cats, cats have hoomans. So it's a matter of training the stray porcelain murder-catgirl to be a responsible hooman owner through hugs.
Mercy, and Other Costly Mistakes (nsfw)
So is the distinction we should be seeing more along the lines of cat girl as opposed to cat lady?
One just pushed out into the wider world from a privileged and powerful but ironically sheltered and stratified position, while the other has built up her own comparatively modest but self sufficient livelihood and is now dealing with the loneliness that can come with that self sufficiency in the longer term even for introverts.
12. Invitations
Gargulec
impact!
- Location
- a garden
12. Invitation
Thick sheets of rain shattered against the Middle City's white pavement, turning its winding streets into rapid creeks. Water foamed and frothed, flurrying all the way down to the muddy cesspool of the slum below. Wind tore at Ifi's umbrella as she struggled to present it to the torrent – a useless gesture. Her robe had long since soaked, letting windchill bite deep into the bone beneath. The morbid drumbeat her teeth shivered out was all that remained of the hope that a brief shower and a trek up to the middle heights wouldn't just let her get an important task done, but also help to clear her mind of all of her recent mistakes. Instead, it merely added to the list.
If not for the lights flickering in the windows she passed by, the city could pass for deserted; the alchemist couldn't recall the last time she had seen it this empty. Not just of people; even with the weather forcing everyone to shelter inside, there should be a steady stream of golems marching the streets, their stone bodies indifferent to rain. But instead of dozens that she had come to expect, barely a handful continued their supply routes. Whatever it was that plagued Ifi's thoughts – and many things did – the Middle City as a whole was holding its breath, eyes anxiously turned upwards, to the cloud-covered skyline. Even trade ground to almost a halt, everyone waiting for the new order to finally break. Everyone, Ifi observed bitterly, but not her. She brushed aside a damp clump of her wig from her face; other worries gnawed at her.
For example, like the fact that she was not the only one out in the streets. Around her, hiding in the doorways and under overhanging roofs, she spotted lowborns in their drab grab and street-sweeper caps. The weather was dealing away with ash and soot they were meant to clean, so they lazed about instead. Their brooms and brushes discarded, Ifi watched them drink and smoke stubby cigarettes. Their dark eyes followed her, she could swear, reaching out and grasping at the lone guildswoman out in the streets at the wrong time. She picked up her pace, her boots starting to slide across the slick pavement.
Though the downpour's clatter deafened her, she was sure she could hear them snicker and chuckle at the sight of her, marching face-first into the rain. An unpleasant sensation skittered up the back of her spine. Her head swung around as she tried to catch them gawking; all she saw were faces looking immediately away. Were they afraid she would notice them staring? The sturdy carrier bag swung across her shoulder weighed like a brick; have they noticed it? Had they realized how valuable the contents could be?
The fear made its way down her throat, lodging itself like a familiar clump. If she was to scream, would anyone come to help? Would anyone even pay attention? There was this one lowborn so close to her, a terrifying hulk of a man barely able to fit himself under the eaves of a shuttered shrine. She passed him close enough to catch the stench of his tobacco, to notice the wriggling, braiding mess of scars running the length of his brutish shoulders. She tried not to look at him; she prayed he didn't notice the badge of rank pinned to her chest, that he didn't make a connection that she was carrying rare and expensive elixirs, and…
Her boot slipped on a wet stone. She yelped, stumbling wildly forward, barely able to catch her balance before tumbling all the way to the hard ground. This time, there was a laugh, she heard it clearly! Carried by a burst of panic, she threw herself around to face the assault, already expecting to find the lowborn's hands clawing at her. A shout of alarm started to build up in her throat.
"Are you alright there, lady alchemist?" the man slurred, head respectfully bowed so as not to meet her eyes. He budged not an inch from his spot under the overhang. "It's slippery out there."
He shook the ash off his cigarette, little motes of gray flowing away with the rest of the city's filth. Dumbstruck, Ifi paused, until a gust of wind threw rain into her rapidly reddening face. She stomped off without a word.
The embarrassment that flowed to where the brief panic drained was nothing short of rancid. No more than a couple of hours separated her from the time when she was sleeping like a newborn in a tight embrace of a creature that could not only rend her limb from limb, but would also enjoy every moment of it. And now, a single thuggish lowborn was enough to get to the verge of shrieking? What was going on with her?
That was hardly a difficult question, she thought to herself, trying to not let the wind rip the umbrella from her hands. It was Shard, all Shard.
If not for the rain, she would have to struggle not to slip a hand under the damp robe, just to try to feel at traces left by the below-spawn's touch. Of course, there were no indentations to be found lingering that way, no ridges and cuts impressed into the surface of her by that hard, porcelain shell. But what good came of knowing that it was just a memory, if she could no more shake it than she could magically step between the raindrops battering into her? Shard stayed on her, tactile and present. And just below the surface of Ifi's thoughts, there lurked the slender white arm wrapped around her chest, pushing her back tight to a carapace as warm as a stone left out in the summer sun. Ifi swallowed as the memory unreeled in her head, pulling at all the little hooks that had been driven through her gut. It was the way she had been held, the way that hold grew ever more possessive with each minute, as the drug she forced into Shared weakened its own hold.
Once, she had let her hunger be buried under the loam of lonesome years, and grew for herself a sad little life on top. But now, someone had dug out the mound, and let all the want hidden inside be laid bare, all over again. In a twisted little way, Shard really did end up gutting her open, and though only a metaphor, it was in all likelihood still going to get Ifi killed.
The more lucid parts of her couldn't help but be impressed by the below-spawn. If Shard had mentioned being on the run from her siblings before leaving the mark of her touch on Ifi, the alchemist would have just thrown her out. But instead, she waited until the morning, until there was no way left in the world that Ifi could give up what she had been just offered. And at that point, there was no choice left to her but to agree to contribute to Shard's deranged scheme, without doubt a regret. Not without anger, obviously – she had been tricked and manipulated. Bile boiled in her stomach in fury as sharp as it was mute and irrelevant. The sheer weight of her want overpowered everything else. And that was all that there was to it; there was no pretending otherwise. Sure enough, Shard could rip out Ifi's innards if the alchemist didn't agree to help her, but that threat was so low on the list of reasons why Ifi did that it was a struggle not to feel kind of silly about herself. Her father had to have been right, all the way back then: there really was something broken with her priorities.
Which is why the thing she was doing right now had to be added to the roll of her mistakes. For all the pretense about having to clear her mind, and put some space between herself and Shard, the real reason for why she chose to brave the weather was that she just couldn't wait to try to make the below-spawn's plan work. For better – but probably for worse – she wasn't just going along with it; she was actively trying to improve on it.
Which brought her through the torrent, and to an unremarkable villa in the middle-heights, the only thing setting it apart from the neighbors being the small fenced garden surrounding it. As far as Ifi could tell – a green thumb was not among her qualities – it seemed well tended, flower-beds and rose-bushes arranged into a display of the kind of luxury that was hard to come by in this part of the City. Above the door, a pair of stucco serpents coiled; another snakehead glared from the middle of the door itself, clutching an alarm charm in its sprawled jaw. Not giving herself time for second thoughts, Ifi rubbed it. It chimed quietly at the touch, followed by a louder bell ringing somewhere deeper in the building. When the door opened, a statuesque maid greeted her; it took Ifi an embarrassingly long moment to realize it was no servant, but Prunikos Koina herself.
She cut no less of an impressive figure when freed from her torture dress – not that the uniform she was was any less wonderful. Only at a glance could it be mistaken for one of an actual maid; it was a costume instead, the dress rich, black brocade, the apron pristine white and trimmed with luxurious lace. Pearls glistened in the headdress crowning her head, and on the silver collar clasped tightly around her neck. It didn't matter, Ifi realized, that she could clearly tell now that she was looking at an elixir woman, broad in shoulders and rough in features. It really didn't matter at all; not with the way Prunikos towered above her. The alchemist exhaled awkwardly.
"I'm here with your order," she uttered, her teeth clattering in a wholly undignified way.
"Good graces," the tall woman boomed, looking down at her. There was no hint of obeisance in her voice, and only the slightest trace of a lowborn's slur. "You look like a damp cat. Come in. I can't let Eusi see you like that."
A quarter of an hour later, Ifi sat by a coffee-table in a small, tastefully furnished salon, stripped of all of her vestments and instead wrapped tightly in a warm and wonderfully soft bathrobe. A gentle scent of lilacs filled her as she sniffed at it; a hefty heating charm whirred under her chair, radiating gentle warmth directly into her bones. It was almost enough to make the alchemist feel comfortable; almost, because what it did instead was let the collected weight of all the worry and all the desire, and all the madcap resolve melt down into a kind of a numbing slag, currently covering all of her thoughts. She reclined in the chair, fighting the oncoming drowsiness; the stress of having to actually move plan along was the one solid help in the struggle.
Morning papers and crumpled letters littered the table; her bag lay next to them, clasped shut, tiny droplets of water still drying off the leather case. A cushioned chair waited opposite of Ifi, but Prunikos did not take it, instead content to just kneel on a pillow next to it, back ruler-straight. There was something so solemn in her posture – a thought occurred to Ifi that it was a result of a long and harsh discipline teaching the woman how to keep the proper stance in the household. The alchemist's eyes zeroed in on the collar, a piece of metal no less solid for all that it was ornate; her mind wandered to the moment when someone's hands clasped it around that neck, and to the tug on it, the leash and the crop. With her dress, it was not hard to imagine at all; and there was such a wonderful contrast between the delicate fabric, and the harsh contours of Prunikos' face. It was not unlike the torture dress, restraining and constricting her, only more subtly, more elegantly. Just like back on the terrace, Ifi could take the sight in for hours. Prunikos appeared either indifferent, or welcoming of this attention.
"You really are incorrigible, miss alchemist," Eusi's voice snapped Ifi of her imaginative fugue.
She ripped her eyes away from Prunikos to greet the master of the house herself, sauntering into the salon with a plate of tea cups and cocktail glasses.The plain linen shirt she wore was nothing like her wife's treasure dress; only a hint of a silver trim suggested the wealth and status of that slight woman.
"I'm sorry?" Ifi muttered blearily.
Prunikos leaned in over the table, gathering the papers to the side and making room for the drinks; Eusi placed the platter carefully between them, and slid into her seat, a tall glass in one hand, the other quickly finding the back of her wife's neck.
"A tea to warm you," she offered, "and an afternoon entertainment for me."
Ifi stared at the scene, noticing the delicate finger slip under the silver collar, and the playful smile flitter through Eusi's bright face. It was difficult to believe the scene was real, and not just a vision taken straight from the pages of those unfortunate books that had once and forever poisoned the alchemist with that accursed hunger. She swallowed, perhaps a bit too audibly; the two women had to notice. For a moment, they were both quiet, watching Ifi as if expecting her to say something. But she only froze, a familiar awkward sense making its way through all the haze around her head. In a stilted motion, she grabbed the offered tea-cup, raising it to her lips as if it could hide whatever it was that was budding on her cheeks.
Eusi stifled a chuckle; Ifi scalded her tongue with the drink.
"I hope she wasn't too rude to you," Eusi said, lightly stroking the nape of Prunikos's neck. "This made thing is only a pose. Alas.."
Prunikos laughed earnestly; Ifi followed the example, far more nervously.
"No, no, it's fine, I…" she mumbled, continuing to hide herself behind the tea-cup. The task she sat ahead of herself for this visit seemed so very distant now, a concern for someone who could actually know how to not make a fool or a creep out of herself. So someone who was not her.
"I think you should see some of her other outfits," Eusi continued, her smirk a little bit sharp, and a little bit vicious. "She has three chests full of them, and every morning it's just the constant begging for me to pick one. There is that one that is nothing but chains and belts. Just try to imagine what a sight it is!"
Ifi did as instructed; it only made something tighten in her gut in a very suspiciously pleasant way.
"You are torturing her," Prunikos observed, deep voice tinged with amusement.
"A bit. I do enjoy a bite of shame from time to time," Eusi replied lightly. "And you no longer provide."
They laughed again; Ifi pulled her shoulders closer together, seeing just how small she could become. She sunk deeper into the chair, and into the robe.
"I'm sorry," she managed to get out the one thing she would always say in times like these.
"Are you?" Eusi chortled. "I mean, you didn't do anything wrong, miss alchemist. Aside from blatantly ogling my wife. Again."
Ifi stared at her in mute horror for a second, before setting her eyes firmly on the paneled floor.
"I didn't…"
"Please," Eusi uttered, as if short on breath. "Please, don't tell me you didn't mean to. Please."
Before that panic rapidly blooming in Ifi's throat could overpower her and made her do something actually stupid, Prunikos raised a gloved hand, a conciliatory frown on her face.
"What my lady wife wishes to say," she said, calm and clear, "is that she appreciates the way you admire me, and…"
"…how desperately you wish to be her right now," Eusi finished.
The undeniable fact that it was true did little to shield Ifi from the shock of realizing that it was also precisely what she had been thinking. After an anguishing stretch of silence, Eusi sipped from her glass, audibly in a way that didn't even try to hide how deliberate it was. Ifi's tea was back on the plate; she wound herself in the bathrobe, as if she could disappear into the fabric, and off the face of the world.
"It really is sweet how you fluster," Eusi noted, and in the moment, her voice was almost like Shard's, in all the best, worst ways. "And don't worry. I'm sure Pris continues to be more than happy for your famished attention. But enough fun. I see you've mixed the elixir as requested?"
Ifi nodded shortly, still trying to find room for words in her mouth.
"It's a bit experimental," she tried, her eyes continuing to drill holes through the floor. "Which is why I needed to deliver it in person, yes."
That was almost true, and technically not a lie.
"Experimental how?" Prunikos asked, shedding amusement for curiosity.
Awkwardly, Ifi reached for the bag and undid the clasp, sliding out a green bottle and a smaller phial.
"It's a complicated formula," she muttered. "I am not sure if you are interested in specifics…"
"I am supposed to be drinking it. I'd better be interested."
"Well," Ifi turned the bottle in her hands; the potion inside shimmered deep blue, "it's a sulfur of tin based tincture, reinforced with the labile silver…"
"You mean mercury?" Eusi asked.
A kind of professional annoyance cut through the veil of shame; Ifi shook her head vigorously.
"No, of course not, labile silver is just a livelier form of common silver, properly rendered," she explained, vigor quickly returning to her voice. "Which is why it is also called the Cry of the Moon by some alchemists. The theory is that from this, it could be a basis of sympathetic resonance, especially taking into consideration the feminine lunar essence…"
Words, formulas, and processes started to flow freely; she spared the two no detail and with each attentive nod she received in turn, she left the miasma of shame farther behind. Soon enough, she was hunched over the table, tapping at the bottle as she explained each and every feasible side-effect the elixir could have, and all the elaborate ways one could counteract them. For their part, Eusi and Prunikos made for a captive audience, the taller woman listening with rapt attention, while Eusi smiled and sipped her drink like a proper patron of the crafts. Ever so often, they would break her lecture with a question of their own, and Ifi would answer it with full certainty of someone confident in her abilities. In those moments, even the memory of Shard's possessive hold paled before the sheer, professional pride.
"So, a followup in two weeks, yes?" Prunikos asked, still maintaining her perfect posture, half an hour on. "Will we be able to visit?" she glanced at her wife.
"Probably," Eusi swirled the last of the liquor in her glass, then noticed the confusion across Ifi's face. "Oh, you probably haven't heard yet, have you?"
"Heard what?" Ifi asked, blinking; the question yanked her back to the living world.
"It looks like the situation back home is about to clear up," Eusi explained, "and in our favor, if you know what I mean. So I don't think we will be staying in this lovely stretch of the lower city for much longer."
The alchemist nodded, as if she understood more of the implications that she did. It was valuable information – or at least could be such, in the hands of someone who knew what to do with it. For Ifi, it was just a distant sense of relief that the civil war was coming to close so quickly.
"In any case," Eusi continued, "we'll of course have to wait for the results. But if they are satisfying, then I promise you miss alchemist – you will be compensated to the High Table's standards."
And there it was – the opening she came here for. The opening to put her own plan in motion. Ifi grabbed the half-empty cup, quaffing the rest of the cold tea as if it could add to her courage, then opened her mouth and spoke a quiet and insecure plea.
"There is a different sort of a reward I would prefer," she whispered, voice ever so slightly trembling.
Eusi pursed her lips, squinting at Ifi. She glanced at Prunikos, who gave an imperceptible shrug, then back at the alchemist.
"If it is what I am thinking it is," she said slowly and carefully, "it's a very bold proposition and I think I would need to have a longer conversation with Pris before…"
"I just need you to help me arrange a meeting between a man in the towers and a friend of mine!" Ifi spat the tea out, words coming out in a burst before Eusi could ruin her mind even worse than she already did. "Quickly and without attracting notice!"
For the first time since she had met her, a kind of confusion took to Eusi's face. She closed her eyes and hid her face in her hands for a moment.
"Right," she said, and each word she let out got Ifi's heart to flutter like a snared animal. "Right. That's more conventional than what I thought you had in mind, I suppose. How very clandestine. So who is the man that you need met? Please tell me it is not the new Master Glassmaker."
"No," Ifi shook her head again. "Not at all."
"Good."
"It's a lowborn thug-"
Prunikos hissed sharply; Ifi didn't quite realize why.
"-who calls himself Villis."
Eusi looked down at the glass in her hand; she rolled her eyes slightly, bringing a new, and altogether less pleasant kind of shame out of Ifi.
"And here I was thinking you care not a whiff about politics," she sighed deeply, her hand withdrawing from Prunikos' back.
The alchemist contorted her face into a pained expression. It was one of those messes her father wanted her to put herself into, and she just waded into by simple, awful accident. All she knew was that Shard, for some reason, was insistent on meeting the man who had almost killed her, because she apparently believed that he was the only one who could help her defend herself from the "Lair Mother", whoever that was. And Eusi was right – Ifi barely cared about politics. Whatever the context was to this name, she neither knew, nor wanted to. Her entire plan was to just assist Shard, not try to decipher what the scheme was all about.
"I don't," she tried to defend herself, "it's not for me. It's just for a friend. I'm just trying to help."
"Your friend," Eusi's voice dropped a pitch, and a good half a dozen degrees, "is looking to deal with the man at the center of the entire mess above. That lowborn thug," the words grated in her mouth, "is someone they call the Glassmaker's bane. And you, in your cluelessness, know not a whiff about any of that, but instead just thrust yourself straight into the a serpent's pit."
Ifi knew nothing about anything that Eusi mentioned, but to be honest, it didn't surprise her at all. She came to expect something like that.
"I'm not thrusting myself into anything," Ifi protested weakly. "I'm just trying to help a cherished friend. Can you?"
"No," Eusi declared, and Ifi's heart sank. "I made a conscious decision not to involve myself with this mess, and I am not going to back on it because…" but before she could finish, and Ifi fell into despair, Prunikos cut in.
"The Feast of Indulgence," she suggested. "He will be there, won't he?"
"Huh, you are right," Eusi nodded; Ifi looked up hopefully. "Of course he will. That's an idea," she sighed again, squinting at the alchemist. "Do you know what my wife is talking about?"
"Not exactly," Ifi admitted, too stressed for proper shame. The name wasn't unfamiliar; she had heard it once or twice before – from her father, so she couldn't remember a thing about it.
"Well, if the war ends – and it looks to be ending – there will be a celebration. A masque, actually," Eusi explained. "The break between the old order and new, when the seats at the High Table are mixed and no face is familiar," she recited. "At the end, the new Master Glassmaker will be announced, but before then, the families will have an opportunity for the last bit of negotiating and truce-making on a ground of shared neutrality… and anonymity."
"No one is allowed to recognize anyone during the masque, nor harm them. Not in any official capacity," Prunikos added. "For as long as the masks are on, all are nameless, and all are equal, and all are friends. Whatever happens during the Masque stays within it. And Villis will be there."
Ifi breathed out. She could already tell where this was going. Her plan, against all odds, was going to work.
"I can provide you and your friend an invitation," Eusi stated. "And you can have your meetings, without me or my wife getting involved."
"Thank you," Ifi whispered, relief and gratitude hitting like a wave. "Thank you. This is all I could have asked for."
"There is only one wrinkle, however," Eusi added, the shadow passing from her face. "How good is your wardrobe?"
Thick sheets of rain shattered against the Middle City's white pavement, turning its winding streets into rapid creeks. Water foamed and frothed, flurrying all the way down to the muddy cesspool of the slum below. Wind tore at Ifi's umbrella as she struggled to present it to the torrent – a useless gesture. Her robe had long since soaked, letting windchill bite deep into the bone beneath. The morbid drumbeat her teeth shivered out was all that remained of the hope that a brief shower and a trek up to the middle heights wouldn't just let her get an important task done, but also help to clear her mind of all of her recent mistakes. Instead, it merely added to the list.
If not for the lights flickering in the windows she passed by, the city could pass for deserted; the alchemist couldn't recall the last time she had seen it this empty. Not just of people; even with the weather forcing everyone to shelter inside, there should be a steady stream of golems marching the streets, their stone bodies indifferent to rain. But instead of dozens that she had come to expect, barely a handful continued their supply routes. Whatever it was that plagued Ifi's thoughts – and many things did – the Middle City as a whole was holding its breath, eyes anxiously turned upwards, to the cloud-covered skyline. Even trade ground to almost a halt, everyone waiting for the new order to finally break. Everyone, Ifi observed bitterly, but not her. She brushed aside a damp clump of her wig from her face; other worries gnawed at her.
For example, like the fact that she was not the only one out in the streets. Around her, hiding in the doorways and under overhanging roofs, she spotted lowborns in their drab grab and street-sweeper caps. The weather was dealing away with ash and soot they were meant to clean, so they lazed about instead. Their brooms and brushes discarded, Ifi watched them drink and smoke stubby cigarettes. Their dark eyes followed her, she could swear, reaching out and grasping at the lone guildswoman out in the streets at the wrong time. She picked up her pace, her boots starting to slide across the slick pavement.
Though the downpour's clatter deafened her, she was sure she could hear them snicker and chuckle at the sight of her, marching face-first into the rain. An unpleasant sensation skittered up the back of her spine. Her head swung around as she tried to catch them gawking; all she saw were faces looking immediately away. Were they afraid she would notice them staring? The sturdy carrier bag swung across her shoulder weighed like a brick; have they noticed it? Had they realized how valuable the contents could be?
The fear made its way down her throat, lodging itself like a familiar clump. If she was to scream, would anyone come to help? Would anyone even pay attention? There was this one lowborn so close to her, a terrifying hulk of a man barely able to fit himself under the eaves of a shuttered shrine. She passed him close enough to catch the stench of his tobacco, to notice the wriggling, braiding mess of scars running the length of his brutish shoulders. She tried not to look at him; she prayed he didn't notice the badge of rank pinned to her chest, that he didn't make a connection that she was carrying rare and expensive elixirs, and…
Her boot slipped on a wet stone. She yelped, stumbling wildly forward, barely able to catch her balance before tumbling all the way to the hard ground. This time, there was a laugh, she heard it clearly! Carried by a burst of panic, she threw herself around to face the assault, already expecting to find the lowborn's hands clawing at her. A shout of alarm started to build up in her throat.
"Are you alright there, lady alchemist?" the man slurred, head respectfully bowed so as not to meet her eyes. He budged not an inch from his spot under the overhang. "It's slippery out there."
He shook the ash off his cigarette, little motes of gray flowing away with the rest of the city's filth. Dumbstruck, Ifi paused, until a gust of wind threw rain into her rapidly reddening face. She stomped off without a word.
The embarrassment that flowed to where the brief panic drained was nothing short of rancid. No more than a couple of hours separated her from the time when she was sleeping like a newborn in a tight embrace of a creature that could not only rend her limb from limb, but would also enjoy every moment of it. And now, a single thuggish lowborn was enough to get to the verge of shrieking? What was going on with her?
That was hardly a difficult question, she thought to herself, trying to not let the wind rip the umbrella from her hands. It was Shard, all Shard.
If not for the rain, she would have to struggle not to slip a hand under the damp robe, just to try to feel at traces left by the below-spawn's touch. Of course, there were no indentations to be found lingering that way, no ridges and cuts impressed into the surface of her by that hard, porcelain shell. But what good came of knowing that it was just a memory, if she could no more shake it than she could magically step between the raindrops battering into her? Shard stayed on her, tactile and present. And just below the surface of Ifi's thoughts, there lurked the slender white arm wrapped around her chest, pushing her back tight to a carapace as warm as a stone left out in the summer sun. Ifi swallowed as the memory unreeled in her head, pulling at all the little hooks that had been driven through her gut. It was the way she had been held, the way that hold grew ever more possessive with each minute, as the drug she forced into Shared weakened its own hold.
Once, she had let her hunger be buried under the loam of lonesome years, and grew for herself a sad little life on top. But now, someone had dug out the mound, and let all the want hidden inside be laid bare, all over again. In a twisted little way, Shard really did end up gutting her open, and though only a metaphor, it was in all likelihood still going to get Ifi killed.
The more lucid parts of her couldn't help but be impressed by the below-spawn. If Shard had mentioned being on the run from her siblings before leaving the mark of her touch on Ifi, the alchemist would have just thrown her out. But instead, she waited until the morning, until there was no way left in the world that Ifi could give up what she had been just offered. And at that point, there was no choice left to her but to agree to contribute to Shard's deranged scheme, without doubt a regret. Not without anger, obviously – she had been tricked and manipulated. Bile boiled in her stomach in fury as sharp as it was mute and irrelevant. The sheer weight of her want overpowered everything else. And that was all that there was to it; there was no pretending otherwise. Sure enough, Shard could rip out Ifi's innards if the alchemist didn't agree to help her, but that threat was so low on the list of reasons why Ifi did that it was a struggle not to feel kind of silly about herself. Her father had to have been right, all the way back then: there really was something broken with her priorities.
Which is why the thing she was doing right now had to be added to the roll of her mistakes. For all the pretense about having to clear her mind, and put some space between herself and Shard, the real reason for why she chose to brave the weather was that she just couldn't wait to try to make the below-spawn's plan work. For better – but probably for worse – she wasn't just going along with it; she was actively trying to improve on it.
Which brought her through the torrent, and to an unremarkable villa in the middle-heights, the only thing setting it apart from the neighbors being the small fenced garden surrounding it. As far as Ifi could tell – a green thumb was not among her qualities – it seemed well tended, flower-beds and rose-bushes arranged into a display of the kind of luxury that was hard to come by in this part of the City. Above the door, a pair of stucco serpents coiled; another snakehead glared from the middle of the door itself, clutching an alarm charm in its sprawled jaw. Not giving herself time for second thoughts, Ifi rubbed it. It chimed quietly at the touch, followed by a louder bell ringing somewhere deeper in the building. When the door opened, a statuesque maid greeted her; it took Ifi an embarrassingly long moment to realize it was no servant, but Prunikos Koina herself.
She cut no less of an impressive figure when freed from her torture dress – not that the uniform she was was any less wonderful. Only at a glance could it be mistaken for one of an actual maid; it was a costume instead, the dress rich, black brocade, the apron pristine white and trimmed with luxurious lace. Pearls glistened in the headdress crowning her head, and on the silver collar clasped tightly around her neck. It didn't matter, Ifi realized, that she could clearly tell now that she was looking at an elixir woman, broad in shoulders and rough in features. It really didn't matter at all; not with the way Prunikos towered above her. The alchemist exhaled awkwardly.
"I'm here with your order," she uttered, her teeth clattering in a wholly undignified way.
"Good graces," the tall woman boomed, looking down at her. There was no hint of obeisance in her voice, and only the slightest trace of a lowborn's slur. "You look like a damp cat. Come in. I can't let Eusi see you like that."
A quarter of an hour later, Ifi sat by a coffee-table in a small, tastefully furnished salon, stripped of all of her vestments and instead wrapped tightly in a warm and wonderfully soft bathrobe. A gentle scent of lilacs filled her as she sniffed at it; a hefty heating charm whirred under her chair, radiating gentle warmth directly into her bones. It was almost enough to make the alchemist feel comfortable; almost, because what it did instead was let the collected weight of all the worry and all the desire, and all the madcap resolve melt down into a kind of a numbing slag, currently covering all of her thoughts. She reclined in the chair, fighting the oncoming drowsiness; the stress of having to actually move plan along was the one solid help in the struggle.
Morning papers and crumpled letters littered the table; her bag lay next to them, clasped shut, tiny droplets of water still drying off the leather case. A cushioned chair waited opposite of Ifi, but Prunikos did not take it, instead content to just kneel on a pillow next to it, back ruler-straight. There was something so solemn in her posture – a thought occurred to Ifi that it was a result of a long and harsh discipline teaching the woman how to keep the proper stance in the household. The alchemist's eyes zeroed in on the collar, a piece of metal no less solid for all that it was ornate; her mind wandered to the moment when someone's hands clasped it around that neck, and to the tug on it, the leash and the crop. With her dress, it was not hard to imagine at all; and there was such a wonderful contrast between the delicate fabric, and the harsh contours of Prunikos' face. It was not unlike the torture dress, restraining and constricting her, only more subtly, more elegantly. Just like back on the terrace, Ifi could take the sight in for hours. Prunikos appeared either indifferent, or welcoming of this attention.
"You really are incorrigible, miss alchemist," Eusi's voice snapped Ifi of her imaginative fugue.
She ripped her eyes away from Prunikos to greet the master of the house herself, sauntering into the salon with a plate of tea cups and cocktail glasses.The plain linen shirt she wore was nothing like her wife's treasure dress; only a hint of a silver trim suggested the wealth and status of that slight woman.
"I'm sorry?" Ifi muttered blearily.
Prunikos leaned in over the table, gathering the papers to the side and making room for the drinks; Eusi placed the platter carefully between them, and slid into her seat, a tall glass in one hand, the other quickly finding the back of her wife's neck.
"A tea to warm you," she offered, "and an afternoon entertainment for me."
Ifi stared at the scene, noticing the delicate finger slip under the silver collar, and the playful smile flitter through Eusi's bright face. It was difficult to believe the scene was real, and not just a vision taken straight from the pages of those unfortunate books that had once and forever poisoned the alchemist with that accursed hunger. She swallowed, perhaps a bit too audibly; the two women had to notice. For a moment, they were both quiet, watching Ifi as if expecting her to say something. But she only froze, a familiar awkward sense making its way through all the haze around her head. In a stilted motion, she grabbed the offered tea-cup, raising it to her lips as if it could hide whatever it was that was budding on her cheeks.
Eusi stifled a chuckle; Ifi scalded her tongue with the drink.
"I hope she wasn't too rude to you," Eusi said, lightly stroking the nape of Prunikos's neck. "This made thing is only a pose. Alas.."
Prunikos laughed earnestly; Ifi followed the example, far more nervously.
"No, no, it's fine, I…" she mumbled, continuing to hide herself behind the tea-cup. The task she sat ahead of herself for this visit seemed so very distant now, a concern for someone who could actually know how to not make a fool or a creep out of herself. So someone who was not her.
"I think you should see some of her other outfits," Eusi continued, her smirk a little bit sharp, and a little bit vicious. "She has three chests full of them, and every morning it's just the constant begging for me to pick one. There is that one that is nothing but chains and belts. Just try to imagine what a sight it is!"
Ifi did as instructed; it only made something tighten in her gut in a very suspiciously pleasant way.
"You are torturing her," Prunikos observed, deep voice tinged with amusement.
"A bit. I do enjoy a bite of shame from time to time," Eusi replied lightly. "And you no longer provide."
They laughed again; Ifi pulled her shoulders closer together, seeing just how small she could become. She sunk deeper into the chair, and into the robe.
"I'm sorry," she managed to get out the one thing she would always say in times like these.
"Are you?" Eusi chortled. "I mean, you didn't do anything wrong, miss alchemist. Aside from blatantly ogling my wife. Again."
Ifi stared at her in mute horror for a second, before setting her eyes firmly on the paneled floor.
"I didn't…"
"Please," Eusi uttered, as if short on breath. "Please, don't tell me you didn't mean to. Please."
Before that panic rapidly blooming in Ifi's throat could overpower her and made her do something actually stupid, Prunikos raised a gloved hand, a conciliatory frown on her face.
"What my lady wife wishes to say," she said, calm and clear, "is that she appreciates the way you admire me, and…"
"…how desperately you wish to be her right now," Eusi finished.
The undeniable fact that it was true did little to shield Ifi from the shock of realizing that it was also precisely what she had been thinking. After an anguishing stretch of silence, Eusi sipped from her glass, audibly in a way that didn't even try to hide how deliberate it was. Ifi's tea was back on the plate; she wound herself in the bathrobe, as if she could disappear into the fabric, and off the face of the world.
"It really is sweet how you fluster," Eusi noted, and in the moment, her voice was almost like Shard's, in all the best, worst ways. "And don't worry. I'm sure Pris continues to be more than happy for your famished attention. But enough fun. I see you've mixed the elixir as requested?"
Ifi nodded shortly, still trying to find room for words in her mouth.
"It's a bit experimental," she tried, her eyes continuing to drill holes through the floor. "Which is why I needed to deliver it in person, yes."
That was almost true, and technically not a lie.
"Experimental how?" Prunikos asked, shedding amusement for curiosity.
Awkwardly, Ifi reached for the bag and undid the clasp, sliding out a green bottle and a smaller phial.
"It's a complicated formula," she muttered. "I am not sure if you are interested in specifics…"
"I am supposed to be drinking it. I'd better be interested."
"Well," Ifi turned the bottle in her hands; the potion inside shimmered deep blue, "it's a sulfur of tin based tincture, reinforced with the labile silver…"
"You mean mercury?" Eusi asked.
A kind of professional annoyance cut through the veil of shame; Ifi shook her head vigorously.
"No, of course not, labile silver is just a livelier form of common silver, properly rendered," she explained, vigor quickly returning to her voice. "Which is why it is also called the Cry of the Moon by some alchemists. The theory is that from this, it could be a basis of sympathetic resonance, especially taking into consideration the feminine lunar essence…"
Words, formulas, and processes started to flow freely; she spared the two no detail and with each attentive nod she received in turn, she left the miasma of shame farther behind. Soon enough, she was hunched over the table, tapping at the bottle as she explained each and every feasible side-effect the elixir could have, and all the elaborate ways one could counteract them. For their part, Eusi and Prunikos made for a captive audience, the taller woman listening with rapt attention, while Eusi smiled and sipped her drink like a proper patron of the crafts. Ever so often, they would break her lecture with a question of their own, and Ifi would answer it with full certainty of someone confident in her abilities. In those moments, even the memory of Shard's possessive hold paled before the sheer, professional pride.
"So, a followup in two weeks, yes?" Prunikos asked, still maintaining her perfect posture, half an hour on. "Will we be able to visit?" she glanced at her wife.
"Probably," Eusi swirled the last of the liquor in her glass, then noticed the confusion across Ifi's face. "Oh, you probably haven't heard yet, have you?"
"Heard what?" Ifi asked, blinking; the question yanked her back to the living world.
"It looks like the situation back home is about to clear up," Eusi explained, "and in our favor, if you know what I mean. So I don't think we will be staying in this lovely stretch of the lower city for much longer."
The alchemist nodded, as if she understood more of the implications that she did. It was valuable information – or at least could be such, in the hands of someone who knew what to do with it. For Ifi, it was just a distant sense of relief that the civil war was coming to close so quickly.
"In any case," Eusi continued, "we'll of course have to wait for the results. But if they are satisfying, then I promise you miss alchemist – you will be compensated to the High Table's standards."
And there it was – the opening she came here for. The opening to put her own plan in motion. Ifi grabbed the half-empty cup, quaffing the rest of the cold tea as if it could add to her courage, then opened her mouth and spoke a quiet and insecure plea.
"There is a different sort of a reward I would prefer," she whispered, voice ever so slightly trembling.
Eusi pursed her lips, squinting at Ifi. She glanced at Prunikos, who gave an imperceptible shrug, then back at the alchemist.
"If it is what I am thinking it is," she said slowly and carefully, "it's a very bold proposition and I think I would need to have a longer conversation with Pris before…"
"I just need you to help me arrange a meeting between a man in the towers and a friend of mine!" Ifi spat the tea out, words coming out in a burst before Eusi could ruin her mind even worse than she already did. "Quickly and without attracting notice!"
For the first time since she had met her, a kind of confusion took to Eusi's face. She closed her eyes and hid her face in her hands for a moment.
"Right," she said, and each word she let out got Ifi's heart to flutter like a snared animal. "Right. That's more conventional than what I thought you had in mind, I suppose. How very clandestine. So who is the man that you need met? Please tell me it is not the new Master Glassmaker."
"No," Ifi shook her head again. "Not at all."
"Good."
"It's a lowborn thug-"
Prunikos hissed sharply; Ifi didn't quite realize why.
"-who calls himself Villis."
Eusi looked down at the glass in her hand; she rolled her eyes slightly, bringing a new, and altogether less pleasant kind of shame out of Ifi.
"And here I was thinking you care not a whiff about politics," she sighed deeply, her hand withdrawing from Prunikos' back.
The alchemist contorted her face into a pained expression. It was one of those messes her father wanted her to put herself into, and she just waded into by simple, awful accident. All she knew was that Shard, for some reason, was insistent on meeting the man who had almost killed her, because she apparently believed that he was the only one who could help her defend herself from the "Lair Mother", whoever that was. And Eusi was right – Ifi barely cared about politics. Whatever the context was to this name, she neither knew, nor wanted to. Her entire plan was to just assist Shard, not try to decipher what the scheme was all about.
"I don't," she tried to defend herself, "it's not for me. It's just for a friend. I'm just trying to help."
"Your friend," Eusi's voice dropped a pitch, and a good half a dozen degrees, "is looking to deal with the man at the center of the entire mess above. That lowborn thug," the words grated in her mouth, "is someone they call the Glassmaker's bane. And you, in your cluelessness, know not a whiff about any of that, but instead just thrust yourself straight into the a serpent's pit."
Ifi knew nothing about anything that Eusi mentioned, but to be honest, it didn't surprise her at all. She came to expect something like that.
"I'm not thrusting myself into anything," Ifi protested weakly. "I'm just trying to help a cherished friend. Can you?"
"No," Eusi declared, and Ifi's heart sank. "I made a conscious decision not to involve myself with this mess, and I am not going to back on it because…" but before she could finish, and Ifi fell into despair, Prunikos cut in.
"The Feast of Indulgence," she suggested. "He will be there, won't he?"
"Huh, you are right," Eusi nodded; Ifi looked up hopefully. "Of course he will. That's an idea," she sighed again, squinting at the alchemist. "Do you know what my wife is talking about?"
"Not exactly," Ifi admitted, too stressed for proper shame. The name wasn't unfamiliar; she had heard it once or twice before – from her father, so she couldn't remember a thing about it.
"Well, if the war ends – and it looks to be ending – there will be a celebration. A masque, actually," Eusi explained. "The break between the old order and new, when the seats at the High Table are mixed and no face is familiar," she recited. "At the end, the new Master Glassmaker will be announced, but before then, the families will have an opportunity for the last bit of negotiating and truce-making on a ground of shared neutrality… and anonymity."
"No one is allowed to recognize anyone during the masque, nor harm them. Not in any official capacity," Prunikos added. "For as long as the masks are on, all are nameless, and all are equal, and all are friends. Whatever happens during the Masque stays within it. And Villis will be there."
Ifi breathed out. She could already tell where this was going. Her plan, against all odds, was going to work.
"I can provide you and your friend an invitation," Eusi stated. "And you can have your meetings, without me or my wife getting involved."
"Thank you," Ifi whispered, relief and gratitude hitting like a wave. "Thank you. This is all I could have asked for."
"There is only one wrinkle, however," Eusi added, the shadow passing from her face. "How good is your wardrobe?"
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- Pronouns
- She/Her
This could be very cute, alas, probably not to be.
Sadly nothing of Pris' would be a good fit. Well, Eusi knows where to get a dress Ifi will like.
See my smile
Life...Life never Changes.
- Location
- The Commonwealth
I greatly enjoy this. I do wonder what Shards plan is here. Contacting the man who shattered her, literally and figuratively, for protection seems... odd. Well, I'll be interested to see how it goes.
- Location
- Illinois
- Pronouns
- Ze/Zer/Zem
David Attenborough voice: The bottom, in its natural habitat. Right now, it's apologizing, a very common behavior for a bottom. While such behavior is prevalent across the animal kingdom, bottoms are unique in how frequently and with how little provocation they will do so. A bottom will apologize if they think they have been accused of even the littlest thing, just like this one is doing now.
See my smile
Life...Life never Changes.
- Location
- The Commonwealth
I mean technically she's, as far as we know, a Sub. Top/Switch/Bottom is for placement in sex. Dom/Verse/Sub is the dominance factor. It's how you get Service tops and Power Bottoms.
13. Discipline
Gargulec
impact!
- Location
- a garden
13. Discipline
Back from her mysterious venture out into the city, Ifi dried herself off, and then did something that caught Shard by surprise. From her windowsill perch, the Lair-Mother's errant child watched as the alchemist took a small cushion from her desk chair and placed it down on the beneath, before proceeding to kneel, her face at the level of Shard's dangling feet.
"I do not demand this," she noted, looking down at the mortal girl.
"I know," Ifi replied, her back already slightly bent. "I just want to see how this feels."
Pretending that she understood, Shard nodded. It was not that the sight was an unfamiliar one. Such displays were demanded of her servants, though she would never allow them a posture as buckled as Ifi's. But that was not what set her ill at ease; there was something about the sight that bothered her, a wrinkle she couldn't quite name. It was like being offered a favored treat, only to find it spiced ever so slightly differently, and then being unable to tell if she liked it anymore. It made her remember, and that dredged the gnawing sense of loss, and all the other bitter thoughts. She didn't catch when her hand wandered up her chest, to cover up the gaping hole pierced through her shell.
"I see," she said neutrally. The reaction was no less puzzling: a shadow of disappointment flashing through Ifi's face. What other kind of a reaction was this girl expecting? Did it bring her pleasure to keep on finding news to confound Shard and violate one after another all the expectations she had of mortals and their little minds.
"Did I presume too much?" Ifi asked, shifting nervously. She was looking up at Shard, likely trying to read something from her face. "Should I stop?"
Shard hesitated. Should she? Why would she ever want to tell a mortal not to kneel before her? It was only then that it dawned on her what was wrong about the sight. Servants who prostrated themselves before her trembled, and she feasted on their fear. Never had she considered a possibility that one could kneel before fully at ease. And that made it feel hollow – if it felt hollow, and not just different.
"No," the decision was a snap one, brushing away a swarm of nagging thoughts. Thankfully, no immediate regret followed. "Stay."
Ifi lightened up noticeably; she pulled her shoulders back up, though not nearly enough for Shard's liking. She couldn't help but to find it distracting. It reminded her of the perfectly broken faces of well-disciplined maids she surrounded herself with, bodies that existed to serve, and feed her. Nothing like Ifi, no matter how much she tried, and failed, to appear like them. But it did lead Shard's thoughts down the hunger's route. She almost scowled, fresh ideas crowding in her head. But before she could act on any of them, Ifi spoke again, and what she said scattered all the doubts, and focused Shard's attention on something far more important.
"I can get you to that man."
As the alchemist proceeded with her explanation, Shard seized, her body freezing motionless. That was not the plan, that was not the idea. She had only intended to pass a message to Villis, not to meet him in person. Her fingers dug into the thin crust of blacks scabs covering the exposed flesh; though the pain there had stopped, a memory of it lingered, and of the spear, and of death so very close to her. Fear, that loathsome fact of powerlessness, reared its ugly head again. And yet, this was not something Shard could just refuse. That Eusebia was not wrong at all. No harm would come to Shard during the Feast of Indulgence, especially not from the likes of Villis. He was the kind of a man who would die sooner than to break the peace and custom – and that made for an opportunity she hadn't considered. Opportunity, which was another word for "risk". Then again, did she have any choice but to take those?
"Excellent," she said, summoning a sharp-toothed smile to hide her uncertainty. "This can work. You will, of course, play my handler."
On the floor, Ifi blinked, face tensing in confusion,
"What is it?" Shard leaned back. "Don't you know? Even a mere guildswoman should be aware," she added, slightly surprised by how smoothly that 'mere' from her tongue, and how it made the alchemist flinch in a jolt of sweet shame.
"Why would I care for the customs of the High Table?" Ifi replied.
Shard stifled a shrug. The alchemist had to know how silly the question was. If anything, the curious question was why she was so wilfully unaware. But that could wait. Carried by sheer reflex, Shard swayed her feet over to Ifi's shoulder, putting just the littlest bit of her weight behind it; the girl didn't look up again. Her shame thickened; it was not a feeling she could ever hope to hide from Shard.
"Mortals like to pretend that they are the masters of my kin," she explained, adopting a lighter tone, while pushing delicately down on the kneeling woman. "And we like to allow them that little pantomime. If they think they are in power, they also think they are safe from our claws. Do you understand?"
There was an edge to the question, and it cut right as it was supposed to; Ifi bled a sweet pinprick of fear.
"I do," she whimpered.
Maybe it wasn't that different from her servants back above, Shard thought.
"You would take me on a leash and lead me around," she explained, "to all eyes, a rising star of the Middle City guilds. And then…"
Her voice carried through the bedroom, low and full of promises. She had expected the girl to light up at the promise, because there was a promise to this pretense: the two would make for such a perfect masquerade. A masked guildswoman with a Lair Mother's blessing? All would crowd around to figure out her identity, to unwind the web of secrets surely surrounding her, and with all the attention securely on Ifi, Shard could slip unnoticed and find Villis, there to present him her own offer. Though the masque would surely be filled with her enemies past and present, not to mention all kinds of her siblings, with this little ruse, chances were no one would figure Shard for who she really was. It really seemed a perfect approach, not to mention mutually beneficial. What paltry guildswoman wouldn't go mad for the chance to make herself present before the scions of the High Families.
But as she spoke, the sweet shame and electric fear that Ifi exhaled changed, thickened and burned. The room reeked of it, and it clung to Shard like an oily sheen. But it did not nourish; it gave off a rancid note. She looked at the girl at her feet, head hung low, back ungainly hunched.
"What is it?" she finally thought to ask, leaning in.
"I…" Ifi mumbled, her voice trailing off.
Or maybe really there wasn't anything like her handmaidens to Ifi. The mortal was simply incomprehensible. She hissed lightly, her head swinging from her shoulder; she didn't straighten back up.
"I don't want to get involved in politics," the alchemist blurted out, words coming out of her mouth in a tense clump. "Please."
"What a…" stupid thing to say, Shard wanted to snap back at her. She was already getting involved just by sheltering her! What was that even supposed to mean? But she bit her tongue. There was no need to antagonize her lifeline. "I don't think that's a possibility," she tried instead, struggling to keep her voice level. "Not anymore."
The rancid note bloomed into an overwhelming rot; this was the ugliest shame Shard had ever tasted, old and festering. It was nearly enough to knock her from her perch; she held to the window frame.
"But…" Ifi squirmed, voice gushing from her like pus from lanced boil. "No. I can't help you that way. I can't. You don't know me. I don't know those people. I don't know how to behave. I don't know how to speak. I'm an alchemist, not a socialite. It'll just all be-"
Ifi's rapid-fire voice cut quiet. For a time, all that Shard could figure to do was to stare her down. The decay in the air was nearly unbearable, and in better times, it would be an excuse enough to split the girl open and be done with it. The idea felt flat, of course. No part of her truly wanted Ifi dead.
"So, you are unable to take on that role," Shard struggled out, trying to make some sense of this mortal absurdity. Maybe she owed Ifi as much – she had saved her life, after all. And even managed to find a way to reach Villis within less than a day. She couldn't blame her for not trying – it was just that there had to be something wrong with her, and Shard had no idea what it was exactly, only that it made her plans all that much harder.
"I can't," Ifi nodded, trying to gather herself up a bit. "Is there no way we can do it differently?"
Shard gave out another hiss. The plan she had was good, for both of them. Why couldn't Ifi see that?
"I'm helping you get there," Ifi gathered the last of her resolve, and pleaded one more time. "But I'll fail you if I have to pretend to be-"
"Be what?" this time, there was no way Shard could veil the frustration; her voice grated and growled.
"Adjusted," Ifi let out.
It took Shard a long while to figure out what that was supposed to mean, and even then, she was still unsure. But looking at the crumpled mess of an alchemist at her feet, a terrible thought occurred to her that maybe she really couldn't play the part she had imagined for her. And maybe that was her own responsibility to put Ifi in a position where she couldn't collapse like that. Smoothly, she jumped down to the floor and crouched by Ifi. Then, reminding herself that risk was just another word for "opportunity", she suggested an alternate approach.
***
Any doubts that Shard might have harbored regarding Ifi's tailor – and she had plenty, considering the contents of the alchemist's wardrobe – were promptly dispelled as soon as they entered his workshop. Not that it could be compared to the ateliers where the High Table clothed itself – but it was obviously professional. The man didn't bat an eyelash at the sight of a Lair-Mother's child, or the nature of the request Ifi presented to him.
"So, a masque?" he muttered, letting his cherubic apprentice take Shard's measurements.
The boy was quick and handy with the tape, although he approached Shard as if she was a fine piece of china that could shatter under the slightest touch. The Middle City continued to baffle her. But it also confirmed some of her suspicions. The room they were all in was small and modestly furnished, compared to the tiled interior of Ifi's shop, but also far more lived in. Most guildspeople probably did not live, or work alone. The thought seemed pretty obvious once she had it formulated, but it also did explain something about her unexpected savior.
"Yes," Ifi nodded, seated to the side. A faint smell of spearmint clung to her – Shard knew it came from a fuming bottle of what the alchemist referred to as a "calming tonic", and which she had half-emptied before leaving her workshop.
"How very curious," the man plucked at his red beard, in what Shard realized was the beginning of a rumor about to sweep through the streets. "And on such short notice. Hm."
"I'm paying with good glass and favors owed," Ifi insisted.
"Oh, it's not the matter of that," the tailor looked down at his notes, then back again at Shard. "Let's not talk about anything as crass as money," he declared with a light reprimand. "It's mostly a matter of time, you see. I should be able to be done with her order quickly," he indicated Shard, before looking at the stacked drawers behind him.
She greeted the words with intense relief. Although it was not the chief of her concerns, it would be simply humiliating to attend the Feast of Indulgence in something not purpose-made for it. Nothing would spell "fall" like draping herself in an off-the-shelf dress.
"Your outfit however," he addressed Ifi, pursing his lips, "is more complicated. Especially working from scratch. To do it discreetly and quickly is a tall ask indeed.
Ifi shuffled awkwardly.
"Of course, considering the nature of your request, this is perfectly understandable" the tailor flicked through the notes ahead of him, "But I can't guarantee it'll be done in time.."
Shard suppressed a frustrated sigh; Ifi paled.
"But I can extra, for haste," she offered, prompting a dry, and ever so slightly disapproving chuckle.
"I would have thought that your father had taught better than that, Ifigenia," he said, his hand dancing as he directed the apprentice around, admirably adept at multitasking. "Don't you know that you can buy time with glass, but never make it? I can't promise you that this interesting outfit will be ready for your mysterious ball."
"Of course," Ifi muttered; Shard could tell the words hurt her. She kept glancing at Shard, as if expecting some kind of support. The Lair-Mother's child shrugged imperceptibly. These were guildspeople, and she had no interest in dealing with them. "I should have known better."
"I do want to help you, make no mistake," the man continued. "This is such an interesting idea for an outfit, and says so much about the way the world's going."
The rumor, Shard realized, was going to set the Middle City ablaze before the night was done.
"But to get it done in time, I would have to start with something already in hand. Actually," he frowned, "what happened with that dress your father had me make for you all those years ago, for the-"
"I never wore it," Ifi interrupted very sharply. "He's decided to hold onto it."
"He did?" the tailor sighed. "Such a stubborn man. What a shame. It was a good piece of work, even if he insisted on a somewhat antiquated fashion. But that would make it better for your current needs, amusingly enough," he smiled.
The apprentice finished with the measurements, retreating to a desk by the window to write them all down.
"But assuming I could get it to you soon" Ifi muttered after a moment, clearly frustrated by something, "could those adjustments be done in time?"
"I doubt they would take more than a few days. A few days at most, I think," he nodded. "Of course the result wouldn't have much use outside of your unexpected masque, but I don't think that's a problem for you or your strange partner?" he glanced at Shard.
The Lair-Mother's child startled – there was another burst of that awful, rotten fear suddenly seeping off the alchemist, however brief and muted by all the elixirs she had dosed herself with.
"Right," the alchemist grunted, coming to a decision. Her face was still, and very unhappy. "I should be back soon."
"I'll wait," the tailor didn't share any of her sudden gluminess. "It is always a pleasure to work with a Juno."
Outside, at the shore of a small lake pooling after rain in the crook of the street, Ifi stuffed a key in Shard's hands and curtly asked her to wait back at the workshop. The air of worry hazing around her had the by-now familiar rotten sweetness to it, so in truth Shard was happy to part ways with her for a time. She had buried her hands enough in the girls' emotional guts for the day.
They parted, leaving Shard alone in the Middle City's streets, hidden within one of Ifi's spacious, formless black robes. She decided to take a circuitous route back to the workshop, resisting the urge to climb the roofs and loiter there. Outside of the slums, this would likely bring too much attention to her, even if she missed stretching her limbs like that. Still, the walk was hardly unpleasant. A delicate nervousness floated suspended in the air, the collective anxiety of all the common guilds giving it a fresh charge. It was a nice change of pace from the fermented panic that Ifi drowned in; it cleared Shard's head, though also whetted an appetite she didn't have much of an opportunity to sate.
Or, to be more precise, that she probably should be trying to sate. Of course, she could easily break into any of the homes and workshops that surrounded her, and there find some of that sustenance, but she had to think ahead – her plan was to convince Villis to help, and so limiting wanton feeding was probably wise. People in the Middle City didn't go missing as easily, and that damn mortal had ears everywhere. There was no proper way to hunt safely in here. All she had to do was to wait for the better times to come; then, she would eat to her heart's leisure. Thankfully, her kind was not meant to starve.
Then again, she had never been that good at delaying gratification. She paused, her attention drawn to a group of men working at cleaning windows above. They were obviously low-born. Would they be missed here, in the Middle City? Or maybe she could just take just a bit of fear and pain, enough to take the edge off without burying her hands in dying flesh-
Or she could just wait for Ifi, couldn't she? They had an arrangement, after all.
That idea was enough to make her return to the workshop, and the empty bedroom above. The hunger wouldn't go away on its own, but there were distractions available even here. Shard found the alchemist's oversized chest of cosmetics, dug out some of her kohl, and began to trace out the myrmidon ant's silhouette across the smooth surface of her head.
Hours passed in the pleasure of art; by the time Ifi came back, Shard had covered herself to the waist in swarming strings of insects. In all of that, her want dimmed and again faded from attention, at least until she heard the alchemist step behind her.
"I've been waiting for you," she whispered, before turning around and facing a ghost of a woman.
Ifi's face was a mask of misery. She shook her head at Shard in wordless acknowledgement, and before the Lair-Mother's child got to even say or ask anything, she disappeared into the bathroom. For the next quarter of an hour, Shard got to listen to the roar of rushing water, and the faint sobs it tried to muffle. She put down kohl, shut the cosmetics case close, and waited, tense. Did something go wrong? Was their plan jeopardized?
When the alchemist finally emerged, she looked only a bit better. Damp and hunched, she wrapped her gangly arms in a thick shirt; she tried to force a smile, then grabbed the cushion from where she had left it by the window earlier in the day, and dropped it at Shard's feet. When she knelt this time, she didn't even try to keep herself upright.
"The dress will be ready in time," she muttered, before looking at the Lair-Mother's child's lap. "May I?" she asked.
Shard wasn't sure what the girl meant, but nodded nonetheless. If there were no issues with the outfit, then why was Ifi like that? She looked as if someone had just tortured her, and not in the ways she apparently enjoyed. Again, Shard considered asking, and again decided against it, even as the decision itself rubbed her the wrong way.
Slowly, the alchemist laid her head on Shard's lap, then propped the rest of her slight body against her. This was, by now, getting recognizable – clearly, Ifi enjoyed the touch of Shard's carapace, the feel of it on her skin, and maybe even more than that.
"Thank you," the alchemist muttered, closing her eyes.
For a moment, Shard waited, unsure what to do; then, she remembered. Apprehensively, she put her hand on the alchemist's freshly shaven head; the girl murmured in approval. Her skin smelled of soap, of exhaustion, of yearning. Not fear, not despair; again, that made Shard feel a bit lost. It shouldn't be in the nature of cattle to seek a predator's embrace.
"I needed this," Ifi nuzzled. They remained like that for a time long enough for the hunger to return with full force. Shard could feel the blood pulse under Ifi's skin, and it was hard not to reach for it, not sink her claws into the flesh and tear pleasure from it. But she couldn't – that wasn't what the girl expected from her, was it not? Shard tried to dismiss the want, to overpower it with a promise of future ravenous feeding. But it gnawed on her; Ifi was in her hand, so fragile, so vulnerable, so easy to hurt.
What came next surprised her.
"May I feed?" Shard heard herself saying; she wasn't sure where the question was coming from. It sounded so stupid when spoken out loud, and she opened her mouth again just to take it back but before she could, she looked into Ifi's face, and saw in it the same want reflected back.
"I thought you'd never ask," the alchemist whimpered.
The Lair-Mother's child did not hesitate.
"Find a roll of bandage," she ordered, pushing, "and soak it in saltwater. Then come back here and kneel again."
The alchemist stood up, curiosity and need painted clear across her face. She bowed, and skipped downstairs, only to return within moments with bowl and cloth in hand. She put them on the floor, returned herself to the cushion, and to Shard's grasp.
"If you want to play my servant," Shard declared, sharpening her voice. Her hand closed over the alchemist's head, "then you will have to be taught what it means."
She held her for a minute or two, allowing the anticipation to build into the seed of fear. And then, without a warning, she moved, straightening to her full height, grabbing Ifi by the back of her neck and lifting her to her feet, a sharp and harsh motion. The yelp of pain bloomed red and gold in the pit of Shard's stomach. There was no turning back: she was going to feed. The fear that followed was fresh and young, nothing like that rancid waste the alchemist would soak in before.
Her claws extended; not fully, but enough for Ifi to feel them dig into her skin and threaten to rip at the slightest provocation. With a slow, deliberate twist, Shard let them rest across the girl's throat.
"Hold your shirt up," she demanded. "And do not even think to twitch."
With bated breath, Ifi grabbed the sides of the shift in her palms and dragged it up, revealing the still-damp mound and stomach. The blush on her face turned into a paind wince as Shard reached down with her free hand, a claw extended to neelde-point. She pressed it to the surface of the alchemist's skin, feeling it grow taut and thin under pressure. She held it there for a moment, watching Ifi try not to breathe, lest it cut. Then, with a flick of the wrist, Shard made the cut herself.
Ifi yelped, more in shock than in pain. It was just a scratch, a thin line drawn in the skin. Tiny red droplets begin to well, but not enough to flow. The fear, however, was heady. Shard paused, making sure her hands didn't twitch. The alchemist froze; Shard smiled, and followed with another cut. And then another, and another.
Tiny red drops dripped to the floor. The alchemist managed to keep quiet and still for the first few cuts; and only after trilled in beautiful hurt, enticing Shard to slash slower. The girl was so afraid to move; with the claw at her throat, she couldn't even look down at the work opening on her stomach. In all honesty, Shard impressed herself with how she managed to keep at it, even as every single line she drew only whetted her appetite further. The rewards, however, were worth it – a slow bloom opening inside. A far cry from the deep satisfaction of evisceration, maybe – but also a kind of a pleasure Shard had almost forgotten how to indulge. She flicked the last cuts into the skin, then threw the blood off her claws. The mirror waited on the table ahead, ready for the next step. She dragged Ifi towards it, until the girl could see the red arabesque calligraphed out in her living flesh.
"Read it," she commanded.
"I," Ifi said, her breath so short and slight that she had to struggle for each word, "will keep my back straight when kneeling."
"Good," Shard commanded; humiliation was the perfect spice for this little cruelty. "Now, bandage it."
In the end, the Lair-Mother's child did not go hungry. Every little thing that followed was a delight – from the moment of hesitation as Ifi weighed the damp cloth in her hands, to the weak cries and shooting pain, to the ruler-straight line of her back when she finally managed to return to her place at Shard's feet. Line that both of them knew Ifi wasn't yet ready to hold as well as was expected of her.
"Now," Shard said, catching a tear welling up in the alchemist's eye on the tip of her claw, "thank me for the lesson."
It was all supposed to be familiar, and pleasing – and it was. Ifi looked up at Shard, still wincing in pain, and terrified of failing her expectations. That fear laced her words she spoke, begging: "I thank you for disciplining me". For a moment, Shard felt a rush of power, and forgot just how low she had fallen. But quickly, she noticed that there was something off.
For the first time, those words of gratitude were wholly genuine.
Back from her mysterious venture out into the city, Ifi dried herself off, and then did something that caught Shard by surprise. From her windowsill perch, the Lair-Mother's errant child watched as the alchemist took a small cushion from her desk chair and placed it down on the beneath, before proceeding to kneel, her face at the level of Shard's dangling feet.
"I do not demand this," she noted, looking down at the mortal girl.
"I know," Ifi replied, her back already slightly bent. "I just want to see how this feels."
Pretending that she understood, Shard nodded. It was not that the sight was an unfamiliar one. Such displays were demanded of her servants, though she would never allow them a posture as buckled as Ifi's. But that was not what set her ill at ease; there was something about the sight that bothered her, a wrinkle she couldn't quite name. It was like being offered a favored treat, only to find it spiced ever so slightly differently, and then being unable to tell if she liked it anymore. It made her remember, and that dredged the gnawing sense of loss, and all the other bitter thoughts. She didn't catch when her hand wandered up her chest, to cover up the gaping hole pierced through her shell.
"I see," she said neutrally. The reaction was no less puzzling: a shadow of disappointment flashing through Ifi's face. What other kind of a reaction was this girl expecting? Did it bring her pleasure to keep on finding news to confound Shard and violate one after another all the expectations she had of mortals and their little minds.
"Did I presume too much?" Ifi asked, shifting nervously. She was looking up at Shard, likely trying to read something from her face. "Should I stop?"
Shard hesitated. Should she? Why would she ever want to tell a mortal not to kneel before her? It was only then that it dawned on her what was wrong about the sight. Servants who prostrated themselves before her trembled, and she feasted on their fear. Never had she considered a possibility that one could kneel before fully at ease. And that made it feel hollow – if it felt hollow, and not just different.
"No," the decision was a snap one, brushing away a swarm of nagging thoughts. Thankfully, no immediate regret followed. "Stay."
Ifi lightened up noticeably; she pulled her shoulders back up, though not nearly enough for Shard's liking. She couldn't help but to find it distracting. It reminded her of the perfectly broken faces of well-disciplined maids she surrounded herself with, bodies that existed to serve, and feed her. Nothing like Ifi, no matter how much she tried, and failed, to appear like them. But it did lead Shard's thoughts down the hunger's route. She almost scowled, fresh ideas crowding in her head. But before she could act on any of them, Ifi spoke again, and what she said scattered all the doubts, and focused Shard's attention on something far more important.
"I can get you to that man."
As the alchemist proceeded with her explanation, Shard seized, her body freezing motionless. That was not the plan, that was not the idea. She had only intended to pass a message to Villis, not to meet him in person. Her fingers dug into the thin crust of blacks scabs covering the exposed flesh; though the pain there had stopped, a memory of it lingered, and of the spear, and of death so very close to her. Fear, that loathsome fact of powerlessness, reared its ugly head again. And yet, this was not something Shard could just refuse. That Eusebia was not wrong at all. No harm would come to Shard during the Feast of Indulgence, especially not from the likes of Villis. He was the kind of a man who would die sooner than to break the peace and custom – and that made for an opportunity she hadn't considered. Opportunity, which was another word for "risk". Then again, did she have any choice but to take those?
"Excellent," she said, summoning a sharp-toothed smile to hide her uncertainty. "This can work. You will, of course, play my handler."
On the floor, Ifi blinked, face tensing in confusion,
"What is it?" Shard leaned back. "Don't you know? Even a mere guildswoman should be aware," she added, slightly surprised by how smoothly that 'mere' from her tongue, and how it made the alchemist flinch in a jolt of sweet shame.
"Why would I care for the customs of the High Table?" Ifi replied.
Shard stifled a shrug. The alchemist had to know how silly the question was. If anything, the curious question was why she was so wilfully unaware. But that could wait. Carried by sheer reflex, Shard swayed her feet over to Ifi's shoulder, putting just the littlest bit of her weight behind it; the girl didn't look up again. Her shame thickened; it was not a feeling she could ever hope to hide from Shard.
"Mortals like to pretend that they are the masters of my kin," she explained, adopting a lighter tone, while pushing delicately down on the kneeling woman. "And we like to allow them that little pantomime. If they think they are in power, they also think they are safe from our claws. Do you understand?"
There was an edge to the question, and it cut right as it was supposed to; Ifi bled a sweet pinprick of fear.
"I do," she whimpered.
Maybe it wasn't that different from her servants back above, Shard thought.
"You would take me on a leash and lead me around," she explained, "to all eyes, a rising star of the Middle City guilds. And then…"
Her voice carried through the bedroom, low and full of promises. She had expected the girl to light up at the promise, because there was a promise to this pretense: the two would make for such a perfect masquerade. A masked guildswoman with a Lair Mother's blessing? All would crowd around to figure out her identity, to unwind the web of secrets surely surrounding her, and with all the attention securely on Ifi, Shard could slip unnoticed and find Villis, there to present him her own offer. Though the masque would surely be filled with her enemies past and present, not to mention all kinds of her siblings, with this little ruse, chances were no one would figure Shard for who she really was. It really seemed a perfect approach, not to mention mutually beneficial. What paltry guildswoman wouldn't go mad for the chance to make herself present before the scions of the High Families.
But as she spoke, the sweet shame and electric fear that Ifi exhaled changed, thickened and burned. The room reeked of it, and it clung to Shard like an oily sheen. But it did not nourish; it gave off a rancid note. She looked at the girl at her feet, head hung low, back ungainly hunched.
"What is it?" she finally thought to ask, leaning in.
"I…" Ifi mumbled, her voice trailing off.
Or maybe really there wasn't anything like her handmaidens to Ifi. The mortal was simply incomprehensible. She hissed lightly, her head swinging from her shoulder; she didn't straighten back up.
"I don't want to get involved in politics," the alchemist blurted out, words coming out of her mouth in a tense clump. "Please."
"What a…" stupid thing to say, Shard wanted to snap back at her. She was already getting involved just by sheltering her! What was that even supposed to mean? But she bit her tongue. There was no need to antagonize her lifeline. "I don't think that's a possibility," she tried instead, struggling to keep her voice level. "Not anymore."
The rancid note bloomed into an overwhelming rot; this was the ugliest shame Shard had ever tasted, old and festering. It was nearly enough to knock her from her perch; she held to the window frame.
"But…" Ifi squirmed, voice gushing from her like pus from lanced boil. "No. I can't help you that way. I can't. You don't know me. I don't know those people. I don't know how to behave. I don't know how to speak. I'm an alchemist, not a socialite. It'll just all be-"
Ifi's rapid-fire voice cut quiet. For a time, all that Shard could figure to do was to stare her down. The decay in the air was nearly unbearable, and in better times, it would be an excuse enough to split the girl open and be done with it. The idea felt flat, of course. No part of her truly wanted Ifi dead.
"So, you are unable to take on that role," Shard struggled out, trying to make some sense of this mortal absurdity. Maybe she owed Ifi as much – she had saved her life, after all. And even managed to find a way to reach Villis within less than a day. She couldn't blame her for not trying – it was just that there had to be something wrong with her, and Shard had no idea what it was exactly, only that it made her plans all that much harder.
"I can't," Ifi nodded, trying to gather herself up a bit. "Is there no way we can do it differently?"
Shard gave out another hiss. The plan she had was good, for both of them. Why couldn't Ifi see that?
"I'm helping you get there," Ifi gathered the last of her resolve, and pleaded one more time. "But I'll fail you if I have to pretend to be-"
"Be what?" this time, there was no way Shard could veil the frustration; her voice grated and growled.
"Adjusted," Ifi let out.
It took Shard a long while to figure out what that was supposed to mean, and even then, she was still unsure. But looking at the crumpled mess of an alchemist at her feet, a terrible thought occurred to her that maybe she really couldn't play the part she had imagined for her. And maybe that was her own responsibility to put Ifi in a position where she couldn't collapse like that. Smoothly, she jumped down to the floor and crouched by Ifi. Then, reminding herself that risk was just another word for "opportunity", she suggested an alternate approach.
***
Any doubts that Shard might have harbored regarding Ifi's tailor – and she had plenty, considering the contents of the alchemist's wardrobe – were promptly dispelled as soon as they entered his workshop. Not that it could be compared to the ateliers where the High Table clothed itself – but it was obviously professional. The man didn't bat an eyelash at the sight of a Lair-Mother's child, or the nature of the request Ifi presented to him.
"So, a masque?" he muttered, letting his cherubic apprentice take Shard's measurements.
The boy was quick and handy with the tape, although he approached Shard as if she was a fine piece of china that could shatter under the slightest touch. The Middle City continued to baffle her. But it also confirmed some of her suspicions. The room they were all in was small and modestly furnished, compared to the tiled interior of Ifi's shop, but also far more lived in. Most guildspeople probably did not live, or work alone. The thought seemed pretty obvious once she had it formulated, but it also did explain something about her unexpected savior.
"Yes," Ifi nodded, seated to the side. A faint smell of spearmint clung to her – Shard knew it came from a fuming bottle of what the alchemist referred to as a "calming tonic", and which she had half-emptied before leaving her workshop.
"How very curious," the man plucked at his red beard, in what Shard realized was the beginning of a rumor about to sweep through the streets. "And on such short notice. Hm."
"I'm paying with good glass and favors owed," Ifi insisted.
"Oh, it's not the matter of that," the tailor looked down at his notes, then back again at Shard. "Let's not talk about anything as crass as money," he declared with a light reprimand. "It's mostly a matter of time, you see. I should be able to be done with her order quickly," he indicated Shard, before looking at the stacked drawers behind him.
She greeted the words with intense relief. Although it was not the chief of her concerns, it would be simply humiliating to attend the Feast of Indulgence in something not purpose-made for it. Nothing would spell "fall" like draping herself in an off-the-shelf dress.
"Your outfit however," he addressed Ifi, pursing his lips, "is more complicated. Especially working from scratch. To do it discreetly and quickly is a tall ask indeed.
Ifi shuffled awkwardly.
"Of course, considering the nature of your request, this is perfectly understandable" the tailor flicked through the notes ahead of him, "But I can't guarantee it'll be done in time.."
Shard suppressed a frustrated sigh; Ifi paled.
"But I can extra, for haste," she offered, prompting a dry, and ever so slightly disapproving chuckle.
"I would have thought that your father had taught better than that, Ifigenia," he said, his hand dancing as he directed the apprentice around, admirably adept at multitasking. "Don't you know that you can buy time with glass, but never make it? I can't promise you that this interesting outfit will be ready for your mysterious ball."
"Of course," Ifi muttered; Shard could tell the words hurt her. She kept glancing at Shard, as if expecting some kind of support. The Lair-Mother's child shrugged imperceptibly. These were guildspeople, and she had no interest in dealing with them. "I should have known better."
"I do want to help you, make no mistake," the man continued. "This is such an interesting idea for an outfit, and says so much about the way the world's going."
The rumor, Shard realized, was going to set the Middle City ablaze before the night was done.
"But to get it done in time, I would have to start with something already in hand. Actually," he frowned, "what happened with that dress your father had me make for you all those years ago, for the-"
"I never wore it," Ifi interrupted very sharply. "He's decided to hold onto it."
"He did?" the tailor sighed. "Such a stubborn man. What a shame. It was a good piece of work, even if he insisted on a somewhat antiquated fashion. But that would make it better for your current needs, amusingly enough," he smiled.
The apprentice finished with the measurements, retreating to a desk by the window to write them all down.
"But assuming I could get it to you soon" Ifi muttered after a moment, clearly frustrated by something, "could those adjustments be done in time?"
"I doubt they would take more than a few days. A few days at most, I think," he nodded. "Of course the result wouldn't have much use outside of your unexpected masque, but I don't think that's a problem for you or your strange partner?" he glanced at Shard.
The Lair-Mother's child startled – there was another burst of that awful, rotten fear suddenly seeping off the alchemist, however brief and muted by all the elixirs she had dosed herself with.
"Right," the alchemist grunted, coming to a decision. Her face was still, and very unhappy. "I should be back soon."
"I'll wait," the tailor didn't share any of her sudden gluminess. "It is always a pleasure to work with a Juno."
Outside, at the shore of a small lake pooling after rain in the crook of the street, Ifi stuffed a key in Shard's hands and curtly asked her to wait back at the workshop. The air of worry hazing around her had the by-now familiar rotten sweetness to it, so in truth Shard was happy to part ways with her for a time. She had buried her hands enough in the girls' emotional guts for the day.
They parted, leaving Shard alone in the Middle City's streets, hidden within one of Ifi's spacious, formless black robes. She decided to take a circuitous route back to the workshop, resisting the urge to climb the roofs and loiter there. Outside of the slums, this would likely bring too much attention to her, even if she missed stretching her limbs like that. Still, the walk was hardly unpleasant. A delicate nervousness floated suspended in the air, the collective anxiety of all the common guilds giving it a fresh charge. It was a nice change of pace from the fermented panic that Ifi drowned in; it cleared Shard's head, though also whetted an appetite she didn't have much of an opportunity to sate.
Or, to be more precise, that she probably should be trying to sate. Of course, she could easily break into any of the homes and workshops that surrounded her, and there find some of that sustenance, but she had to think ahead – her plan was to convince Villis to help, and so limiting wanton feeding was probably wise. People in the Middle City didn't go missing as easily, and that damn mortal had ears everywhere. There was no proper way to hunt safely in here. All she had to do was to wait for the better times to come; then, she would eat to her heart's leisure. Thankfully, her kind was not meant to starve.
Then again, she had never been that good at delaying gratification. She paused, her attention drawn to a group of men working at cleaning windows above. They were obviously low-born. Would they be missed here, in the Middle City? Or maybe she could just take just a bit of fear and pain, enough to take the edge off without burying her hands in dying flesh-
Or she could just wait for Ifi, couldn't she? They had an arrangement, after all.
That idea was enough to make her return to the workshop, and the empty bedroom above. The hunger wouldn't go away on its own, but there were distractions available even here. Shard found the alchemist's oversized chest of cosmetics, dug out some of her kohl, and began to trace out the myrmidon ant's silhouette across the smooth surface of her head.
Hours passed in the pleasure of art; by the time Ifi came back, Shard had covered herself to the waist in swarming strings of insects. In all of that, her want dimmed and again faded from attention, at least until she heard the alchemist step behind her.
"I've been waiting for you," she whispered, before turning around and facing a ghost of a woman.
Ifi's face was a mask of misery. She shook her head at Shard in wordless acknowledgement, and before the Lair-Mother's child got to even say or ask anything, she disappeared into the bathroom. For the next quarter of an hour, Shard got to listen to the roar of rushing water, and the faint sobs it tried to muffle. She put down kohl, shut the cosmetics case close, and waited, tense. Did something go wrong? Was their plan jeopardized?
When the alchemist finally emerged, she looked only a bit better. Damp and hunched, she wrapped her gangly arms in a thick shirt; she tried to force a smile, then grabbed the cushion from where she had left it by the window earlier in the day, and dropped it at Shard's feet. When she knelt this time, she didn't even try to keep herself upright.
"The dress will be ready in time," she muttered, before looking at the Lair-Mother's child's lap. "May I?" she asked.
Shard wasn't sure what the girl meant, but nodded nonetheless. If there were no issues with the outfit, then why was Ifi like that? She looked as if someone had just tortured her, and not in the ways she apparently enjoyed. Again, Shard considered asking, and again decided against it, even as the decision itself rubbed her the wrong way.
Slowly, the alchemist laid her head on Shard's lap, then propped the rest of her slight body against her. This was, by now, getting recognizable – clearly, Ifi enjoyed the touch of Shard's carapace, the feel of it on her skin, and maybe even more than that.
"Thank you," the alchemist muttered, closing her eyes.
For a moment, Shard waited, unsure what to do; then, she remembered. Apprehensively, she put her hand on the alchemist's freshly shaven head; the girl murmured in approval. Her skin smelled of soap, of exhaustion, of yearning. Not fear, not despair; again, that made Shard feel a bit lost. It shouldn't be in the nature of cattle to seek a predator's embrace.
"I needed this," Ifi nuzzled. They remained like that for a time long enough for the hunger to return with full force. Shard could feel the blood pulse under Ifi's skin, and it was hard not to reach for it, not sink her claws into the flesh and tear pleasure from it. But she couldn't – that wasn't what the girl expected from her, was it not? Shard tried to dismiss the want, to overpower it with a promise of future ravenous feeding. But it gnawed on her; Ifi was in her hand, so fragile, so vulnerable, so easy to hurt.
What came next surprised her.
"May I feed?" Shard heard herself saying; she wasn't sure where the question was coming from. It sounded so stupid when spoken out loud, and she opened her mouth again just to take it back but before she could, she looked into Ifi's face, and saw in it the same want reflected back.
"I thought you'd never ask," the alchemist whimpered.
The Lair-Mother's child did not hesitate.
"Find a roll of bandage," she ordered, pushing, "and soak it in saltwater. Then come back here and kneel again."
The alchemist stood up, curiosity and need painted clear across her face. She bowed, and skipped downstairs, only to return within moments with bowl and cloth in hand. She put them on the floor, returned herself to the cushion, and to Shard's grasp.
"If you want to play my servant," Shard declared, sharpening her voice. Her hand closed over the alchemist's head, "then you will have to be taught what it means."
She held her for a minute or two, allowing the anticipation to build into the seed of fear. And then, without a warning, she moved, straightening to her full height, grabbing Ifi by the back of her neck and lifting her to her feet, a sharp and harsh motion. The yelp of pain bloomed red and gold in the pit of Shard's stomach. There was no turning back: she was going to feed. The fear that followed was fresh and young, nothing like that rancid waste the alchemist would soak in before.
Her claws extended; not fully, but enough for Ifi to feel them dig into her skin and threaten to rip at the slightest provocation. With a slow, deliberate twist, Shard let them rest across the girl's throat.
"Hold your shirt up," she demanded. "And do not even think to twitch."
With bated breath, Ifi grabbed the sides of the shift in her palms and dragged it up, revealing the still-damp mound and stomach. The blush on her face turned into a paind wince as Shard reached down with her free hand, a claw extended to neelde-point. She pressed it to the surface of the alchemist's skin, feeling it grow taut and thin under pressure. She held it there for a moment, watching Ifi try not to breathe, lest it cut. Then, with a flick of the wrist, Shard made the cut herself.
Ifi yelped, more in shock than in pain. It was just a scratch, a thin line drawn in the skin. Tiny red droplets begin to well, but not enough to flow. The fear, however, was heady. Shard paused, making sure her hands didn't twitch. The alchemist froze; Shard smiled, and followed with another cut. And then another, and another.
Tiny red drops dripped to the floor. The alchemist managed to keep quiet and still for the first few cuts; and only after trilled in beautiful hurt, enticing Shard to slash slower. The girl was so afraid to move; with the claw at her throat, she couldn't even look down at the work opening on her stomach. In all honesty, Shard impressed herself with how she managed to keep at it, even as every single line she drew only whetted her appetite further. The rewards, however, were worth it – a slow bloom opening inside. A far cry from the deep satisfaction of evisceration, maybe – but also a kind of a pleasure Shard had almost forgotten how to indulge. She flicked the last cuts into the skin, then threw the blood off her claws. The mirror waited on the table ahead, ready for the next step. She dragged Ifi towards it, until the girl could see the red arabesque calligraphed out in her living flesh.
"Read it," she commanded.
"I," Ifi said, her breath so short and slight that she had to struggle for each word, "will keep my back straight when kneeling."
"Good," Shard commanded; humiliation was the perfect spice for this little cruelty. "Now, bandage it."
In the end, the Lair-Mother's child did not go hungry. Every little thing that followed was a delight – from the moment of hesitation as Ifi weighed the damp cloth in her hands, to the weak cries and shooting pain, to the ruler-straight line of her back when she finally managed to return to her place at Shard's feet. Line that both of them knew Ifi wasn't yet ready to hold as well as was expected of her.
"Now," Shard said, catching a tear welling up in the alchemist's eye on the tip of her claw, "thank me for the lesson."
It was all supposed to be familiar, and pleasing – and it was. Ifi looked up at Shard, still wincing in pain, and terrified of failing her expectations. That fear laced her words she spoke, begging: "I thank you for disciplining me". For a moment, Shard felt a rush of power, and forgot just how low she had fallen. But quickly, she noticed that there was something off.
For the first time, those words of gratitude were wholly genuine.
Last edited:
"Nothing can go wrong."
- Recorded minutes before things went wrong.
Shard is still a cat, news at 11.
Ifi is going to need to put a bell on her, I swear.
14. Thorn
Gargulec
impact!
- Location
- a garden
14. Thorn
Cold, seaward wind scattered the clouds and opened up the vastness of the sky. Through the cool air, the sun shone with sharp clarity, drawing hard, rainbow-edged brilliance from the remnants of the rain. Ifi imagined the brightness as glistening fire, pooling on the terraces and in the winding streets of the Middle City, but even without that fancy, the sight from the window was enough to set the soul alight. Was this a new beauty, or had she just not taken notice of it before?
"Ifigenia?" a man called out to her. "Are you listening? Is there something wrong?"
The alchemist strained to look away from the window, and the brilliant vista opening beyond. The office was dark; she had to blink a few times to let her eyes adjust again.
"All is well," she smiled, "I just got distracted."
The man – a wholesale dealer in rare ingredients by the name of Papadoul – nodded, before adjusting his glasses and looking down at the file before him. In the years Ifi had known him, he had managed to only grow thinner and more bird-like, hooked nose and graying hair giving him a hawk's look. She wondered if he dreamed of flying, of the blue sky and roaring wind?
"Distracted," he muttered. "Do you want me to give you the prices again?"
"Have they changed much since the last time?" she asked. The attention she would normally give to matters of her business was now hard to hold onto, replaced instead by other, sweeter concerns. Still, she had to try, didn't she?
The High City loomed outside of the window, the tall towers rising serenely into the blue. Which one would hold the ball? Would the weather hold, to give Ifi a view of all this beauty from high above?
"As I've said," Papadoul sighed, shaking a mote of invisible dust from his papers, "not yet, but they may well soon. Things are in flux, as you are no doubt aware," he followed her eyes towards the city's skyline. "The new order is worrying, which brings me to the issue…"
Before he could explain what that issue was, the screeching hinges of his office's door interrupted him. A young, plain-looking woman in a slightly scuffed uniform of a house-maid entered, a tray of refreshments in her hands. Compared to Prunikos' luxurious outfit, hers was nothing alluring nor expensive, and yet Ifi struggled not to imagine herself in it, delivering a plate of snacks to Shard, and herself along with them. She bit her tongue not to chuckle at the intrusive, strange thought; it was hardly the first she has had over the last few days.
"Thank you," Papadoul nodded at the servant. "Do make sure that dinner is ready early tonight."
"Yes, sir," she replied, leaving without a further word.
Ifi paused; the unmistakable lowborn slur in the maid's voice was a clear reminder of just how inappropriate her fantasies were. And yet, she couldn't help herself but to entertain them – and enjoy them too.
"As I was saying," the dealer said, blowing on his cup of coffee. "The new order is an issue. If it is true what they are saying, the labor costs will go up, then I may have to hike the price unfortunately high."
"But why would they?" Ifi asked, mostly to just take her mind off the untowards things; she was going to have time to think on them on the way back to her workshop. "It's High Table's strife, not ours."
Papadoul frowned, the cup freezing at his lips. It was fine china, blood-red scrollwork over pearl white. The alchemist imagined those colors in a tangled swirl across Shard's body; she would look well in them.
"Have you not heard?" he asked, an incredulous note to his voice. "It's been all the talk of the terraces. And in the papers, too," he sipped, before adding. "You read them, don't you?"
Usually, the question would rip at something sore in Ifi, but shame came hard on a day as beautiful as this one. She just shook her head, reaching for her own coffee. The dealer sighed, taking a moment to think through this uncomfortable revelation.
"Well," he explained after a moment, "to give you the quick idea – the word is that the new Master Glassmaker owes much to the support of lowborn allies. They'll call it a reform, but what they will really call is a debt," he sneered. "I didn't believe it at first either, but the evidence is mounting."
The coffee was far better than anything Ifi would make for herself – sweet and clear, carrying a delicate nutty note. Distantly, she noted she should be more concerned about what Papdoul was saying, but such notions also struggled to make their way into her attention.
"There is still hope that the High Table won't allow it," he continued, still frowning at Ifi's visible distraction, "but the rumor is that they have already agreed to throw the radicals some meat. An idiotic move only likely to make them more ravenous, but what do we know of the games of the High Families?" he flicked through the papers. "We only bear the price. So my advice is that you buy now, and fill your stores."
Her father mentioned something similar the last she had seen him, and with a similar frustration. It only made Ifi more thankful that she didn't have to pay any lowborns for their work, even if that did draw odd comments from her guild peers. And made her miss out on such fancy, delicious coffee.
"Right," she declared. "So I will take twice the usual. Should last me a while."
Papadoul grabbed a pencil and scrawled something on the fire before him. He waited, as if expecting Ifi to say something, or bargain. She should, but really couldn't bring herself to.
"I see," he tapped the butt of the pencil against the desk. "Are you sure you are alright, Ifigenia? You seem really distracted to me. I hope the business is going well?"
The truth was that she hadn't had as much time to spend in the workshop over the last few days as she should have – and there were orders piling up on her workbench that would take days to sort out. A sobering thought occurred to her that the man wasn't as much worried about her, as about her credit. Thankfully, she had an answer ready for that.
"I will be in the High City soon," she declared. "My work impressed a Glassmaker."
Papadoul shut his mouth. He put down the pencil, and from his pocket, drew an embroidered handkerchief. With a careful motion, he folded his glasses in hand, and started to wipe the lenses; Ifi couldn't spot the dirt that was bothering.
"I should not have doubted your talents, Ifigenia Juno," he smiled, only slightly perplexed. "I will see to your order as a priority. But do remember old Papadoul when you are presented at the High Table. I have always enjoyed working with your family."
The first instinct Ifi had to overcome was to instantly deny this suggestion. She was not headed above to deal in politics, or to do business; she had a different role to play there. And yet, she stopped herself from telling that particular truth, instead choosing the sweet taste of coffee and a satisfied smirk. There was a kind of a pleasure in the way the dealer suddenly looked at her, all the little displays of disappointment erased in the smallest deployment of an innocent, white lie. The meeting with her father reminded her well that honesty was not always a virtue.
They shook on a deal soon after, but Papadoul didn't let leave immediately, insisting that she stay for more coffee and – as it became clear as soon as they moved to his salon – also liqueurs. To her shock – and not a little of pride – she managed to hold a conversation with him; he had recently invested in establishing links with western gem mines. Under the gently reprimanding eyes of Papadoul's pregnant wife, they clinked imitation crystal glasses and sipped on thick, creamy advocaat and exchanged observations on the use of jewels in both alchemy and trade.
At some point, she found herself in Papadoul's bathroom. Without meaning to, she caught a glance of her own reflection in the great, old oak-framed mirror; the sight made her stop. The last few weeks were clearly painted across her face in the bruise-like circles under her eyes and the blue palor of her already pale skin. She expected to see as much, if not worse. It was only the alchemy blowing through her veins that kept her on her legs; the pile of empty phials left stacked by her workbench attested to that. A tonic for wakefulness, another for calm, and for focus, and more than that – she had no right to look hale. But in the mirror she saw more than an overused body: she also saw a smile. Her own warm, happy smile. Against all odds, the day rested easily on her shoulders. Biting her lip, she opened her robe and rolled her shirt up just enough to see the pale webbing of recently-mended skin drawn across her stomach. Back in the salon, she drank the last of the liquor quickly and politely refused the dinner. She had something to come back to waiting back in her workshop, and couldn't stay.
Wind and rain cleared the miasma from the city; the air outside was fresh and crisp, free from the suffocating anxiety that had choked it just days before. Drenched in the rose gold of a beautiful sunset, even the scorch marks high above faded from view. The High City lights shone again, as if nothing had happened. On the street corner, a paper boy was declaring peace and order come again, urging guildspeople to get their evening news from him. The hum of excited voices carried down from the terraces above. The idea crossed Ifi's mind that she could climb to one of them and join the life and reverie of her class; strangely, it didn't even pluck at her nerves to consider it. Still, it made her stop – she couldn't recall ever stepping so lightly over the white pavements of her city. Was this what happiness felt like? Or – as an uneasy voice whispered into her ear – was she in love?
Her hand was on the flat of her stomach; her mind on the hard strength and unshakable commands of Shard. The below-spawn made a home in Ifi's workshop, and her body in Ifi's thoughts. The alchemist was rushing ahead through the lovely dusk, hurrying just to see her again, just to once more have a chance for the harsh touch, and all else that it brought. She longed for it so bad – but was that it actually Shard, or just the services she was obliged to provide? There was another voice speaking to her, calm and collected, reminding her that there was a gulf of difference between being in love, and in lust.
Shard was not on the floor of her shop; only the mail awated Ifi there. She picked through it quickly, sorting orders from checks and bills. The last category included an invoice from the tailor; Ifi opened it and frowned at the listed sum. It was a good thing she had savings ready. Even with them, it looked like she would have to work herself to the bone soon – but only after the Feast, and not before. She folded the sheet back into the envelope, wiping the concern clean from her attention, helped by what waited at the bottom of the pile of mail.
The invitation was a charm-glass card, shimmering with inner power. With the tip of her finger, Ifi traced the blue lines coiling across its cool surface. There was little written on it; there needn't not be. Just the fact she carried this piece of glass would be enough for the High City to recognize her and welcome her, the layered curtains of security charms parting before her – even if only for a single night. Holding it in her hands, feeling its weight and inner charge, was an odd sensation. Years had passed since she had given up on ever sitting at the High Table – and now, here was an opportunity to be present before them, and she was not even going there for her own sake. No – that wasn't true. It was sobering to think, but she was not doing this out of the kindness of her heart. She was attending to help someone who would then help her in turn, letting her live out all the dreams she had all but given up on. So was she in love, or was it just a transaction? This was a barbed notion, and she did not like at all the way it left a chink in her newly-found good mood.
She found Shard upstairs, picking boredly at the wound in her chest. The below-spawn livened up at her entrance, jumping down from her window-perch.
"Here you are," she smiled, approaching the alchemist; Ifi couldn't help but to have heart skip a beat as Shard straightened to her full height. "It's been an awfully uneventful day without you."
"So you just sat there?" Ifi asked, throwing down her robe and removing the wig. Her mood was still excellent, but the unfortunate question lodged itself somewhere in her, a familiar thorn in the simple happiness at seeing Shard again. "Are you worried about those hunters?"
Shard stiffened; Ifi had learned to associate this reaction with confusion, or perhaps even worry.
"I have assured you," she said, "they are unlikely to come for me just yet. We have time, and you are safe. It is only that there are few entertainments available here."
"And what sort of entertainment would you like?" Ifi asked, dropping to her chair. A notable part of her despaired that the answer would be something other than a desirous 'you'.
Shard did not respond; she turned around and climbed back up, her unseen eyes set on the horizon.
"Books?" the alchemist offered to the below-spawn's back. "Drinks? Song and dance?"
The silence extended; Ifi had to wonder if she had not asked a wrong question. It was a cold reminder how little she really knew about this creature that was the locus of all of her lusts and hopes, as well as many of her fears.
"Prowl," Shard spoke suddenly, still watching the city spread before her. "Through the roofs and back-alleys, unheard and unseen, until it was too late."
The claws at the tips of her fingers extended ever so slightly, scratching against the window-frame. Her posture tensed; Ifi knew well what Shard reminded her of in that very moment.
"I am a predator," the below-spawn hissed, the words heavy and firm. "I exist to hunt, to overpower, to feed. This is what brings me joy. This is what I miss. Have I not told you? To my kind, you are meat."
Although sometimes she wished she was, Ifi wasn't stupid. She connected the dots, the obvious things she knew, only refused to consider in full. What was it that the lowborn thug had said, demanding that Ifi let him finish the dying Shard? All I want to do is to make sure that this monster doesn't hurt anyone again. She couldn't even be surprised. The thorn dug deeper; the happiness paled and dissolved into a worry that, for once, was not about herself.
"So why not today? Why didn't you go on a hunt when I was away?"
"It's harder to do here. Your blood is better accounted for," Shard explained, hunching slightly. "Worth more."
"Ours?" Ifi asked with a sinking feeling.
"Guildspeople."
Of course, she was aware of that too. It just didn't occur to her. She couldn't throw away the thought of Villis, and his clear frustration as she accused him of being a violent thug. Maybe he really was just defending himself? Well, there was no room for a 'maybe' there, as much as she would like there to be some. But this only led to more questions. Why did he, in the end, let Shard go? And also…
"The Lower City isn't far," Ifi noted, feeling fear seep into her words. "You could have gone there and back again easily. If you wanted to."
Shard's hunch deepened, her head drooping forwards.
"It is a bad idea," she said, something tinny and empty scratching in her voice. "I can feed on you if I want to."
Those words drew a burst of gentle warmth out of Ifi – almost enough to make her not notice that there was something off about that answer, something dull and false. But she didn't know what thread to pull on to unravel it, and more importantly, she was hardly certain if she wanted to. Shard was her impossible happiness, and she wasn't killing people right now. Maybe there was no need to dig into it any deeper. Maybe those lowborns deserved it and-
"So what do you want to do after you are safe?" she asked, changing the subject before the wretchedness of her own idea could fully unfurl in her mind. "After you are done with your plan?"
Shard uncurled a bit, her claws melding back into the porcelain of her fingers.
"I have not considered it that far," she shrugged. "There is much that I have lost and would want to recover."
"And should I keep you company even then?" Ifi pressed on, letting her hunger distract her from her worries. "In case you need to feed? So that you no longer have to-" she paused just shy of saying 'kill anyone'.
The sound that Shard gave out was somewhere between a cough and a chuckle. She looked at Ifi over her shoulder, the wry, sharp-toothed smile the only expression on her empty face. To the alchemist, it somehow managed to look friendly.
"You are a very strange one, for a mortal," she opined.
"I know," Ifi nodded; this was hardly news to her. It was only the calm with which she took it all that troubled her.
***
Stuffed in the back of Ifi's meager bookshelf, there was a thin volume in beige covers. Though according to the title printed across them, they should contain "The Chymysters' Enumeration of Metals", that was a lie. The alchemist had committed that memory early into her apprenticeship, and instead bound into the covers a different kind of text. She had first found a copy of How Sofia Lost Her Innocence, written by one Southern Teacher, in an antique bookstore, left by accident among the lives of old saints. The storekeeper was mortified to see it in her hands, but his warnings fell on deaf ears. Ifi paid him in glass, and then some that he would not mention to anyone; she ate little for the next few weeks. However, the sustenance the text provided made it easily worth the sacrifice.
She read during nights, with a light-charm in hand and a scarlett blush on her cheeks. Although the story pretended to be a moral tale of warning, claiming to alert maidens of the dangers of trust, strangers, and desire, it was only truly a piece of awful and revulsive pornography. It told the story of a pious woman in a covenant who ended up abducted by a devilish cult, to then be subjected to every depravity imaginable, until at the end she was so ruined as to come to enjoy it. Having lost her virtue, she took on the sacraments of the cult and helped it seduce a fellow nun, starting the grisly tale anew. It was the worst reading she had done in her life, and the first time she had felt anything close to arousal, one that was impossible to disentangle from the sea of shame she was drowning in.
That book inside the beige bindings was not that copy; she had thrown it into a fire soon after she had finished reading it, and dumped the ashes down the storm-drain. Instead, it was one she bought from another, more specialist bookstore, a little time after becoming a journeywoman. It was an extended version, with added chapters describing the defilement of Sofia's sister, and illustrated with woodcuts that never stopped haunting Ifi's imagination. It was her most hated and cherished possession. She even added to it – a few loose sheets of paper stuffed between the text and the back cover contained the procedure she developed to brew the "mystickal elixir of dumb whoredom" that the devil-worshiping chymysters had to resort to to break through the last of Sofia's resistance – and the antidote, of course. The one bottle of it she had brewed up, she ended up pouring into the mud outside of her workshop, having never worked up the courage to try it. And besides, it would not be the same without the throng of cultists around. It would not be the same alone.
Besides, she was nothing like Sofia, who didn't need much dumbing down in the first place. Her character could be summed up by the gasps she gave out at the size of objects being inserted into her various orifices. In fact, all the women in this story were like that, which as the narrator readily explained, was a point in their favor, distinguishing them from them from the rising depreciation of natural femininity as evidenced by the opening of the guilds to women. Such females – among which Ifi had to count herself – were lost to carnal purposes, their intellectual work causing the shriveling and drying up in the womanly parts and causing other, untold ruination. She had to wonder if that was how Shard saw her: cattle that grew too smart for its intended use. She also had to wonder what it would feel like to be hunted by the below-spawn, reduced to base animal idiocy by a potent alchemical tonic, knowing only fear, and flight, and sheer arousal.
So maybe the Southern Teacher had the right of it, Ifi considered, stumbling around her laboratory and trying to put in some work before sleep. Maybe she should have taken the warnings on the opening pages of the book seriously, and read it as a cautionary tale instead of a fuel for deranged fantasies. After all, the moral was that all the evils suffered by Sofia were, according to the Southern Teacher, nothing but her own fault. She had not turned the demon-worshippers immediately away, allowing her curiosity to seduce her. To rebuke the devil half-heartedly, he wrote, is to desire him, and to desire him is to deserve his cruel ministrations.
The laboratory she had built for herself was a shelter against the world; here she was powerful and knowing. Here, she could take the basic blood and bone of earth and turn them into the many wonders of alchemy. This all made it all too easy to forget that it was, ultimately, a basement, thick-walled and thick-roofed, closed from the sight and touch of others. It offered safety, because it enforced seclusion. Shard's empty cot still lay in the corner, along with the heavy chain Ifi tried to bind her with. There was some poetry to be found in the fact that the below-spawn was the first to see this crypt that Ifi called her life: because this is where it had been buried. Ifigenia Juno, a master alchemist before thirty and already interred in a tomb entirely of her own making. It was a thought she was well acquainted with, and not just because of her father, but also because it was the unvarnished truth of her life. To leave her basement laboratory, she would have to become a respected member of her social circle – which meant something completely different from becoming a respected alchemist. The latter she already was; the former should at most pretend to be. No matter how many professional conversations she managed to hold with her business partners or how many deals she managed to shake on, there would always be the book in the back of her shelf, and the handwritten notes she added to it as a testament to what really went on in her head.
That, in the end, was the reason why she did not rebuke the devil when she came knocking.
If only she could convince herself that it was down to some kind of a self-sacrifice, that she was only giving herself freely to the murderous predator so that it wouldn't harm anyone else! But she knew her lust well enough, and that was the long and short of it. Lust that not even the undeniable awareness that the devil was, in fact, a devil, could dampen. Lust which said some very troubling things about Ifi's innermost character, and ones that she had to concede as the unvarnished, awful truth.
At first, it only brought a sense of guilt so crushing that she threw herself into the work until the sky outside turned gray in anticipation of the coming day. But when the time finally came to turn off the burners and disable the heating charms, instead she found herself feeling mostly empty. Before she slipped into bed by Shard's side, she took to the bathroom again, and once more examined the fading webbing of words cut into her flesh. The sight lost little of its potency; just seeing her made her happier than she had been in years. But with her shirt rolled up and the desire fully exposed, she had to concede to an unfortunate fact: what she felt for Shard was not, and could not, be love. This was only lust for the monster's touch, just as the monster could only see her as meat. But those were the devil's ministrations that Ifi desired, and so also deserved.
There was a kind of peace in that notion, and it cradled her to sleep.
Cold, seaward wind scattered the clouds and opened up the vastness of the sky. Through the cool air, the sun shone with sharp clarity, drawing hard, rainbow-edged brilliance from the remnants of the rain. Ifi imagined the brightness as glistening fire, pooling on the terraces and in the winding streets of the Middle City, but even without that fancy, the sight from the window was enough to set the soul alight. Was this a new beauty, or had she just not taken notice of it before?
"Ifigenia?" a man called out to her. "Are you listening? Is there something wrong?"
The alchemist strained to look away from the window, and the brilliant vista opening beyond. The office was dark; she had to blink a few times to let her eyes adjust again.
"All is well," she smiled, "I just got distracted."
The man – a wholesale dealer in rare ingredients by the name of Papadoul – nodded, before adjusting his glasses and looking down at the file before him. In the years Ifi had known him, he had managed to only grow thinner and more bird-like, hooked nose and graying hair giving him a hawk's look. She wondered if he dreamed of flying, of the blue sky and roaring wind?
"Distracted," he muttered. "Do you want me to give you the prices again?"
"Have they changed much since the last time?" she asked. The attention she would normally give to matters of her business was now hard to hold onto, replaced instead by other, sweeter concerns. Still, she had to try, didn't she?
The High City loomed outside of the window, the tall towers rising serenely into the blue. Which one would hold the ball? Would the weather hold, to give Ifi a view of all this beauty from high above?
"As I've said," Papadoul sighed, shaking a mote of invisible dust from his papers, "not yet, but they may well soon. Things are in flux, as you are no doubt aware," he followed her eyes towards the city's skyline. "The new order is worrying, which brings me to the issue…"
Before he could explain what that issue was, the screeching hinges of his office's door interrupted him. A young, plain-looking woman in a slightly scuffed uniform of a house-maid entered, a tray of refreshments in her hands. Compared to Prunikos' luxurious outfit, hers was nothing alluring nor expensive, and yet Ifi struggled not to imagine herself in it, delivering a plate of snacks to Shard, and herself along with them. She bit her tongue not to chuckle at the intrusive, strange thought; it was hardly the first she has had over the last few days.
"Thank you," Papadoul nodded at the servant. "Do make sure that dinner is ready early tonight."
"Yes, sir," she replied, leaving without a further word.
Ifi paused; the unmistakable lowborn slur in the maid's voice was a clear reminder of just how inappropriate her fantasies were. And yet, she couldn't help herself but to entertain them – and enjoy them too.
"As I was saying," the dealer said, blowing on his cup of coffee. "The new order is an issue. If it is true what they are saying, the labor costs will go up, then I may have to hike the price unfortunately high."
"But why would they?" Ifi asked, mostly to just take her mind off the untowards things; she was going to have time to think on them on the way back to her workshop. "It's High Table's strife, not ours."
Papadoul frowned, the cup freezing at his lips. It was fine china, blood-red scrollwork over pearl white. The alchemist imagined those colors in a tangled swirl across Shard's body; she would look well in them.
"Have you not heard?" he asked, an incredulous note to his voice. "It's been all the talk of the terraces. And in the papers, too," he sipped, before adding. "You read them, don't you?"
Usually, the question would rip at something sore in Ifi, but shame came hard on a day as beautiful as this one. She just shook her head, reaching for her own coffee. The dealer sighed, taking a moment to think through this uncomfortable revelation.
"Well," he explained after a moment, "to give you the quick idea – the word is that the new Master Glassmaker owes much to the support of lowborn allies. They'll call it a reform, but what they will really call is a debt," he sneered. "I didn't believe it at first either, but the evidence is mounting."
The coffee was far better than anything Ifi would make for herself – sweet and clear, carrying a delicate nutty note. Distantly, she noted she should be more concerned about what Papdoul was saying, but such notions also struggled to make their way into her attention.
"There is still hope that the High Table won't allow it," he continued, still frowning at Ifi's visible distraction, "but the rumor is that they have already agreed to throw the radicals some meat. An idiotic move only likely to make them more ravenous, but what do we know of the games of the High Families?" he flicked through the papers. "We only bear the price. So my advice is that you buy now, and fill your stores."
Her father mentioned something similar the last she had seen him, and with a similar frustration. It only made Ifi more thankful that she didn't have to pay any lowborns for their work, even if that did draw odd comments from her guild peers. And made her miss out on such fancy, delicious coffee.
"Right," she declared. "So I will take twice the usual. Should last me a while."
Papadoul grabbed a pencil and scrawled something on the fire before him. He waited, as if expecting Ifi to say something, or bargain. She should, but really couldn't bring herself to.
"I see," he tapped the butt of the pencil against the desk. "Are you sure you are alright, Ifigenia? You seem really distracted to me. I hope the business is going well?"
The truth was that she hadn't had as much time to spend in the workshop over the last few days as she should have – and there were orders piling up on her workbench that would take days to sort out. A sobering thought occurred to her that the man wasn't as much worried about her, as about her credit. Thankfully, she had an answer ready for that.
"I will be in the High City soon," she declared. "My work impressed a Glassmaker."
Papadoul shut his mouth. He put down the pencil, and from his pocket, drew an embroidered handkerchief. With a careful motion, he folded his glasses in hand, and started to wipe the lenses; Ifi couldn't spot the dirt that was bothering.
"I should not have doubted your talents, Ifigenia Juno," he smiled, only slightly perplexed. "I will see to your order as a priority. But do remember old Papadoul when you are presented at the High Table. I have always enjoyed working with your family."
The first instinct Ifi had to overcome was to instantly deny this suggestion. She was not headed above to deal in politics, or to do business; she had a different role to play there. And yet, she stopped herself from telling that particular truth, instead choosing the sweet taste of coffee and a satisfied smirk. There was a kind of a pleasure in the way the dealer suddenly looked at her, all the little displays of disappointment erased in the smallest deployment of an innocent, white lie. The meeting with her father reminded her well that honesty was not always a virtue.
They shook on a deal soon after, but Papadoul didn't let leave immediately, insisting that she stay for more coffee and – as it became clear as soon as they moved to his salon – also liqueurs. To her shock – and not a little of pride – she managed to hold a conversation with him; he had recently invested in establishing links with western gem mines. Under the gently reprimanding eyes of Papadoul's pregnant wife, they clinked imitation crystal glasses and sipped on thick, creamy advocaat and exchanged observations on the use of jewels in both alchemy and trade.
At some point, she found herself in Papadoul's bathroom. Without meaning to, she caught a glance of her own reflection in the great, old oak-framed mirror; the sight made her stop. The last few weeks were clearly painted across her face in the bruise-like circles under her eyes and the blue palor of her already pale skin. She expected to see as much, if not worse. It was only the alchemy blowing through her veins that kept her on her legs; the pile of empty phials left stacked by her workbench attested to that. A tonic for wakefulness, another for calm, and for focus, and more than that – she had no right to look hale. But in the mirror she saw more than an overused body: she also saw a smile. Her own warm, happy smile. Against all odds, the day rested easily on her shoulders. Biting her lip, she opened her robe and rolled her shirt up just enough to see the pale webbing of recently-mended skin drawn across her stomach. Back in the salon, she drank the last of the liquor quickly and politely refused the dinner. She had something to come back to waiting back in her workshop, and couldn't stay.
Wind and rain cleared the miasma from the city; the air outside was fresh and crisp, free from the suffocating anxiety that had choked it just days before. Drenched in the rose gold of a beautiful sunset, even the scorch marks high above faded from view. The High City lights shone again, as if nothing had happened. On the street corner, a paper boy was declaring peace and order come again, urging guildspeople to get their evening news from him. The hum of excited voices carried down from the terraces above. The idea crossed Ifi's mind that she could climb to one of them and join the life and reverie of her class; strangely, it didn't even pluck at her nerves to consider it. Still, it made her stop – she couldn't recall ever stepping so lightly over the white pavements of her city. Was this what happiness felt like? Or – as an uneasy voice whispered into her ear – was she in love?
Her hand was on the flat of her stomach; her mind on the hard strength and unshakable commands of Shard. The below-spawn made a home in Ifi's workshop, and her body in Ifi's thoughts. The alchemist was rushing ahead through the lovely dusk, hurrying just to see her again, just to once more have a chance for the harsh touch, and all else that it brought. She longed for it so bad – but was that it actually Shard, or just the services she was obliged to provide? There was another voice speaking to her, calm and collected, reminding her that there was a gulf of difference between being in love, and in lust.
Shard was not on the floor of her shop; only the mail awated Ifi there. She picked through it quickly, sorting orders from checks and bills. The last category included an invoice from the tailor; Ifi opened it and frowned at the listed sum. It was a good thing she had savings ready. Even with them, it looked like she would have to work herself to the bone soon – but only after the Feast, and not before. She folded the sheet back into the envelope, wiping the concern clean from her attention, helped by what waited at the bottom of the pile of mail.
The invitation was a charm-glass card, shimmering with inner power. With the tip of her finger, Ifi traced the blue lines coiling across its cool surface. There was little written on it; there needn't not be. Just the fact she carried this piece of glass would be enough for the High City to recognize her and welcome her, the layered curtains of security charms parting before her – even if only for a single night. Holding it in her hands, feeling its weight and inner charge, was an odd sensation. Years had passed since she had given up on ever sitting at the High Table – and now, here was an opportunity to be present before them, and she was not even going there for her own sake. No – that wasn't true. It was sobering to think, but she was not doing this out of the kindness of her heart. She was attending to help someone who would then help her in turn, letting her live out all the dreams she had all but given up on. So was she in love, or was it just a transaction? This was a barbed notion, and she did not like at all the way it left a chink in her newly-found good mood.
She found Shard upstairs, picking boredly at the wound in her chest. The below-spawn livened up at her entrance, jumping down from her window-perch.
"Here you are," she smiled, approaching the alchemist; Ifi couldn't help but to have heart skip a beat as Shard straightened to her full height. "It's been an awfully uneventful day without you."
"So you just sat there?" Ifi asked, throwing down her robe and removing the wig. Her mood was still excellent, but the unfortunate question lodged itself somewhere in her, a familiar thorn in the simple happiness at seeing Shard again. "Are you worried about those hunters?"
Shard stiffened; Ifi had learned to associate this reaction with confusion, or perhaps even worry.
"I have assured you," she said, "they are unlikely to come for me just yet. We have time, and you are safe. It is only that there are few entertainments available here."
"And what sort of entertainment would you like?" Ifi asked, dropping to her chair. A notable part of her despaired that the answer would be something other than a desirous 'you'.
Shard did not respond; she turned around and climbed back up, her unseen eyes set on the horizon.
"Books?" the alchemist offered to the below-spawn's back. "Drinks? Song and dance?"
The silence extended; Ifi had to wonder if she had not asked a wrong question. It was a cold reminder how little she really knew about this creature that was the locus of all of her lusts and hopes, as well as many of her fears.
"Prowl," Shard spoke suddenly, still watching the city spread before her. "Through the roofs and back-alleys, unheard and unseen, until it was too late."
The claws at the tips of her fingers extended ever so slightly, scratching against the window-frame. Her posture tensed; Ifi knew well what Shard reminded her of in that very moment.
"I am a predator," the below-spawn hissed, the words heavy and firm. "I exist to hunt, to overpower, to feed. This is what brings me joy. This is what I miss. Have I not told you? To my kind, you are meat."
Although sometimes she wished she was, Ifi wasn't stupid. She connected the dots, the obvious things she knew, only refused to consider in full. What was it that the lowborn thug had said, demanding that Ifi let him finish the dying Shard? All I want to do is to make sure that this monster doesn't hurt anyone again. She couldn't even be surprised. The thorn dug deeper; the happiness paled and dissolved into a worry that, for once, was not about herself.
"So why not today? Why didn't you go on a hunt when I was away?"
"It's harder to do here. Your blood is better accounted for," Shard explained, hunching slightly. "Worth more."
"Ours?" Ifi asked with a sinking feeling.
"Guildspeople."
Of course, she was aware of that too. It just didn't occur to her. She couldn't throw away the thought of Villis, and his clear frustration as she accused him of being a violent thug. Maybe he really was just defending himself? Well, there was no room for a 'maybe' there, as much as she would like there to be some. But this only led to more questions. Why did he, in the end, let Shard go? And also…
"The Lower City isn't far," Ifi noted, feeling fear seep into her words. "You could have gone there and back again easily. If you wanted to."
Shard's hunch deepened, her head drooping forwards.
"It is a bad idea," she said, something tinny and empty scratching in her voice. "I can feed on you if I want to."
Those words drew a burst of gentle warmth out of Ifi – almost enough to make her not notice that there was something off about that answer, something dull and false. But she didn't know what thread to pull on to unravel it, and more importantly, she was hardly certain if she wanted to. Shard was her impossible happiness, and she wasn't killing people right now. Maybe there was no need to dig into it any deeper. Maybe those lowborns deserved it and-
"So what do you want to do after you are safe?" she asked, changing the subject before the wretchedness of her own idea could fully unfurl in her mind. "After you are done with your plan?"
Shard uncurled a bit, her claws melding back into the porcelain of her fingers.
"I have not considered it that far," she shrugged. "There is much that I have lost and would want to recover."
"And should I keep you company even then?" Ifi pressed on, letting her hunger distract her from her worries. "In case you need to feed? So that you no longer have to-" she paused just shy of saying 'kill anyone'.
The sound that Shard gave out was somewhere between a cough and a chuckle. She looked at Ifi over her shoulder, the wry, sharp-toothed smile the only expression on her empty face. To the alchemist, it somehow managed to look friendly.
"You are a very strange one, for a mortal," she opined.
"I know," Ifi nodded; this was hardly news to her. It was only the calm with which she took it all that troubled her.
***
Stuffed in the back of Ifi's meager bookshelf, there was a thin volume in beige covers. Though according to the title printed across them, they should contain "The Chymysters' Enumeration of Metals", that was a lie. The alchemist had committed that memory early into her apprenticeship, and instead bound into the covers a different kind of text. She had first found a copy of How Sofia Lost Her Innocence, written by one Southern Teacher, in an antique bookstore, left by accident among the lives of old saints. The storekeeper was mortified to see it in her hands, but his warnings fell on deaf ears. Ifi paid him in glass, and then some that he would not mention to anyone; she ate little for the next few weeks. However, the sustenance the text provided made it easily worth the sacrifice.
She read during nights, with a light-charm in hand and a scarlett blush on her cheeks. Although the story pretended to be a moral tale of warning, claiming to alert maidens of the dangers of trust, strangers, and desire, it was only truly a piece of awful and revulsive pornography. It told the story of a pious woman in a covenant who ended up abducted by a devilish cult, to then be subjected to every depravity imaginable, until at the end she was so ruined as to come to enjoy it. Having lost her virtue, she took on the sacraments of the cult and helped it seduce a fellow nun, starting the grisly tale anew. It was the worst reading she had done in her life, and the first time she had felt anything close to arousal, one that was impossible to disentangle from the sea of shame she was drowning in.
That book inside the beige bindings was not that copy; she had thrown it into a fire soon after she had finished reading it, and dumped the ashes down the storm-drain. Instead, it was one she bought from another, more specialist bookstore, a little time after becoming a journeywoman. It was an extended version, with added chapters describing the defilement of Sofia's sister, and illustrated with woodcuts that never stopped haunting Ifi's imagination. It was her most hated and cherished possession. She even added to it – a few loose sheets of paper stuffed between the text and the back cover contained the procedure she developed to brew the "mystickal elixir of dumb whoredom" that the devil-worshiping chymysters had to resort to to break through the last of Sofia's resistance – and the antidote, of course. The one bottle of it she had brewed up, she ended up pouring into the mud outside of her workshop, having never worked up the courage to try it. And besides, it would not be the same without the throng of cultists around. It would not be the same alone.
Besides, she was nothing like Sofia, who didn't need much dumbing down in the first place. Her character could be summed up by the gasps she gave out at the size of objects being inserted into her various orifices. In fact, all the women in this story were like that, which as the narrator readily explained, was a point in their favor, distinguishing them from them from the rising depreciation of natural femininity as evidenced by the opening of the guilds to women. Such females – among which Ifi had to count herself – were lost to carnal purposes, their intellectual work causing the shriveling and drying up in the womanly parts and causing other, untold ruination. She had to wonder if that was how Shard saw her: cattle that grew too smart for its intended use. She also had to wonder what it would feel like to be hunted by the below-spawn, reduced to base animal idiocy by a potent alchemical tonic, knowing only fear, and flight, and sheer arousal.
So maybe the Southern Teacher had the right of it, Ifi considered, stumbling around her laboratory and trying to put in some work before sleep. Maybe she should have taken the warnings on the opening pages of the book seriously, and read it as a cautionary tale instead of a fuel for deranged fantasies. After all, the moral was that all the evils suffered by Sofia were, according to the Southern Teacher, nothing but her own fault. She had not turned the demon-worshippers immediately away, allowing her curiosity to seduce her. To rebuke the devil half-heartedly, he wrote, is to desire him, and to desire him is to deserve his cruel ministrations.
The laboratory she had built for herself was a shelter against the world; here she was powerful and knowing. Here, she could take the basic blood and bone of earth and turn them into the many wonders of alchemy. This all made it all too easy to forget that it was, ultimately, a basement, thick-walled and thick-roofed, closed from the sight and touch of others. It offered safety, because it enforced seclusion. Shard's empty cot still lay in the corner, along with the heavy chain Ifi tried to bind her with. There was some poetry to be found in the fact that the below-spawn was the first to see this crypt that Ifi called her life: because this is where it had been buried. Ifigenia Juno, a master alchemist before thirty and already interred in a tomb entirely of her own making. It was a thought she was well acquainted with, and not just because of her father, but also because it was the unvarnished truth of her life. To leave her basement laboratory, she would have to become a respected member of her social circle – which meant something completely different from becoming a respected alchemist. The latter she already was; the former should at most pretend to be. No matter how many professional conversations she managed to hold with her business partners or how many deals she managed to shake on, there would always be the book in the back of her shelf, and the handwritten notes she added to it as a testament to what really went on in her head.
That, in the end, was the reason why she did not rebuke the devil when she came knocking.
If only she could convince herself that it was down to some kind of a self-sacrifice, that she was only giving herself freely to the murderous predator so that it wouldn't harm anyone else! But she knew her lust well enough, and that was the long and short of it. Lust that not even the undeniable awareness that the devil was, in fact, a devil, could dampen. Lust which said some very troubling things about Ifi's innermost character, and ones that she had to concede as the unvarnished, awful truth.
At first, it only brought a sense of guilt so crushing that she threw herself into the work until the sky outside turned gray in anticipation of the coming day. But when the time finally came to turn off the burners and disable the heating charms, instead she found herself feeling mostly empty. Before she slipped into bed by Shard's side, she took to the bathroom again, and once more examined the fading webbing of words cut into her flesh. The sight lost little of its potency; just seeing her made her happier than she had been in years. But with her shirt rolled up and the desire fully exposed, she had to concede to an unfortunate fact: what she felt for Shard was not, and could not, be love. This was only lust for the monster's touch, just as the monster could only see her as meat. But those were the devil's ministrations that Ifi desired, and so also deserved.
There was a kind of peace in that notion, and it cradled her to sleep.
Everyone:
"What a horrifying monster, only able to derive pleasure and sustenance from pain, suffering, and the act of murder. How could a loving god allow such a loathsome demon to stalk the world?"
Ifi:
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTO6bBVRIgc
"What a horrifying monster, only able to derive pleasure and sustenance from pain, suffering, and the act of murder. How could a loving god allow such a loathsome demon to stalk the world?"
Ifi:
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTO6bBVRIgc
Half Moon
In the end, there is no end.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I nearly laughed at this part.
This is interesting. Upon a reread, I haven't found anything that would directly explain this, but then again I am not a thorough reader. Still. Interesting.
Gargulec
impact!
- Location
- a garden
It's not something I managed to set up very properly in text (the terraces chapter was kind of meant to do that, but I don't think it did the perfect job of it), but this is mostly Ifi's social anxiety spiking. She can handle small-scale professional interactions pretty well, especially if she is in good mood, but having to pretend to be a big shot during a major High City shinding is basically a nightmare scenario for her in ways she wouldn't be even able to properly explain.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Gotta admit I laughed at Ifi's version of fanfic being an actual attempt at the elixir from the book. It's so very her.
Gargulec
impact!
- Location
- a garden
Sudden regret that I have not made Ifi explicitly trans.
View: https://twitter.com/clairequaclaire/status/1474873559113605127
- Pronouns
- She/Her
15. Obligations
Gargulec
impact!
- Location
- a garden
15. Obligations
Afternoon sun caught in the cut glass before sinking into the many-colored perfumes. Shard looked through the old wood cabinets and the carefully arranged bottles displayed inside. In a way, the perfumier's shop was like her alchemist's. But where Ifi left her floor bare, the cold white tiles exposed for ease of cleaning, here Shard's feet sank into thick southern carpet. Cushioned chairs surrounded her, inviting customers to sit down and sample rock candy from large jars. It all made Ifi's shop look sparse in comparison, if not outright poor. For all that ostentatious luxury, however, there was something vulgar about it. It was meant to entice and impress those who still had to look up to see their betters – which, in fairness, now included Shard as well. The High City had no need for such displays. In better times, Shard would have simply sent a maid for such purchases, and then punish them accordingly if they disappointed her with their selection. But Ifi was busy with her work (too busy, in truth), and besides Shard had no doubt that the task of picking perfumes for the masque would overwhelm the alchemist, ending in bitter failure – even though she actually shared the guild with the master of shop, if the heraldry of the Subtle Fellowship of Brewers' above the door was of any indication. And so, Shard had to do it herself – but in all honesty, she didn't mind all that much. However demeaning it was for a Lair-Mother's child to shop around like a common guildsperson, it made for a welcome break from the stifling boredom of Ifi's bedroom.
Being in the world of common guildspeople, however, came with many benefits. The moment she walked into the shop and let the clerk catch a glance of her porcelain shell, the immaculately dressed man called for his boss, before shutting the door so that no ordinary customer would interrupt the visit of what clearly had to be an emissary of the Lair-Mother herself. The master perfumier showed no hint of frustration at being torn away from her work, instead devoting all of her attention and helpful advice to Shard. Of course, she couldn't follow it all immediately, instead having to first make a general fuss, but ultimately the guidance was more than welcome.
"This will have to do, I suppose," she declared, holding a pear-shaped flacon to light and watching the azure inside splash around fancifully. Though the perfumier promised her 'boreal, oceanic notes', for her it was just a refreshing, pleasant smell – easily satisfying enough. She put it down next to the other flask, that one slender and fiery red in its contents. "Have it packed and delivered to master Juno's workshop."
That address raised their eyebrows, the clerk hiding it better than his master. Clearly, though, both would soon add to what had to be a pretty robust body of rumors circulating about Ifi.
"You heard her," the perfumier ordered the clerk after a brief pause, before smiling at Shard. "Please, accept those samples as our heartfelt gift. To serve you was reward enough for us."
Considering how little remained of Ifi's savings, and how much was still left to do ahead of the Feast of Indulgence, Shard could only smile – there really were some benefits to being stuck in the world of common guildspeople.
"Of course," she declared. "I will be sure to remember you fondly."
The smiles with which they walked her out of the shop had to be genuine; they really thought they stood to benefit from Shard's attention. The Lair-Mother's child couldn't deny that it was plainly satisfying – the Middle City respected her, even only because they had no way of knowing who she really was, and how low she had fallen. But maybe, she thought, looking past the cascading terraces and up towards the High City above, maybe this misfortune really was only temporary. With the fragrances of luxury still close to her shell, she had no choice but to think back to her ambitions.
Of course, survival had to come first. She had to meet Villis and convince him to help protect from her own kind. But if that could be accomplished, there would be so much left to recover, such great heights to climb back to. And she would climb them back – the bleakness of the past few days parted, and she could only laugh at how she had almost managed to convince herself that there would be no rising from this rock bottom, that it was ambition that had ultimately brought her so low. Such fanciful notions felt remote now, sickly dreams and little more. There was still a great future ahead of her.
The fear with which she had first left Ifi's workshop to visit the Middle City's bustling shopping lanes was gone now. She no longer kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting to see the likes of Cuts on the hunt for her. If leaving the four walls and suffocating smallness of the alchemist's home was putting her in danger, it was minimal. The Lair-Mother resided far below, days away from the mortal world. It would take her time to send out orders and minions, to declare Shard prey. Until then, she was as safe as she could be, especially as long as she was keeping a mostly low profile. It did her good to go outside. She couldn't let herself live like a trapped animal, peering fearfully out of the window, on the lookout for predators to come to rip her from her den. She was a predator herself, and she should never let herself forget that!
The notion made her hunger stir. Not the physical one – she had dealt with that earlier, with the help of a great, bloody steak. The other kind, the one that was the truth of what she was. She bit down on her tongue, keeping the old instincts from seizing her. Her plan was originally to spend some more time wandering through the streets, maybe finding a few more outfits for herself and Ifi, just so that they could look respectable together. But there was no rush to that, and thinking about the alchemist also whetted Shard's appetite, in fresh ways she had not yet grown fully familiar with. The day was drawing to a close anyway; soon the susurrus of terraces would fill the emptying streets. There was hope that Ifi would be done with her work by now, and available for other use.
Shard had to keep reminding herself that the arrangement she had with that girl was only a substitute for true sustenance. It was an ersatz she was forced to rely on until she could return to her proper place and once more hold the lives of others without any worry or concern for them. Yes, she missed that. But until then, there was no denying that feeding on Ifi, however complicated and tiresome it could get, had its own unexpected charms. Maybe she was even going to miss them, some day? Maybe after her return to power, she would hold onto the alchemist, as a different kind of a servant than the ones she used to employ? Such notions were still too far beyond the immediate need to properly consider, but they could be entertained.
One of the little things that Shard had discovered in her visits to the more representative parts of the Middle City was just how off the beaten path Ifi's workshop was – almost an hour of a brisk march from the brightly-lit terraces of the Goldsmiths' Alley, even farther away from the circling storefronts of the Brewers' Plaza. In a way, it was fitting – though Shard had managed to see enough of the alchemist's practice to wonder why she didn't move higher in the hierarchy of her guild. Though Ifi clearly wanted for many things, talent and dedication were not on the list.
Unfortunately, those very same qualities were not always to the alchemist's benefit. When Shard returned, Ifi was nowhere to be found either in the shopfront, or in the bedroom upstairs. This could really only mean one thing; the Lair-Mother's child checked the kitchen without much hope, and then descended into the warm, suffocating depth of the workshop.
"Do you realize it's already dark outside?" she asked, coming inside.
If Ifi heard her, she made no indication of it. She sat at her workbench – or, to be precise, hung above it, back bent and black-ringed eyes set on a large beaker of mily green liquid. She was chewing on her lips; a fresh reddish mark on her cheek anointed with a dash of stinky poultice explained the burnt smell hanging above the laboratory. A half-emptied flask of liquid wakefulness lay next to her, the sparkle of the blue potion indicating it had been brewed to double strength. Shard felt her claws extend unbidden, scraping against the surface of her wrists; it occurred to her that she was going to go to sleep with her hunger unsated tonight.
"This bloody thing," Ifi blurted out with a furious note to her tired voice, not moving her eyes away from the dish, "is refusing to crystallize."
That told Shard absolutely nothing; it was just one of those things she would sometimes hear from the girl when she found her in the workshop in the middle of night. The Lair-Mother's child hissed out in annoyance, then dropped onto a stool next to the alchemist. Ifi smelled of sweat, frustration, and scorched hair; worse feelings were painted across her face.
"I asked you to take care of yourself," she kept up with the hiss. "Look at you. You look like a cadaver."
And there is so much alchemy in your blood right now that if I tried to do something with you, you would probably just faint and feel nothing, she thought, but kept that to herself.
"The masque is in four days," she continued, the alchemist seemingly barely paying attention. "You need to be presentable."
Finally, Ifi looked away from the beaker, giving Shard a blink.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm trying to focus. This is for a really important order."
In that moment, Shard wished for nothing more than to be allowed to grab Ifi by the throat and tell her to obey next time. But the alchemist knew fully well that the Lair-Mother's child was not going to harm her, that she needed her, that there were limits to what Shard could demand of her. The brief elation of being recognized as important and powerful melted down into idle frustration. And besides, it was an ugly feeling, looking at Ifi like that – Shard hated seeing her run herself ragged at all; she would much prefer her hale, and happy. As consistently perplexing as the alchemist was, she was also a constant spring of experiences that Shard found novel and refreshing, and she would loathe to have that well dry up.
"Actually," Ifi perked up abruptly, throwing Shard off that particular trail of introspection. "Give me your claw."
Shard froze, too surprised to protest when the alchemist grabbed her by her wrist.
"What?" she got out.
"Extend your claw," Ifi demanded, a forceful note in her tired voice.
With mounting curiosity, Shard allowed one of her claws into full length, the edge of it catching the dim lights of the laboratory. Ifi did not pause to admire the sight; she guided Shard's hand by the wrist into the beaker, the claw piercing the surface of the mixture.
"Just hold it there."
For a fleeting moment, Shard was expecting to feel something eat into the surface of her body – but the liquid just lapped at the edges of the claw, quickly coming to rest. Ifi's eyes drilled into it, as if the act of watching alone could stir a reaction into happening. And then, without a warning, it did just that. Shard looked fascinated as the mixture settled into a lattice of pale white flakes, extending from her finger like roots, like rhizomes.
"Steady," Ifi whispered, her grip tightening on Shard's wrist. "There we go. Perfect."
Her voice was laden with satisfaction, with the kind of relief that only comes at the end of a long struggle. Shard looked away from the alchemy and at the alchemist, and saw tension drain from her. She exhaled from the bottom of her lungs and leaned back from the bench.
"What are you even made of…" she mumbled, so very tired. Her hand slipped from Shard's; the Lair-Mother's child carefully withdrew the claw from the beaker. "I'll think on that later. What was that about the ball? Is something wrong?"
The mixture clung to the surface of the claw, drawing a red sheen out of it. Shard looked around, searching for something to wipe it clean, finally settling on a piece of a rag. All she could do at Ifi's question was to click her tongue. At least the burst of frustration she felt for the girl muted her hunger somewhat.
"You need to rest before the masque," she repeated.
"Right," Ifi shrugged. Jerkily, she drew herself up from the workbench, and grabbed one of the large, glass plates from the rack behind her. She slipped it under the beaker, and with a touch set to a gentle heat. "But it's still a few days away, isn't it? I am really behind with work lately. I'll catch some sleep."
She turned around on her soles, hand aiming for what remained of the liquid wakefulness. Hands closing into fists, Shard stepped in her path, straightened to her full height.
"You need to be presentable," she bared her teeth. "You need to be in a good condition. Not a wrung-out dish rag," she threw the cloth from her claw, and onto the bench.
"I'm just going as an ornament," Ifi muttered, frowning at the cloth. "How much do you expect of me?"
The frustration bloomed into a well-developed anger. Had the alchemist not listened to her at all?
"That you will visit a beautician," Shard snarled putting a hand on Ifi's shoulder, tips of her claws squeezing through the alchemist's work clothes. "That you will put in effort to look excellent, to be clean and bright and a pleasure to show around. That you will represent me well!"
The words rang off the thick laboratory walls. Ifi's head slumped; she breathed out a wave of that thick and rotten fear Shard had the displeasure of sampling a few days earlier.
"I thought…" she said, staring at the wall. "I must have misunderstood something."
Of course she had. Shard had to restrain herself from driving her claws into Ifi's shoulder here and there – not that it would help any with the problem they apparently were having. A problem that Shard realized she should have seen coming.
"Can you explain?" she asked, trying to keep her bile from tinting her voice too much. All she wanted was to feed.
Soon, they were sitting in Ifi's tiny kitchen, the alchemist digging in a bowl of a thick stew that had been thickening over the past few days. Shard watched her eat, her fingers drumming an impatient tune on the oil-stained table. The wait did little to cool down her frustration – only let her remember her hunger better. But – and that was a bitter notion to concede – such unpleasantries were the price she had to pay not just for Ifi's continued participation in her plans, but also for the chance to continue feeding off her. In a way, this framing made the situation marginally more bearable.
When Ifi finally spoke – and it took her a good while to get there – she didn't look directly at Shard at all. Her voice was meek and apologetic, eyes pinned to the pattern of bricks on the kitchen wall.
"I thought that what you proposed would be easier than playing your handler," she said.
Shard's finger froze mid-motion. Her mind spun up for a moment, trying to figure out what the alchemist tried to mean by that. The answer, as it turned out, wasn't that difficult to imagine.
"So you just assumed," she stated cooly, "that I would just take you before the High Families like one would a pet? That you wouldn't have to do anything?"
Ifi said nothing to that. She hunched over the table, a pained expression on her exhausted face. But Shard didn't need her speech to know she was right – the potent, sharp hit of shame she got was enough of a response. She sucked it in, her mouth watering; it wasn't the meal she had intended, but it wasn't entirely unwelcome either.
"Even pets need to take care of themselves," she hissed. "Let alone mortal ones. I am not taking you to the masque to amuse your fantasies…"
Shard paused, surprised at a strange thought circling somewhere in her head. Ifi looked small, as if about to break.
"I am not taking you to the masque only to amuse your fantasies," Shard repeated. "I also need you to make me look good. That's the use of an ornament. That's its function. And you will try to fill it well."
The command came out of her mouth like a snap of a whip; it hit Ifi straight on the face. Shard tasted the shame intensifying, turning sweet and burning hot. Whatever it was that she was saying consisted of the right words.
"Do you understand?" she asked in a tone that brooked no denial.
"Yes," Ifi mewled out, weak and needy.
"You will rest," Shard commanded, standing up to tower above the alchemist. "You will take a break from your work. You will not trouble your pretty little head with anything ahead of the masque, but for how to best make yourself into the ornament I need. And then, you will hang from my hand, a mute, beautiful thing that I will show to others with pride. Again," she threw the question at her once more, "tell me: do you understand?"
"Yes," Ifi hid her head in her arms. "But…"
"So what is the issue?" Shard pressed. "Don't you want it? Are you having second thoughts?"
Words died in Ifi's throat.
"Spit out!" Shard demanded, but to no avail.
Ifi couldn't speak; her hurt seized up inside of her, like some kind of a barb grown into the flesh. It was hurting her in ways that even Shard could never enjoy. Silence swelled between them, bubbling up with the same nauseating fear that had risen up from shwere deep within the alchemist. Shard watched her, first with impatience, then with anger, but then with concern. Ifi lay mute, entirely drained and Shard was responsible; was responsible for her.
"I don't understand you," she whispered, but her words made no sound: they were not true at all. She only had to think.
There was this perplexing mortal who lived on the fringes of her own world, forever hungry. Who could never speak of her own desires without choking with shame, and enjoying that too. Who dreamed about being seen as much as it made her tremble with fear. Who loved being called a thing, and slept easily when held in Shard's monstrous embrace. Who was fragile not because she was only a mortal, soft flesh and brittle bones, but because of how much it took from her to keep herself together, every day and every night. How much she wanted someone to lessen that burden.
Weakness lay ahead of Shard, weakness in quavering flesh and broken spirit. Weakness she had been taught to disdain. Awful memories rose up from the bottom of Shard's memory, buzzing up locust-like. She couldn't face them, so she had to run away from them.
She reached out for the girl again, but this time not to hold her in place, but rather to hold her close. Ifi went slack in her embrace, a rag doll finally free of the pressure of having to pretend to be a real woman.
"Don't worry," Shard whispered, as truthfully as she could manage, before herself and Ifi alike, "I will keep you close. I will keep you safe."
Afternoon sun caught in the cut glass before sinking into the many-colored perfumes. Shard looked through the old wood cabinets and the carefully arranged bottles displayed inside. In a way, the perfumier's shop was like her alchemist's. But where Ifi left her floor bare, the cold white tiles exposed for ease of cleaning, here Shard's feet sank into thick southern carpet. Cushioned chairs surrounded her, inviting customers to sit down and sample rock candy from large jars. It all made Ifi's shop look sparse in comparison, if not outright poor. For all that ostentatious luxury, however, there was something vulgar about it. It was meant to entice and impress those who still had to look up to see their betters – which, in fairness, now included Shard as well. The High City had no need for such displays. In better times, Shard would have simply sent a maid for such purchases, and then punish them accordingly if they disappointed her with their selection. But Ifi was busy with her work (too busy, in truth), and besides Shard had no doubt that the task of picking perfumes for the masque would overwhelm the alchemist, ending in bitter failure – even though she actually shared the guild with the master of shop, if the heraldry of the Subtle Fellowship of Brewers' above the door was of any indication. And so, Shard had to do it herself – but in all honesty, she didn't mind all that much. However demeaning it was for a Lair-Mother's child to shop around like a common guildsperson, it made for a welcome break from the stifling boredom of Ifi's bedroom.
Being in the world of common guildspeople, however, came with many benefits. The moment she walked into the shop and let the clerk catch a glance of her porcelain shell, the immaculately dressed man called for his boss, before shutting the door so that no ordinary customer would interrupt the visit of what clearly had to be an emissary of the Lair-Mother herself. The master perfumier showed no hint of frustration at being torn away from her work, instead devoting all of her attention and helpful advice to Shard. Of course, she couldn't follow it all immediately, instead having to first make a general fuss, but ultimately the guidance was more than welcome.
"This will have to do, I suppose," she declared, holding a pear-shaped flacon to light and watching the azure inside splash around fancifully. Though the perfumier promised her 'boreal, oceanic notes', for her it was just a refreshing, pleasant smell – easily satisfying enough. She put it down next to the other flask, that one slender and fiery red in its contents. "Have it packed and delivered to master Juno's workshop."
That address raised their eyebrows, the clerk hiding it better than his master. Clearly, though, both would soon add to what had to be a pretty robust body of rumors circulating about Ifi.
"You heard her," the perfumier ordered the clerk after a brief pause, before smiling at Shard. "Please, accept those samples as our heartfelt gift. To serve you was reward enough for us."
Considering how little remained of Ifi's savings, and how much was still left to do ahead of the Feast of Indulgence, Shard could only smile – there really were some benefits to being stuck in the world of common guildspeople.
"Of course," she declared. "I will be sure to remember you fondly."
The smiles with which they walked her out of the shop had to be genuine; they really thought they stood to benefit from Shard's attention. The Lair-Mother's child couldn't deny that it was plainly satisfying – the Middle City respected her, even only because they had no way of knowing who she really was, and how low she had fallen. But maybe, she thought, looking past the cascading terraces and up towards the High City above, maybe this misfortune really was only temporary. With the fragrances of luxury still close to her shell, she had no choice but to think back to her ambitions.
Of course, survival had to come first. She had to meet Villis and convince him to help protect from her own kind. But if that could be accomplished, there would be so much left to recover, such great heights to climb back to. And she would climb them back – the bleakness of the past few days parted, and she could only laugh at how she had almost managed to convince herself that there would be no rising from this rock bottom, that it was ambition that had ultimately brought her so low. Such fanciful notions felt remote now, sickly dreams and little more. There was still a great future ahead of her.
The fear with which she had first left Ifi's workshop to visit the Middle City's bustling shopping lanes was gone now. She no longer kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting to see the likes of Cuts on the hunt for her. If leaving the four walls and suffocating smallness of the alchemist's home was putting her in danger, it was minimal. The Lair-Mother resided far below, days away from the mortal world. It would take her time to send out orders and minions, to declare Shard prey. Until then, she was as safe as she could be, especially as long as she was keeping a mostly low profile. It did her good to go outside. She couldn't let herself live like a trapped animal, peering fearfully out of the window, on the lookout for predators to come to rip her from her den. She was a predator herself, and she should never let herself forget that!
The notion made her hunger stir. Not the physical one – she had dealt with that earlier, with the help of a great, bloody steak. The other kind, the one that was the truth of what she was. She bit down on her tongue, keeping the old instincts from seizing her. Her plan was originally to spend some more time wandering through the streets, maybe finding a few more outfits for herself and Ifi, just so that they could look respectable together. But there was no rush to that, and thinking about the alchemist also whetted Shard's appetite, in fresh ways she had not yet grown fully familiar with. The day was drawing to a close anyway; soon the susurrus of terraces would fill the emptying streets. There was hope that Ifi would be done with her work by now, and available for other use.
Shard had to keep reminding herself that the arrangement she had with that girl was only a substitute for true sustenance. It was an ersatz she was forced to rely on until she could return to her proper place and once more hold the lives of others without any worry or concern for them. Yes, she missed that. But until then, there was no denying that feeding on Ifi, however complicated and tiresome it could get, had its own unexpected charms. Maybe she was even going to miss them, some day? Maybe after her return to power, she would hold onto the alchemist, as a different kind of a servant than the ones she used to employ? Such notions were still too far beyond the immediate need to properly consider, but they could be entertained.
One of the little things that Shard had discovered in her visits to the more representative parts of the Middle City was just how off the beaten path Ifi's workshop was – almost an hour of a brisk march from the brightly-lit terraces of the Goldsmiths' Alley, even farther away from the circling storefronts of the Brewers' Plaza. In a way, it was fitting – though Shard had managed to see enough of the alchemist's practice to wonder why she didn't move higher in the hierarchy of her guild. Though Ifi clearly wanted for many things, talent and dedication were not on the list.
Unfortunately, those very same qualities were not always to the alchemist's benefit. When Shard returned, Ifi was nowhere to be found either in the shopfront, or in the bedroom upstairs. This could really only mean one thing; the Lair-Mother's child checked the kitchen without much hope, and then descended into the warm, suffocating depth of the workshop.
"Do you realize it's already dark outside?" she asked, coming inside.
If Ifi heard her, she made no indication of it. She sat at her workbench – or, to be precise, hung above it, back bent and black-ringed eyes set on a large beaker of mily green liquid. She was chewing on her lips; a fresh reddish mark on her cheek anointed with a dash of stinky poultice explained the burnt smell hanging above the laboratory. A half-emptied flask of liquid wakefulness lay next to her, the sparkle of the blue potion indicating it had been brewed to double strength. Shard felt her claws extend unbidden, scraping against the surface of her wrists; it occurred to her that she was going to go to sleep with her hunger unsated tonight.
"This bloody thing," Ifi blurted out with a furious note to her tired voice, not moving her eyes away from the dish, "is refusing to crystallize."
That told Shard absolutely nothing; it was just one of those things she would sometimes hear from the girl when she found her in the workshop in the middle of night. The Lair-Mother's child hissed out in annoyance, then dropped onto a stool next to the alchemist. Ifi smelled of sweat, frustration, and scorched hair; worse feelings were painted across her face.
"I asked you to take care of yourself," she kept up with the hiss. "Look at you. You look like a cadaver."
And there is so much alchemy in your blood right now that if I tried to do something with you, you would probably just faint and feel nothing, she thought, but kept that to herself.
"The masque is in four days," she continued, the alchemist seemingly barely paying attention. "You need to be presentable."
Finally, Ifi looked away from the beaker, giving Shard a blink.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm trying to focus. This is for a really important order."
In that moment, Shard wished for nothing more than to be allowed to grab Ifi by the throat and tell her to obey next time. But the alchemist knew fully well that the Lair-Mother's child was not going to harm her, that she needed her, that there were limits to what Shard could demand of her. The brief elation of being recognized as important and powerful melted down into idle frustration. And besides, it was an ugly feeling, looking at Ifi like that – Shard hated seeing her run herself ragged at all; she would much prefer her hale, and happy. As consistently perplexing as the alchemist was, she was also a constant spring of experiences that Shard found novel and refreshing, and she would loathe to have that well dry up.
"Actually," Ifi perked up abruptly, throwing Shard off that particular trail of introspection. "Give me your claw."
Shard froze, too surprised to protest when the alchemist grabbed her by her wrist.
"What?" she got out.
"Extend your claw," Ifi demanded, a forceful note in her tired voice.
With mounting curiosity, Shard allowed one of her claws into full length, the edge of it catching the dim lights of the laboratory. Ifi did not pause to admire the sight; she guided Shard's hand by the wrist into the beaker, the claw piercing the surface of the mixture.
"Just hold it there."
For a fleeting moment, Shard was expecting to feel something eat into the surface of her body – but the liquid just lapped at the edges of the claw, quickly coming to rest. Ifi's eyes drilled into it, as if the act of watching alone could stir a reaction into happening. And then, without a warning, it did just that. Shard looked fascinated as the mixture settled into a lattice of pale white flakes, extending from her finger like roots, like rhizomes.
"Steady," Ifi whispered, her grip tightening on Shard's wrist. "There we go. Perfect."
Her voice was laden with satisfaction, with the kind of relief that only comes at the end of a long struggle. Shard looked away from the alchemy and at the alchemist, and saw tension drain from her. She exhaled from the bottom of her lungs and leaned back from the bench.
"What are you even made of…" she mumbled, so very tired. Her hand slipped from Shard's; the Lair-Mother's child carefully withdrew the claw from the beaker. "I'll think on that later. What was that about the ball? Is something wrong?"
The mixture clung to the surface of the claw, drawing a red sheen out of it. Shard looked around, searching for something to wipe it clean, finally settling on a piece of a rag. All she could do at Ifi's question was to click her tongue. At least the burst of frustration she felt for the girl muted her hunger somewhat.
"You need to rest before the masque," she repeated.
"Right," Ifi shrugged. Jerkily, she drew herself up from the workbench, and grabbed one of the large, glass plates from the rack behind her. She slipped it under the beaker, and with a touch set to a gentle heat. "But it's still a few days away, isn't it? I am really behind with work lately. I'll catch some sleep."
She turned around on her soles, hand aiming for what remained of the liquid wakefulness. Hands closing into fists, Shard stepped in her path, straightened to her full height.
"You need to be presentable," she bared her teeth. "You need to be in a good condition. Not a wrung-out dish rag," she threw the cloth from her claw, and onto the bench.
"I'm just going as an ornament," Ifi muttered, frowning at the cloth. "How much do you expect of me?"
The frustration bloomed into a well-developed anger. Had the alchemist not listened to her at all?
"That you will visit a beautician," Shard snarled putting a hand on Ifi's shoulder, tips of her claws squeezing through the alchemist's work clothes. "That you will put in effort to look excellent, to be clean and bright and a pleasure to show around. That you will represent me well!"
The words rang off the thick laboratory walls. Ifi's head slumped; she breathed out a wave of that thick and rotten fear Shard had the displeasure of sampling a few days earlier.
"I thought…" she said, staring at the wall. "I must have misunderstood something."
Of course she had. Shard had to restrain herself from driving her claws into Ifi's shoulder here and there – not that it would help any with the problem they apparently were having. A problem that Shard realized she should have seen coming.
"Can you explain?" she asked, trying to keep her bile from tinting her voice too much. All she wanted was to feed.
Soon, they were sitting in Ifi's tiny kitchen, the alchemist digging in a bowl of a thick stew that had been thickening over the past few days. Shard watched her eat, her fingers drumming an impatient tune on the oil-stained table. The wait did little to cool down her frustration – only let her remember her hunger better. But – and that was a bitter notion to concede – such unpleasantries were the price she had to pay not just for Ifi's continued participation in her plans, but also for the chance to continue feeding off her. In a way, this framing made the situation marginally more bearable.
When Ifi finally spoke – and it took her a good while to get there – she didn't look directly at Shard at all. Her voice was meek and apologetic, eyes pinned to the pattern of bricks on the kitchen wall.
"I thought that what you proposed would be easier than playing your handler," she said.
Shard's finger froze mid-motion. Her mind spun up for a moment, trying to figure out what the alchemist tried to mean by that. The answer, as it turned out, wasn't that difficult to imagine.
"So you just assumed," she stated cooly, "that I would just take you before the High Families like one would a pet? That you wouldn't have to do anything?"
Ifi said nothing to that. She hunched over the table, a pained expression on her exhausted face. But Shard didn't need her speech to know she was right – the potent, sharp hit of shame she got was enough of a response. She sucked it in, her mouth watering; it wasn't the meal she had intended, but it wasn't entirely unwelcome either.
"Even pets need to take care of themselves," she hissed. "Let alone mortal ones. I am not taking you to the masque to amuse your fantasies…"
Shard paused, surprised at a strange thought circling somewhere in her head. Ifi looked small, as if about to break.
"I am not taking you to the masque only to amuse your fantasies," Shard repeated. "I also need you to make me look good. That's the use of an ornament. That's its function. And you will try to fill it well."
The command came out of her mouth like a snap of a whip; it hit Ifi straight on the face. Shard tasted the shame intensifying, turning sweet and burning hot. Whatever it was that she was saying consisted of the right words.
"Do you understand?" she asked in a tone that brooked no denial.
"Yes," Ifi mewled out, weak and needy.
"You will rest," Shard commanded, standing up to tower above the alchemist. "You will take a break from your work. You will not trouble your pretty little head with anything ahead of the masque, but for how to best make yourself into the ornament I need. And then, you will hang from my hand, a mute, beautiful thing that I will show to others with pride. Again," she threw the question at her once more, "tell me: do you understand?"
"Yes," Ifi hid her head in her arms. "But…"
"So what is the issue?" Shard pressed. "Don't you want it? Are you having second thoughts?"
Words died in Ifi's throat.
"Spit out!" Shard demanded, but to no avail.
Ifi couldn't speak; her hurt seized up inside of her, like some kind of a barb grown into the flesh. It was hurting her in ways that even Shard could never enjoy. Silence swelled between them, bubbling up with the same nauseating fear that had risen up from shwere deep within the alchemist. Shard watched her, first with impatience, then with anger, but then with concern. Ifi lay mute, entirely drained and Shard was responsible; was responsible for her.
"I don't understand you," she whispered, but her words made no sound: they were not true at all. She only had to think.
There was this perplexing mortal who lived on the fringes of her own world, forever hungry. Who could never speak of her own desires without choking with shame, and enjoying that too. Who dreamed about being seen as much as it made her tremble with fear. Who loved being called a thing, and slept easily when held in Shard's monstrous embrace. Who was fragile not because she was only a mortal, soft flesh and brittle bones, but because of how much it took from her to keep herself together, every day and every night. How much she wanted someone to lessen that burden.
Weakness lay ahead of Shard, weakness in quavering flesh and broken spirit. Weakness she had been taught to disdain. Awful memories rose up from the bottom of Shard's memory, buzzing up locust-like. She couldn't face them, so she had to run away from them.
She reached out for the girl again, but this time not to hold her in place, but rather to hold her close. Ifi went slack in her embrace, a rag doll finally free of the pressure of having to pretend to be a real woman.
"Don't worry," Shard whispered, as truthfully as she could manage, before herself and Ifi alike, "I will keep you close. I will keep you safe."
Half Moon
In the end, there is no end.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I was thinking of something witty, but
just hit me. Something I've been thinking about. Consensual vs. non-consensual violence and pain. And how consent is manufactured. Shard has never bothered with consent, if she understands it at all; her mindset is purely tactical. Ifi, on the other hand, is nominally capable of consent, but in actuality seems to live under a societally manufactured non-consent.
just hit me. Something I've been thinking about. Consensual vs. non-consensual violence and pain. And how consent is manufactured. Shard has never bothered with consent, if she understands it at all; her mindset is purely tactical. Ifi, on the other hand, is nominally capable of consent, but in actuality seems to live under a societally manufactured non-consent.
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16. Midnight Blue
Gargulec
impact!
- Location
- a garden
16. Midnight Blue
The kind of excitement that was building up in Ifi was indistinguishable from anxiety. There was a gentle pressure settling onto her from all sides, at once warm and reassuring, but also thick with only barely contained worry. Empty-headedly, she flipped the page of the book on the pillow before her, trying in vain to focus on the ornate poetry encoding the processes by which beauty and strength could be drawn from dust and sand. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
She ran her fingers across her scalp again, feeling the silken smoothness of the damp skin. Shard ate well during the beautifician's visit, but there was no way Ifi could argue with the results of his wax and pincets. She sniffed, trying to catch the scent of the aloe balm, but it had been washed thoroughly away. For the first time in months, she could not smell alchemy on herself. That, too, was as novel as it was disquieting. She brought her hand up, letting herself admire her lacquered nails. With a file in hand and a battery of varnishes arrayed around him, the beautician complained about how little he had to work with, to which Ifi could only smile apologetically and shrug inside; her hands were her tools, not an object of beauty. And yet! Shades of blue swirled on the tips of her fingers, tiny vortices of a cold sea, warmed by the specks of gold dust scattered across their surface. After the masque, she would have to strip all of this before returning to her laboratory, and her heart already bled at the notion.
But that was not really what set her heart aflutter. She gave up on the book and turned around, eyes sweeping her bedroom. For a moment, they lingered on the desk, where, spread across clean cloth, some of the more terrifying and exciting parts of her outfit waited. If she only could, she would skip towards them to get a better view, but Shard had categorically forbidden her from leaving the bed – on the pain of having to go through the entire toilette again. She couldn't even hope to sneak by the below-spawn attention; Shard was just nearby, perched in front of the dressing table again, a brush in hand. Ifi propped her head up on the pillow, and watched.
Surrounded by a bright glow of stacked lighting charms, the below-spawn worked in what Ifi imagined a trance to look like. She hadn't turned her head away from the mirror in over an hour, her whole body statue-still apart from the precise motion of hand on porcelain. The brush left behind cinnabar-red lines, climbing from the tips of Shard's fingers up her shoulders, to spread out across the flat of her chest into a spiderweb pattern. Each stroke came down with fast and with confidence, with Shard only rarely having to reach for a sponge to erase a stray line. Though her back was turned to Ifi, the alchemist could see the below-spawn's smile reflected in the mirror.
"So what does all of this mean?" she asked, straining to make out shapes from the red bramble.
The brush froze in Shard's hand; for a moment, the alchemist felt guilty for distracting her, but the below-spawn quickly dispelled her worries. She raised a hand up, the flat of it turned towards Ifi, letting her see clearly the segmented coils of a centipede wound around the fingers.
"Vermin of the soil," she explained. "Spawn from dirt. Spiders and scorpions. All that dwells in the dark."
Guided by her voice, Ifi slowly resolved the chaotic sprawl into images, abstract and spread out across the body, as if a map of constellations, stars aligned into patterns only after you learn to see them. So there it was, a swarm of insects, their pincers, claws, and jaws interlocked in a chain across all of Shard. They were spread across a web, and a web themselves, a great skittering horde crawling up towards Shard's neck. But none reached there – as they came close, they became fluid lines again, only to be rewoven above.
"And above it all," the below-spawn continued, the brush dancing in her fingers, "prowls that which is like them, and yet nothing like them."
The filament wing wound across the side of Shard's cheek; the shape of the thorax and of the stinger following suit. Ifi had seen this pattern once before, rendered in black pencil. Now, the lines were finer, the strokes bolder, the wasp almost regal.
"The spiderhawk," Shard whispered, dipping the brush in paint, "which hunts its own kind, but flies free of its filth."
This time, the shape did not encompass the whole of the below-spawn's blank face; Shard drew only a half of it, bisected through the middle of her face, leaving the other half empty. Ifi watched her hesitate for a moment, the tip of the brush swaying an inch from the porcelain surface. When she touched it again, she drew out a different pattern, sparks and flames shooting to the side, a conflagration to stand for the tarantula hawk's other wing. She gave herself a long look in the mirror, nodded to it slightly, and turned around.
"It's almost time," she declared, her voice carrying a vibrant note stronger than anything Ifi had remembered. "Time to get dressed."
The alchemist exhaled, glancing at the dresses that had been waiting patiently since yesterday. There was a sucking feeling in the pit of her stomach, and strange warmth around. With a clenched throat, she slid to the edge of the bed, bare feet touching the cold, stone floor.
"Come," Shard beckoned with a tip of her hand. "You will need to help me."
The alchemist stepped lightly, fighting the urge to kneel before Shard; they would have time for games soon enough. With the predatory confidence already emanating from her, it was difficult to keep such images away from her mind's eye. Anxiety and excitement stoked each other into a high, hot flame. At first, she wasn't sure what assistance Shard was going to need exactly. In fact, the below-spawn needed no help at all with the burgundy petticoat, and Ifi's hands shook so much when she was trying to tie the back of the tight bodice that Shard had to take the laces in her own hands, the flexibility of her porcelain limbs never ceasing to surprise.
But that was the dress, but just the base. Ifi berated herself quietly for not realizing that sooner. Mostly without losing her patience, Shard guided Ifi in what to do next and how to help her drape herself in an impossibly long roll of embroidered silk. The alchemist didn't initially understand how the below-spawn would even carry such length, but then it folded so smoothly and easily around the whole of her body, head, shoulders, and legs, that by the time she wrapped the last of it around her waist, it was only a perfect, if loose, fit. Ifi took a step back, and took the sight in.
Shard shone red and gold, the cloth dazzling across her form like a smoldering flame. Golden threads ran the edge of the drape, folding one onto another into a cascading network of broken patterns. In a way, there was little in the way of extravagance to this – merely fine silk, careful embroidery, and the way it all suited Shard's imposing stature. And yet, it was more than enough; the below-spawn appeared to Ifi as if a priestess of some ancient cult, shrouded in fire, ready to command the faithful.
Shard moved her arm around, the half-spiderhawk of her face following the play of light in the folds of silk. The smile on her face was proud and full of sharp teeth.
"Good enough," she said, turning back to Ifi. "And now, the jewelry. Get ready."
The voice grabbed her by the throat; she looked once more at the table and what waited for her there. There was a part of her that erupted in terror that what was happening was real; but the rest of her was too hungry to mind. She swallowed loudly and pulled down the shift she had been wearing. There were a few things that had to be done first before she could get dressed.
Shard didn't really have to command her; she had been fantasizing about this moment ever since the below-spawn proposed to take her to the masque as an ornament. Before the crushing reality of the fact that it was really happening could drive a wedge between her hunger and her hope, she hurried over to the table, right in time to see Shard take into her hands a pair of leather straps, linked by a small, steel ring. They slipped above Ifi's knees, cinched tight, forcing her legs together.
She gave them a try, felt leather and metal hold easily against her efforts. She breathed deeply to calm herself, but her thoughts were rapidly becoming a mess, fracturing along the lines of dreams she had never hoped to live to see. Shard's hand was on her thighs, cold – but its touch burned. Then, it went slowly up, sliding gently across the smooth clean skin; the alchemist squeezed her mouth shut not to beg for something that was not yet due. She managed a low, modulated moan.
"Already?" Shard whispered, the words finding its way under Ifi's skin and reeling her towards the light.
Then, the porcelain fingers went further up; Ifi felt the tips press into her small buttocks, squeezing them apart. A few drips of a thick, viscous liquid dripped between them; Shard reached for the other implement. Ifi tried to relax, as she had been told she was supposed to. It didn't, exactly, work. Shard's push was gentle and firm, but mostly firm.
It hurt when the slick, blunt tip of the hook went inside her; she shuddered and cried out as it lodged in place. Her legs buckled slightly, the body trying to make sense of the metal now impaling it. For a moment, she didn't move, focused entirely on the cold metal pressed against the small of her back, and the scarlett shame on her cheeks. Shard attached the other piece, a long rigid rod reaching all the way to the base of Ifi's neck.
"You will hold your posture for me," she promised possessively into Ifi's ear. "Let's get you dressed."
Years ago, Ifi's father ordered a dress for her, one that would suit the needs of a woman taking the Challenge. She never did, and fashion had moved on since then, leaving the vestment little more than a reminder of a bitter past, locked in the back of a wardrobe in the Lower Heights. A waste. For all the bitter memories seemingly woven into its very fabric, Ifi relished the chance to finally put it on. It had always been a good dress: midnight velvet lightly brocaded with gold that was woven thicker and thicker towards the sunburst pattern stretched across the shoulder. All as the motto of the guild said: with the dawning of the Art, broken is the night of ignorance. Shard helped her slip into it; just as she remembered, it ran from the top of her throat all the way to her ankles with all the modesty expected of an aspiring guildswoman. Well – it used to be modest, once. After the adjustments, no one would describe it as such. Not that it bared skin, or clung improperly to the frame.
"Sleeve up," Shard commanded, starting to lace the dress on Ifi's back, and pressing the metal rod closet between her shoulders. The girl nodded, her arms already in the long sleeves. Once, they used to terminate in delicately ornamental cuffs, to match with the perfect pair of gloves. Now, they extended longer than Ifi could even reach, her hands disappearing in them. Not that they could emerge, anyway – the ends of the elongated sleeves had been sewn closed, and outfitted with straps and buckles. Ifi didn't stop smiling as Shard had her fold her arms on her chest, and then locked them in place, pressed tightly together just below her breasts. Once again, she strained the fabric; once again, it turned out pleasantly stronger than she was. A few more ingenious hidden straps secured everything firmly in place.
"Wonderful," Shard said, reaching for what became of the dress' collar.
Ifi made herself moan again as she felt the fingers on her neck; it was fun to make this noise, and then to feel the porcelain close around the steel band that clasped around her neck. With a half-extended claw, Shard turned the screw holding the collar together, until it closed snugly around Ifi's neck. The steel had been blued blacked, letting the inlaid golden pattern shimmer in turn to the brocade across the rest of the dress. The next moan was unforced – it came as Shard pulled on the hook and linked the end of the rod with the back of the collar. Whatever fears floated across Ifi's thoughts subsided, because her thoughts mostly did. She looked into a mirror and saw herself as sapphire cameo about to be set against red silk.
"You will fit me well," Shard's promise was sweet and genuine.
Ifi opened her mouth to match her, but what words did she have? Her reflection stared back at her, light-eyed.
"Are you ready?" the below-spawn asked. "The golems are waiting."
The alchemist's yes was more of an eager nod rather than a word; her throat was clenched, and not just by steel.
"Then let us put our masks on."
The halved spiderhawk vanished under a smooth bronze plate, the full half of Shard's face obscured by its polished surface. It was no less featureless than the porcelain below, but for the cabochon ruby set into it in the manner of an eye. Even now, even with everything else on her head, the sheer extravagance of this gemstone struck Ifi – but she didn't have much time to consider that. Her own mask waited, no less impressive, and far more involved.
"Anything you want to say?" Shard asked, taking the final accessor into her hands. "While you still can?"
Ifi shook her head. Her mind was a cacophony of breaking, hissing machinery; that music of a laboratory full of work. The noise soothed all that lurked beneath, setting a veil between the alchemist, and all the rest of her self. Shard grabbed her by her chin, and forced her mouth open.
The muzzle fit across her jaw, pressing a soft ball between her teeth, large enough to fill the mouth. Shard pushed it deep, pulling the network of braided steel cables that supported it taut around Ifi's head. The metal bit into flesh, but not too deep – just enough to be keenly felt. In the mirror, Ifi saw a deformed face, the mouth covered by a plate adorned with more of the same golden scrollwork as her collar, the entire contraption held together by a metal webbing enclosing her like a net, like a cage. With the clean-shaven head, she could almost imagine herself as some kind of a monster that needed to be restrained, some alien creature belonging to a world of slavering cruelty. Sapphires woven into the steel braids blinked back at her, a testament to her value.
A braided cord clipped to the front of her collar. Ifi looked down and followed the lead all the way to Shard's hand.
"Now let all the High City gawk in envy."
Very little remained of Ifi as she walked carefully downstairs, her heels clicking quietly across the floor of her shop. A luxury carriage, drawn by slender marble golems waited outside, the valet bowed down as he held the door open to them. She had to stop at the step; it was too tall for her to make it. Face burning, she turned to Shard, who hoisted her into the plush cabin up as if she weighed nothing.
The coachman whistled a command; the golems stirred, and started to pull. Through the darkened windows, Ifi watched the Middle City roll by, conscious less of the white winding streets, and more of the hook, the gag, her bound arms and legs, her collared neck. Her body already felt compromised, and she could only imagine how weak it would be at the end of what was shaping up to be a long night. She couldn't wait; she rested her head on Shard's shoulder, and the below-spawn wrapped hers around her arms. Lonely days dissolved into a mist of distant memories; Ifi was no longer excited, or anxious. Knocked out of the world she had never loved to inhabit, she swam the surface of a great, empty ocean, beneath a welcoming sky. The weight of her self retreated somewhere below the waves, into an abyssal depth the monsters of its kind tended to enjoy. She had no need for it now; now was the time to let rest, and be nourished in the light. And to be beautiful – so very beautiful.
The High City loomed above, but nearer than before.
The kind of excitement that was building up in Ifi was indistinguishable from anxiety. There was a gentle pressure settling onto her from all sides, at once warm and reassuring, but also thick with only barely contained worry. Empty-headedly, she flipped the page of the book on the pillow before her, trying in vain to focus on the ornate poetry encoding the processes by which beauty and strength could be drawn from dust and sand. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
She ran her fingers across her scalp again, feeling the silken smoothness of the damp skin. Shard ate well during the beautifician's visit, but there was no way Ifi could argue with the results of his wax and pincets. She sniffed, trying to catch the scent of the aloe balm, but it had been washed thoroughly away. For the first time in months, she could not smell alchemy on herself. That, too, was as novel as it was disquieting. She brought her hand up, letting herself admire her lacquered nails. With a file in hand and a battery of varnishes arrayed around him, the beautician complained about how little he had to work with, to which Ifi could only smile apologetically and shrug inside; her hands were her tools, not an object of beauty. And yet! Shades of blue swirled on the tips of her fingers, tiny vortices of a cold sea, warmed by the specks of gold dust scattered across their surface. After the masque, she would have to strip all of this before returning to her laboratory, and her heart already bled at the notion.
But that was not really what set her heart aflutter. She gave up on the book and turned around, eyes sweeping her bedroom. For a moment, they lingered on the desk, where, spread across clean cloth, some of the more terrifying and exciting parts of her outfit waited. If she only could, she would skip towards them to get a better view, but Shard had categorically forbidden her from leaving the bed – on the pain of having to go through the entire toilette again. She couldn't even hope to sneak by the below-spawn attention; Shard was just nearby, perched in front of the dressing table again, a brush in hand. Ifi propped her head up on the pillow, and watched.
Surrounded by a bright glow of stacked lighting charms, the below-spawn worked in what Ifi imagined a trance to look like. She hadn't turned her head away from the mirror in over an hour, her whole body statue-still apart from the precise motion of hand on porcelain. The brush left behind cinnabar-red lines, climbing from the tips of Shard's fingers up her shoulders, to spread out across the flat of her chest into a spiderweb pattern. Each stroke came down with fast and with confidence, with Shard only rarely having to reach for a sponge to erase a stray line. Though her back was turned to Ifi, the alchemist could see the below-spawn's smile reflected in the mirror.
"So what does all of this mean?" she asked, straining to make out shapes from the red bramble.
The brush froze in Shard's hand; for a moment, the alchemist felt guilty for distracting her, but the below-spawn quickly dispelled her worries. She raised a hand up, the flat of it turned towards Ifi, letting her see clearly the segmented coils of a centipede wound around the fingers.
"Vermin of the soil," she explained. "Spawn from dirt. Spiders and scorpions. All that dwells in the dark."
Guided by her voice, Ifi slowly resolved the chaotic sprawl into images, abstract and spread out across the body, as if a map of constellations, stars aligned into patterns only after you learn to see them. So there it was, a swarm of insects, their pincers, claws, and jaws interlocked in a chain across all of Shard. They were spread across a web, and a web themselves, a great skittering horde crawling up towards Shard's neck. But none reached there – as they came close, they became fluid lines again, only to be rewoven above.
"And above it all," the below-spawn continued, the brush dancing in her fingers, "prowls that which is like them, and yet nothing like them."
The filament wing wound across the side of Shard's cheek; the shape of the thorax and of the stinger following suit. Ifi had seen this pattern once before, rendered in black pencil. Now, the lines were finer, the strokes bolder, the wasp almost regal.
"The spiderhawk," Shard whispered, dipping the brush in paint, "which hunts its own kind, but flies free of its filth."
This time, the shape did not encompass the whole of the below-spawn's blank face; Shard drew only a half of it, bisected through the middle of her face, leaving the other half empty. Ifi watched her hesitate for a moment, the tip of the brush swaying an inch from the porcelain surface. When she touched it again, she drew out a different pattern, sparks and flames shooting to the side, a conflagration to stand for the tarantula hawk's other wing. She gave herself a long look in the mirror, nodded to it slightly, and turned around.
"It's almost time," she declared, her voice carrying a vibrant note stronger than anything Ifi had remembered. "Time to get dressed."
The alchemist exhaled, glancing at the dresses that had been waiting patiently since yesterday. There was a sucking feeling in the pit of her stomach, and strange warmth around. With a clenched throat, she slid to the edge of the bed, bare feet touching the cold, stone floor.
"Come," Shard beckoned with a tip of her hand. "You will need to help me."
The alchemist stepped lightly, fighting the urge to kneel before Shard; they would have time for games soon enough. With the predatory confidence already emanating from her, it was difficult to keep such images away from her mind's eye. Anxiety and excitement stoked each other into a high, hot flame. At first, she wasn't sure what assistance Shard was going to need exactly. In fact, the below-spawn needed no help at all with the burgundy petticoat, and Ifi's hands shook so much when she was trying to tie the back of the tight bodice that Shard had to take the laces in her own hands, the flexibility of her porcelain limbs never ceasing to surprise.
But that was the dress, but just the base. Ifi berated herself quietly for not realizing that sooner. Mostly without losing her patience, Shard guided Ifi in what to do next and how to help her drape herself in an impossibly long roll of embroidered silk. The alchemist didn't initially understand how the below-spawn would even carry such length, but then it folded so smoothly and easily around the whole of her body, head, shoulders, and legs, that by the time she wrapped the last of it around her waist, it was only a perfect, if loose, fit. Ifi took a step back, and took the sight in.
Shard shone red and gold, the cloth dazzling across her form like a smoldering flame. Golden threads ran the edge of the drape, folding one onto another into a cascading network of broken patterns. In a way, there was little in the way of extravagance to this – merely fine silk, careful embroidery, and the way it all suited Shard's imposing stature. And yet, it was more than enough; the below-spawn appeared to Ifi as if a priestess of some ancient cult, shrouded in fire, ready to command the faithful.
Shard moved her arm around, the half-spiderhawk of her face following the play of light in the folds of silk. The smile on her face was proud and full of sharp teeth.
"Good enough," she said, turning back to Ifi. "And now, the jewelry. Get ready."
The voice grabbed her by the throat; she looked once more at the table and what waited for her there. There was a part of her that erupted in terror that what was happening was real; but the rest of her was too hungry to mind. She swallowed loudly and pulled down the shift she had been wearing. There were a few things that had to be done first before she could get dressed.
Shard didn't really have to command her; she had been fantasizing about this moment ever since the below-spawn proposed to take her to the masque as an ornament. Before the crushing reality of the fact that it was really happening could drive a wedge between her hunger and her hope, she hurried over to the table, right in time to see Shard take into her hands a pair of leather straps, linked by a small, steel ring. They slipped above Ifi's knees, cinched tight, forcing her legs together.
She gave them a try, felt leather and metal hold easily against her efforts. She breathed deeply to calm herself, but her thoughts were rapidly becoming a mess, fracturing along the lines of dreams she had never hoped to live to see. Shard's hand was on her thighs, cold – but its touch burned. Then, it went slowly up, sliding gently across the smooth clean skin; the alchemist squeezed her mouth shut not to beg for something that was not yet due. She managed a low, modulated moan.
"Already?" Shard whispered, the words finding its way under Ifi's skin and reeling her towards the light.
Then, the porcelain fingers went further up; Ifi felt the tips press into her small buttocks, squeezing them apart. A few drips of a thick, viscous liquid dripped between them; Shard reached for the other implement. Ifi tried to relax, as she had been told she was supposed to. It didn't, exactly, work. Shard's push was gentle and firm, but mostly firm.
It hurt when the slick, blunt tip of the hook went inside her; she shuddered and cried out as it lodged in place. Her legs buckled slightly, the body trying to make sense of the metal now impaling it. For a moment, she didn't move, focused entirely on the cold metal pressed against the small of her back, and the scarlett shame on her cheeks. Shard attached the other piece, a long rigid rod reaching all the way to the base of Ifi's neck.
"You will hold your posture for me," she promised possessively into Ifi's ear. "Let's get you dressed."
Years ago, Ifi's father ordered a dress for her, one that would suit the needs of a woman taking the Challenge. She never did, and fashion had moved on since then, leaving the vestment little more than a reminder of a bitter past, locked in the back of a wardrobe in the Lower Heights. A waste. For all the bitter memories seemingly woven into its very fabric, Ifi relished the chance to finally put it on. It had always been a good dress: midnight velvet lightly brocaded with gold that was woven thicker and thicker towards the sunburst pattern stretched across the shoulder. All as the motto of the guild said: with the dawning of the Art, broken is the night of ignorance. Shard helped her slip into it; just as she remembered, it ran from the top of her throat all the way to her ankles with all the modesty expected of an aspiring guildswoman. Well – it used to be modest, once. After the adjustments, no one would describe it as such. Not that it bared skin, or clung improperly to the frame.
"Sleeve up," Shard commanded, starting to lace the dress on Ifi's back, and pressing the metal rod closet between her shoulders. The girl nodded, her arms already in the long sleeves. Once, they used to terminate in delicately ornamental cuffs, to match with the perfect pair of gloves. Now, they extended longer than Ifi could even reach, her hands disappearing in them. Not that they could emerge, anyway – the ends of the elongated sleeves had been sewn closed, and outfitted with straps and buckles. Ifi didn't stop smiling as Shard had her fold her arms on her chest, and then locked them in place, pressed tightly together just below her breasts. Once again, she strained the fabric; once again, it turned out pleasantly stronger than she was. A few more ingenious hidden straps secured everything firmly in place.
"Wonderful," Shard said, reaching for what became of the dress' collar.
Ifi made herself moan again as she felt the fingers on her neck; it was fun to make this noise, and then to feel the porcelain close around the steel band that clasped around her neck. With a half-extended claw, Shard turned the screw holding the collar together, until it closed snugly around Ifi's neck. The steel had been blued blacked, letting the inlaid golden pattern shimmer in turn to the brocade across the rest of the dress. The next moan was unforced – it came as Shard pulled on the hook and linked the end of the rod with the back of the collar. Whatever fears floated across Ifi's thoughts subsided, because her thoughts mostly did. She looked into a mirror and saw herself as sapphire cameo about to be set against red silk.
"You will fit me well," Shard's promise was sweet and genuine.
Ifi opened her mouth to match her, but what words did she have? Her reflection stared back at her, light-eyed.
"Are you ready?" the below-spawn asked. "The golems are waiting."
The alchemist's yes was more of an eager nod rather than a word; her throat was clenched, and not just by steel.
"Then let us put our masks on."
The halved spiderhawk vanished under a smooth bronze plate, the full half of Shard's face obscured by its polished surface. It was no less featureless than the porcelain below, but for the cabochon ruby set into it in the manner of an eye. Even now, even with everything else on her head, the sheer extravagance of this gemstone struck Ifi – but she didn't have much time to consider that. Her own mask waited, no less impressive, and far more involved.
"Anything you want to say?" Shard asked, taking the final accessor into her hands. "While you still can?"
Ifi shook her head. Her mind was a cacophony of breaking, hissing machinery; that music of a laboratory full of work. The noise soothed all that lurked beneath, setting a veil between the alchemist, and all the rest of her self. Shard grabbed her by her chin, and forced her mouth open.
The muzzle fit across her jaw, pressing a soft ball between her teeth, large enough to fill the mouth. Shard pushed it deep, pulling the network of braided steel cables that supported it taut around Ifi's head. The metal bit into flesh, but not too deep – just enough to be keenly felt. In the mirror, Ifi saw a deformed face, the mouth covered by a plate adorned with more of the same golden scrollwork as her collar, the entire contraption held together by a metal webbing enclosing her like a net, like a cage. With the clean-shaven head, she could almost imagine herself as some kind of a monster that needed to be restrained, some alien creature belonging to a world of slavering cruelty. Sapphires woven into the steel braids blinked back at her, a testament to her value.
A braided cord clipped to the front of her collar. Ifi looked down and followed the lead all the way to Shard's hand.
"Now let all the High City gawk in envy."
Very little remained of Ifi as she walked carefully downstairs, her heels clicking quietly across the floor of her shop. A luxury carriage, drawn by slender marble golems waited outside, the valet bowed down as he held the door open to them. She had to stop at the step; it was too tall for her to make it. Face burning, she turned to Shard, who hoisted her into the plush cabin up as if she weighed nothing.
The coachman whistled a command; the golems stirred, and started to pull. Through the darkened windows, Ifi watched the Middle City roll by, conscious less of the white winding streets, and more of the hook, the gag, her bound arms and legs, her collared neck. Her body already felt compromised, and she could only imagine how weak it would be at the end of what was shaping up to be a long night. She couldn't wait; she rested her head on Shard's shoulder, and the below-spawn wrapped hers around her arms. Lonely days dissolved into a mist of distant memories; Ifi was no longer excited, or anxious. Knocked out of the world she had never loved to inhabit, she swam the surface of a great, empty ocean, beneath a welcoming sky. The weight of her self retreated somewhere below the waves, into an abyssal depth the monsters of its kind tended to enjoy. She had no need for it now; now was the time to let rest, and be nourished in the light. And to be beautiful – so very beautiful.
The High City loomed above, but nearer than before.
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- Pronouns
- She/Her
Ifi just swan diving into sub-space, lmao.
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