Page 8 of A Kingdom of Pleasure and Torment

“And you’ve got a busy day,” she snaps, bustling from the room and returning in a flash with a breakfast tray.

“Busy?” I hold my head and squint against the light. It seems only seconds since I stood in that strange parlor with Luthian. I’m disoriented, and I only vaguely remember the night before. “Busy with what?”

I made a deal.

I debased myself in front of strangers.

Luthian…

The human servant twists her face up even more if that’s possible. “I’m sure that’s none of my business. Now, eat!”

My face flames. Of course, the servant knows what I’m here for. Servants always know.

At least, the old woman removes her shadowy presence so that I can enjoy my breakfast in peace. There’s a perfectly boiled egg perched atop a silver cup, the lavender shell already cracked for me, revealing the firm, golden glaire and runny purple yolk. Two pieces of fluffy orange toast, a slice of fellboar, and a flute of pomegranate juice complete the feast. My grief has suppressed my appetite since mother died, and I’m thankful that the servant isn’t here to judge how desperately I scarf down every morsel on my tray.

Licking my fingers, I throw my legs over the edge of the tall bed. My feet don’t touch the ground. I slide down carefully and pad over to one of the enormous windows to kneel on the cushioned seat.

The view is spectacular. A long, sculptured garden flows toward the horizon in a series of tiers, each with its own fountain throwing rainbows up in their spray. Trees and hedges stand as pruned sentries, some simple cones or spheres, some intricate, verdant statues.

And walking on the white stone path, heading toward wherever I now find myself, is Luthian. It startles me to see him in the daylight; he seems a creature of the night to me, even as he strolls in the sun. His long hair is tied back at the nape of his neck, and he’s wearing plain black leather breeches and a white shirt with blousy sleeves. He’s far too plain, too…normal looking.

At his side is another faery, this one dressed similarly, with gleaming black hair that reminds me of onyx and skin the color of a doe’s fur. His wings are unfurled, painted in shades of turning leaves. He hops in playful circles around Luthian, who responds by swiping an arm out around his companion’s shoulders and bringing him in for an embrace that is obscured by those green-and-gold-and-orange-flecked wings.

I turn away. Whatever I’ve witnessed is intimate, and not for me to spy on. But my stomach sours for reasons I can’t name and don’t wish to examine. Perhaps I feel an ownership over Luthian owing to our deal, an ownership that’s inappropriate and illogical. Our arrangement will consume my life; is it unfair of me to wish it would consume his, as well?

“Merry morning!”

I turn sharply at the words and the sound of the doors opening. The voice is far too cheerful to belong to the old servant. It belongs to a faery who flutters in with the toes of her pastel blue slippers skimming the richly stained wood floor.

“Sorry to have startled you,” the faery says, and I detect the elegant accent of the Springlands. “I thought you were expecting me.”

I shake my head, too dumbstruck by her beauty to use my voice. She has wings of intricate lace and pale blue hair mixed with string and yarn and ribbons in a thick pouf. A fascinator styled like a tiny sewing basket sits cocked to the side of her head. Her gown, a wide, panniered mountain of pearlescent gossamer rising to a satin bodice with a scandalously low scooping neckline, matches her hair. I am overwhelmed by her beauty, her nearly-transparent skin that glows like the surface of a pearl, her broad smile showing even whiter teeth, the beauty mark in the shape of a heart at the corner of her lower lip.

She looks like a doll.

“Well, leave it to the old witch to not announce me.” Lace wings whirring, the faery moves across the room and plucks the fascinator from her hair. She drops it to the floor, and it springs open, ejecting a dressmaker’s mannequin, trifold mirror with gilt edges, bolts of fabric and spools of thread that scatter across the floor. “I’m Sarta. Luthian summoned me to…help him with your transformation.”

“Oh.” I glance down at my nightgown; the crimson stain from the night before is gone. “Well, I don’t have any clothes. So, I’m glad to see you.”

The faery laughs like wind chimes.

“I’ve never been to a dressmaker,” I admit haltingly. “My mother made my dresses. She was a faery, like you. She used her magic and…”

My throat sticks shut as if to protect me from more words, more memory. Isn’t my mother the reason I’m here? Why should remembrance of her be so difficult?

“Luthian told me all about her,” Sarta says with a tinkling laugh. “That she was beautiful. Powerful. Very like her daughter.”

I flush at the comparison. “I’m afraid he over-praised me. I am not so very much like my mother. She was a conduit for the springtime. I’m a human. I have no magic.”

“Ah, but your magic…” She waves a finger in a circle in the air, about the height of my midsection. The circle grows smaller and she fixes her gaze on my thighs. “You humans have a different kind of magic.”

I look down and understand with another furious blush. “You mean…”

“Human pussy, I’m told, feels incredible.” Sarta lifts an eyebrow before turning toward her supplies. “You need a full wardrobe, then?”

“This is all I have,” I say, lifting my arms.

“Then we shall start with underthings and work our way out from there.” Sarta pushes back the sleeves of her gown and shakes a terrifyingly long needle into her hand. It rests between her thumb and forefinger, perfectly balanced as she bobs it in the air, lost in thought. “We’ll need measurements.”

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