Page 37 of The Tsarina's Favorite
“I told you I could not win,” I snarled.“Your victory is hollow.”
“If your Great Holy had been powerful enough, it would not have been impossible.”
“All this,” I surveyed my hands and arms, “because I did not wish to become a lover after becoming a widower?”
“All this,” she repeated, “because you forgot that you cannot say no to me.”
“And you imagine, after everything you have put me through, I will submit to you now?”
“Now, my dear, you have no choice.I made an example of you, and once my point was made, I no longer needed you.”
“Have you not already punished me?”
“Punished you, yes, but it did not achieve what I intended.Now, I will have you however I like, and no one will turn you into a martyr.”
“Others will still look for me.”
“No one is looking for you,” she assured me.“Former Prince Mikhail’s execution was announced yesterday.If I choose to starve you, or chain you to my dais, or blind you, or muzzle you for the rest of your life, no one will say anything.You are a part of my menagerie now.”
The heat of panic chilled.No one would rescue me.No one would come to my aid.My friends in my time of trial would not know that I needed their support and company more than ever.Trapped.In body.In will.In every meaningful way.
The impulse to scream burned my lungs, but I refused to do it.She wanted to see me panic, and I would not give it to her.
“Only your exterior has transformed,” she continued, “but it’s remarkable how such a shallow change can make all the difference, isn’t it?”
“Why?”I asked, a pitiful, breathless question as I considered the bleak, miserable future ahead of me.“Why me?”
“It’s not personal.”She paused as she made to turn from the window, reconsidering her words.“That’s not true.It is personal.Extremely personal.You betrayed me.But, my dear, do not flatter yourself that you are all that important in the scheme of things.You aren’t, and you never were.That’s why.”
Istared at the doorlong after she abandoned it, trembling with fatigue, sick with fear and fury.I did not dare look down again, terrified of seeing the evidence of what I had become.So long as I did not look, did not feel, did not explore, I could pretend.I could pretend this was just another prison cell.I could pretend that I was waiting for Klessa or Drook or Agara or anyone to come visit me.I could pretend that I wore a costume that could be removed.
I practiced breathing as Drook had once suggested as a way to abandon shame, hoping it would bring a moment of calm.Even the simple exercise came with difficulty.I closed my eyes to concentrate.
Breathe in.Hold.Breathe out.Hold.Breathe in.Breathe out.In.Out.
The tremors vanished after a time.My fury cooled.My heart slowed its frantic beating.I opened my eyes again, not wanting to face the inconceivable truth but ready to try.
I raised my hands and arms for inspection.Gloves were standard uniform for most of my life.From the coldness of Ilyichia inspiring such protection, to the military requiring the formality of dress, to the ballroom demanding that dancing partners not touch hands directly, gloves featured as everyday attire.And these horrible, long, black feathered things embellished with realistic-looking talons were nothing other than gloves too, I lied to myself.I would wear these gloves, scaled, gnarled, and feathered though they were.
Wild black feathers framed my vision from above, taking the place of my hair.But it was just a hood like before.
I had already worn a stiff, scratchy collar and horrible padded costume for months without reprieve.The sleek black feathers on my neck, chest, and torso, though adding a little bulk, did not offer the same cumbersome and uncomfortable conditions as my prior costume.Further inspection ensured, much to my relief, that my manhood remained intact and undisturbed, though hidden too by a sheath of feathers.
I did not know how to reconcile the wings on my back.Heavy and awkward now that the pain had subsided, I flexed my shoulders.The wings responded with stiffness when I tried to shift or spread them.A line of golden red primary feathers edged both wings, matching the tail feathers I saw when I twisted to get a better view.
My feet nearly caused me to heave again when I finally worked up the courage to examine them.Like my hands, they had become scaly, taloned things, the black feathers mostly stopping at the ankles.But I could not rationalize the appearance of my feet with simply wearing convincing shoes.Each foot had been divided into three long toes tipped with talons, with a fourth clawed toe on my heel.And that’s where the ability to reconcile it with just another costume ended.
Magic.The tsarina possessed magic.
I hadn’t found the courage to touch my face.I could see it, or at least I could see the beak, and I tried desperately to ignore it.And although I struggled with thirst, I could not bring myself to go over to the water pail by the door and drink from it.If I did, I would have to look at my reflection first, if only from perverse curiosity.By drinking, I would have to use the beak since I could not just pull it down or off until I was finished.I could not bear to do that, afraid that admission of necessity would shatter the tenuous hold on my faculties.
I kept breathing.In.Out.In.Out.
Had the tsarina planned this from the beginning?
Everything I had already endured now appeared like preparation.If I had fallen prey to this from the start, I may not have retained sanity.
Or, worse, had I done this to myself?
