When the Reeves imposed their limits on Lighting, and then on Oathsworn, the logic was sound. More Nocturni means more mistakes. More blood taken. More people with jobs that can't be explained, and influence that can't have been earned. Once, those fetid Unbound would have culled our numbers, but without them… our population needed control.

  The decision to allow recruitment outside of England… that logic was sound, too. The Veneficii have recruited abroad for centuries, myself included, for our pool of recruits is always too small. The spike in abductions was a Britain problem, a London problem. If those kidnappings instead took place somewhere else… people flit through London without papers or roots all the time. Adding one more Kenyan or one more Hong Konger would never bat an eye.

  What happened next was predictable. We should have thought beyond logic. We should have prepared.

  The Nocturni takes a flight somewhere poor - usually whichever colony they once held stake in. They go to the beach, the barracks, the whorehouse with an offer. Deceit is rarely necessary. The natives hear ‘London’ and leap for the chance. Customs is bribed, they take the next flight back, and… what would you know? Thirty-thousand Oathsworn. And - in a city, I will remind you, that per clause 55 should only number 3.000 Nocturni - six-hundred of these, in the last decade alone, have been Lighted into Kepts.

  This is problematic, on several fronts. As the Powellites show us, it could prove politically expensive if immigration grows controversial. There are moral fears for our serving class, of which the dhaoine rosín can speak passionately. But my greatest concern, our most pressing concern, is for security. We are speaking about a population of Kepts from new countries, countries that teach their citizens from birth to hate the Empire that ‘robbed’ them. We take those countries' strongest, their smartest, and hand them guns and account sheets and the keys to our vaults. We let them rise higher, and higher, and higher, at the expense of our own, without ever knowing their true loyalty.

  All to exploit a few loopholes.

  Council, our remedy is clear. A systemic salve to cure a systemic flaw. We must cut off this foreign flow, make Her Majesty’s government aware of the crisis, and ensure these lessers cannot usurp our power. It is time we embrace the Pyramid System, as the Veneficii have. Oathsworn stay Oathsworn. Kepts stay Kepts. All our given their place, our trust is put in the Keeping, and we stop dangling the keys.

  But that would hurt your profits, I know. That's why I don't expect you to join me."

  Margarete von Lamberg, High Inquisitor of the Veneficii. ‘On Clause 447.c of the Avalonian Codex,’ presented at the 77.983rd session of the Council of Magisters, March 22nd, 2001.

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  September, 2004

  Ten days, Harriet told herself. Two weeks at most. That’s how long she had to hold. How long her friends would need. But two weeks have come. And gone.

  And still she sits with her back on the wall. Staring into black, and hearing nothing.

  It’s the same with every meeting. He insists she goes to all of them, that she can’t be trusted to herself, even blinded and bound. He guides her into the conference room, arm over her shoulder, and always fixes her posture in the corner she’s forced to stand in.

  “Someone important has come to see us,” he might say, or, “the history of Fireside is being written.”

  Written, perhaps, but not to be read. At internal meetings, her ears are covered, forcing her to try and glean meaning from the rapidly-moving mouths. When someone external attends, the blindfold comes on, too. She’s usually given a few seconds’ notice; not by Soteris telling her, God forbid, but by the way he intentionally screws up his outfit or slides off his shoes.

  Not that there's any input to give. In the meetings she can see, she’s never looked at. The employees used to, those first couple days. A curious stance, or a long stare at her outfit. But then Soteris shoots daggers with his eyes, and they always meekly turn around.

  Except for one. On the third day, one girl saw his eyes, and still looked back. Gave Harriet a look of… compassion? Pity?

  She likes that girl.

  Even if, that night, she cried.

  Why does no one speak out? Or even ask? Do they think she’s wearing headphones? That she’s part of security? But what security wears four-inch heels and skirts that don’t reach their thighs?

  She knows the answer, of course. She’s forced to stare at it every day. He walks through these rooms, speaks with these people, exuding the same power he’s wields against her. But she’ll never accept that answer. Never let him think she has.

  He could kill them. She knows that. He shakes their hands, asks after their wives, and without hesitation, would bleed all of them dry.

  So Harriet stands there, listening to the beat of her heart. Waiting for that tap on her shoulder that will bring her back. Back to the office, where she’ll kneel on a little pillow at the side of his desk, listening to half his phone calls, if even. Her hands kept close together by command, since he can’t openly show her in chains.

  The tap comes. She feels something tug, a staggered click of her heels. Soteris clicks the button that gives Harriet back her eyes. Lets her see men in full suits, women in tight skirts, developers in their PJ’s. Inspirational quotes like, ‘Don’t stop when you’re tired. Stop when you’re done,’ plaster the office walls.

  She frowns, turns away from his arm, and towards the screens, the clouds, that yellow Sun whose light bounces off the Thames. Dreaming of the day somebody will speak out, and dreading it all the same.

  She knew that Polyphron would be her cage. But she didn’t think it would be a zoo. Where so many could stare, so many could see, and so many would simply…

  ...

  … do nothing.

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  “- all the ways that you bless us, amen.”

  “Amen,” she repeats quietly.

  Soteris takes his fork and digs in. Blood sausage tonight. One of his better meals. There’s a lot of little flavours that somehow sneak in, onions and spices and filling. Almost makes up for the difficulties with the cuffs. Pulling at her wrists until the skin is bright red.

  It still feels strange. Tasting things again. Digesting things again. But…

  Harriet puts her elbows on the table, frowning at the food. Her top’s forgiving today - a sweater that only leaves her collarbone exposed - but the skirt still hems in her waist, and her legs still feel exposed.

  She would go on hunger strike, if she could. The idea of becoming a ravenous monster set loose in this office has a certain appeal.

  Until she thinks about that girl.

  Soteris swallows before he speaks. “I’m surprised. You haven’t made some sort of quip yet today.”

  She blinks, slowly. “Not much ta quip ‘bout.”

  He cuts into the meat with a smirk. “How sad.”

  A few more seconds of silent eating, before she clears her throat. “How’s Randall? Ain’t seen him since the conference.”

  “Neither have I, which is usual when he’s busy,” Soteris replies. “From his correspondence, he seems to be working on some tools for Project Hestia.”

  “Oh.” Harriet scooches in her chair, or tries to. Again, the cuffs make it hard. “An’ the tools will…?”

  “Privileged,” his smirk grows. “Information.”

  “‘Course it is.” She tries to smile through her wince. “Silly ol’ me! Shouldn’t’a asked!” She flops, her head on the back of the chair, staring at the fancy little lightbulbs. “So, what we doin’ tonight? Telly show, couple drinks, maybe a club?"

  “I’m answering emails.” He cuts her off, taking another bite. “It doesn’t particularly matter what you get up to.”

  Her face deflates, and she looks at him. “Really?”

  “Mmm!”

  “Well maybe I’ll jes’ escape while yer answerin’ emails.” She gives a flair with her hands.

  “If you could, you wouldn’t be-”

  “Aren’t CEOs s’posed ta not work?” Harriet lifts her brow. “Jes’ faff ‘bout on their yachts or whatever ‘till things go ta sh-sh-” She huffs, rolling her eyes at the spell. “Ship!”

  “Some do. Not I. A company with such an executive is a company without momentum.”

  “It’s called havin’ fun.” She scowls.

  “I have plenty of fun.” He smiles at her. “There is nothing more enjoyable than making my world better."

  “Urrrrggh!” She puts her head in her hands. “Yer impossible.”

  “Out of curiosity, where are we in your escape plan that you start begging me to entertain you?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “I would.” He gestures. “Because it is clear something’s upset you, and if you would stop playing games, I might be able to help.”

  “If yer Mr. Genius Boy, why haven’t ya figured it out already?”

  “Mr. Genius Boy has. But you still need to ask. Like a Kept.”

  She springs up at that, giving him a look. “I’m bored.” She makes her eyes pop out. “I want... I dunno, ta be more involved."

  “In Hestia? I thought you hated it.”

  “I do. But compared ta the drywall, it’s interestin’.”

  “Ah. You want stimulation.” Soteris chuckles, and climbs out of his seat. “And your first instinct was for us to watch television?”

  “Well ya got the Kept,” she rattles her cuffs. “Kinda figured ya’d make use a' her.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” He opens a couple of cabinets by his desk, rummaging through them, while she watches from the table. “After all, two people enjoying the same thing in such close quarters…”

  He looks up, his smirk even wider.

  “That sounds a lot like a date.”

  Three seconds pass. The two of them staring at each other.

  “Nope!” She scooches away from the table. “No thanks, nada, nuh-uh, I’m fine, actually! Great point on yer end. I will never slander the drywall ag-”

  He loudly drops a book on her table spot. She glares back, before leaning in and reading the title.

  “The Prince. By Niccolo… Match-a-velli.”

  “Machiavelli.” He corrects.

  “Seems like a short book.”

  “You can read two.”

  She flips open the cover, runs the pages through her thumb. The smell of dust and the crunch of yellowed paper follow her. “An’ why would I wanna?”

  “Because you need to learn about statecraft. The elders prefer Kepts with educations."

  "Really?" She purses her lips. "They don't give that vibe."

  “Because too many Kepts apply it."

  “I know their yer friends, but... I really don't care 'bout what Baron Earl von Floffenfropp thinks a' me.”

  “Then you'd better start. I have to speak with them. About you.”

  "Why?"

  Before Harriet can react, he’s snatched her chin, yanking her eyes back to his. Her immediate protests are talked over.

  “If Randall’s correct, you’re… how to put this… there are requirements to your Keeping that I prefer we skip.”

  Her cheeks are smushed, muffling her voice. “Such as…?”

  He flashes that smile that tells her he won’t say. “All you need to know is…” He pauses, petting her skin. “… you may soon have to perform. That performance might feel strange. But have no fear. I can teach you.”

  He smiles to himself and stops speaking. The clock ticks. Fifteen seconds. Her cheeks are still smushed, and her face is getting warm. “Ummm… ya alright?”

  “I’m waiting for something.” His eyes flash. “For relieving your boredom.”

  She follows his eyes back to the table, the book. It makes her scowl. “I’m not gonna say thanks.”

  “That’s alright.” He leans in, and ignoring the way she twitches back, to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I’ll still take it.”

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Her eye twitches as he sits back down and happily resumes eating.

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  “So I’m goin’ to this house, right? Gotta Hotmail ‘bout it, some conference ‘tween, what’s the word, entrepreneurs? An’ I’m like, ‘fahk it, it’s at eight P.M., worst case I get free snacks.’ So I's head down to Chiswick an’-” Astrid completely forgets the ponytail she was starting to tie, instead slamming her hands on the vanity. “‘ARRIET!”

  “What, what!?”

  “IT WAS A FAHKIN’ HENHOUSE!”

  Harriet blinks, her hair falling back over her head. She’s sitting half-dressed in her adjustable chair, and Astrid Traynor is practically on top of her.

  “Wh-what’s that mean?”

  “Mums.” Astrid says it like it’s scandalous. “All of ‘em! Watchin’ Coronation Street an’ wearin’ purple an’ HOLY FAHK THEIR MAKEUP!” She mimics wretching. “I can’t unsee ‘at shit, ‘Arriet. I’d need to bleach me eyes! An’ their leader, Cheryl - ‘course it’s a Cheryl, ‘course it’s a blonde woman named fahkin’ Cheryl - she can’t stop goin’ on ‘bout this herbal shit!"

  “Herbal what?”

  “I dunno!” Astrid flails her arms. “A fahkin’ milkshake!? So I’m, like, tryna be polite, “Yeah, it sounds really healthy, it’s gotta great smell, and bwooooooom!-” Another sweep of the arms. “The fahkin’ floodgates! She’s like, ‘Did you know that I can make three thousand a month selling these online?’ And I’m like, ‘No way!’ And she’s like, ‘Way! Fastest way to build ‘at passive income. Be a boss babe! We’ve got the kit right here’ - an’, an’ ‘Arriet, I looked in her closet, she’s got like forty of the fahkin’ fings - and then she’s like, ‘Your financial freedom journey can start RIGHT NOW, FOR- guess, ‘Arriet. Guess ‘ow fahkin’ much.”

  “Uh… a hundred pounds?”

  “Two THOUSAND quid!”

  "What?" Harriet squints. “Astrid, I think this Cheryl woman’s tryna wring ya inta a scam.”

  “Oh, ‘Arriet, no worries, I’m quite aware. Already ‘ad me boss babe phase.” She taps her forehead, showing a smirk. “An’ I would ‘ave been rich, too, if ‘ey stopped changin’ the prints on the fahkin’ leggin's!”

  Harriet scoffs, letting Astrid return to her work. Feeling her hair get coiled up, sniffing at the mascaras like they’re still something foreign.

  “You know, I like these.” Astrid nods to herself. “Our morning chats. Feels like… I dunno, somefin’ to wake up for.”

  “What, yer trips ta the Orphean not pannin’ out?”

  “Orphean?” Astrid says it like she’s never heard. “Naaah, lush, it’s the beach for me.” She holds out her arm. “Gotta work on me moon tan.”

  “Lucky,” Harriet sighs. “I’d prolly still find a way ta burn.”

  “Oh, hush. Your skin’s great!” Astrid smacks her arm then leans down, leaning on Harriet’s shoulder. “Almost spic an’ span. Just ‘ose… urgh, ‘ose fahkin’ ears still need piercin's. But Bossman gets so skittish ‘bout visitors, might have to do it meself.”

  “Would that be bad?” Harriet asks, her voice tight.

  “No, no.” Astrid makes a face. “Only cut off a couple lobes.”

  Harriet stares at her through the mirror, terrified. For a moment, Astrid just blankly looks back. Until a smile breaks out.

  “Gotchu! Got you so fahkin’ good!”

  “Shaddup.”

  Astrid cackles.

  “Ya people got ice powers. How’m I s’posed ta figure this all out!?”

  “Randall. Randall’s got the ice powers, an’ he…” Astrid purses her lips. “... well… none of ‘em are really all ‘at great at conversation.”

  She wilts, grabbing scissors. Cutting at the tips of Harriet’s eyebrows.

  “I like ya,” Harriet blurts out, before instantly regretting the words. “Er, talkin’ to ya, that is. A-An’ other parts, but, uhh…”

  “I geddit.” Astrid smiles. “We’re friends, right?”

  Harriet expects to recoil at those words. To snarl, show her fangs, pull back. Two weeks ago, that’s exactly what she would have done.

  But she does enjoy these talks. These breaks from the day, these glimpses into the world outside, and yet, somehow, a world she never saw. She enjoys Astrid’s pep, Astrid's jokes, Astrid's slang. Maybe it’s just reflexed. Misplaced trust, or the lack of... anything else.

  And yet…

  “... yeah.” Harriet says slowly, her brow furrowed. “We are.”

  She forces herself to look in the mirror, at the outfit Soteris has chosen today. A white mini-dress, grey four-inch heels, and a matching blazer so small it can’t be buttoned closed. That’s why he does this. Why he allows this. And she knows that, but can't...

  Astrid slides across the mirror face. Blocking the clothes from view. “‘Arriet…” There’s a hint of hesitation. “Can I ask you somefin’... personal?”

  “Sure.”

  “This… the penthouse, the makeups, the designer shit, it’s all new, innit?”

  Harriet blinks. “It’s definitely different.”

  “Yeah. It’s…” Astrid laughs, pointing across the room. “You know how much I’d kill to ‘ave a guitar like ‘at?”

  Harriet looks back at the banjo. Polished. Vintage. Still unplayed.

  “I…” Another chuckle. “Y-You know, put me in this room, in ‘em heels… a-and…”

  “Astrid, what’s the question?”

  “It's just... I don't…” Astrid swallows, straightening her form. “I know we’ve all got our views. Glasses empty, glasses full. But… ‘Arriet… don’t you see ‘ow good this is?”

  Windchimes whirr. Hackles rise.

  “How sweet this is?”

  On her knees, beneath the vanity, hands turn to fists.

  “Maybe ‘ere was somefin’ in ‘em woods I don’t know, but… but fink of the rest of us. Fink of me. I-I don't know why you choose to see it like this. It... it doesn't get any bet-"

  Slam!

  Astrid gasps. Harriet’s face is inches away. Growling. Pinning Astrid's wrists to the wall.

  “I-I'm just-"

  “Stop. Talking.” She says through grit teeth. Astrid trembles, fear in her eyes. “He put ya up ta this, didn’t he?”

  “N-no. NO!”

  “Messin’ with my head-”

  “He didn’t do anyfin’!”

  “Then why!? Why are ya lying!? Why are ya always tellin’ lies!?”

  “I’m not!”

  “Ya are!”

  “I swear, I’m not! I-”

  “I am a slave, Astrid! A SLAVE! It's not a choice. It's not a feelin'! Do ya know what it’s like ta go out there!? Ta be with him!?”

  “Of course I do!”

  Astrid breaks. Whimpers growing. Tears falling. At first, it only makes the anger worse. Makes Harriet want to squeeze harder. But then….

  “Go.”

  Astrid crumples, shaking her head. “‘Arriet…”

  “GET! OUT!!!”

  Harriet hurls the woman towards the door, then swivels, forcing herself back in the chair. She can do this. She can play the puppet, she can make herself pretty, without her.

  “Please…” Astrid makes no move. Her hands by her chest, her eyes red. Seemingly terrified of heading either way. “... I’m tryin’ to help you!”

  Harriet's hand freezes. Hovering over the lipstick.

  “I'm trying... I'm lots of fings.” Astrid sniffles, her voice shaky. “But I'm not a liar. Everyfing I’ve said… I’ve meant. Please. At least give me-”

  "Astrid," the Unbound replies. “There’s only one person yer helpin’.”

  Astrid falls quiet after that. Starts to talk, and stops, a dozen or so times, before shuffling away, and gently closing the door. It’s sealed by the beep of the lock.

  Leaving Harriet behind.

  Alone.

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  There’s no crickets up here. No owls, no varmints, not even the motors of passing cars. No sounds to interrupt her night but the thoughts, or lack thereof.

  And the flow of running water.

  Harriet sits on her bed, the faux-plaid sheets. Like a prowling cat, she'd like to believe, but more increasingly, a lazy one. She’s usually dumped into the room by nine, and left to her own devices. The idea, probably, is that she’ll sleep.

  But even with the special bed, Soteris can’t change that Nocturni were made to be nocturnal.

  More often, Harriet just sits like this, the empty gun in hand, watching the door and waiting for threats. Nothing ever comes. Just that blinking little light on the lock, and the tiny creek, somehow coursing through her room.

  Her nose curls. Slowly, she sets the shotgun down and walks to the corner. The banjo shines back her reflection as she nears it. Begging to be played.

  Harriet lifts it, presses on the strings with her fingers. Spins it about to feel that light, airy weight. The memories flood in: the smoke of a fire, rough blankets on her lap, the sounds of pines whipping in the wind. Her face tightens. She sees him, whistling those tunes, tutting at her mistakes with a slap of her wrist.

  Isn’t it strange? The method worked. She knows all those songs by heart. But only through whispers can she hear the rest. Recall the moments that made them.

  She shoves the banjo back. Retreats to the bed, throws off the lights, and pulls the gun close. He wants her to play. That’s why she never will.

  Instead, she watches the door. The light blinking. And blinking.

  She feels the tremor in her heart. The shaking of her hand. She’s like a rabbit, her breaths light, and frightened. But why? She’s stronger than him. Stronger than all of them ever were.

  So why does she feel scared again?

  Why does she feel small?

  +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  “Against my will, my fate.

  A throne unsettled, and an infant state

  Bid me defend my realm with all my powers

  And guard with these severities my-”

  Harriet slams the book shut, and quietly sighs.

  She thought reading would help. Really help. Help break the monotony of ticking clocks and clacking keys. Give her more than the conversations she can’t hear through the door, or the faces she can’t make out in the windows’ tinted glass. At the very least, Harriet hoped it would distract from the soreness of her knees after hours sitting on this stupid pillow. But no. Soteris Chrysanthou, like always, found a way to ruin it by giving her the driest story ever penned.

  And even worse, now she’s required to read it.

  “This is stupid.” The sentence cuts off the squeaks being made by a whiteboard marker. Soteris turns, brow raised, and she scowls back at him, straining against the mask and the new fabric torture of the day.

  “Stupid?” He gives her an imperious look. “One of the most notorious treatises in history, responsible for dozens of political theories, and you think it is dumb?”

  She quickly nods. “Mhm!”

  He scowls. “I’ve read it five times.”

  “Oooh.” She makes a fake grimace, extending the page towards him. “Kinda outtin’ yerself there, ain’t ya?”

  He rolls his eyes and takes the passage. Like most of what he reads, it’s barely given a glance. “Dido is asking the goddess Astarte to imbue her with the cruelty she needs to rule.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She needed this ruthlessness because of her circumstance. She was as we are. Frontiersmen. Pioneers.”

  She snickers. “What frontier are you from?”

  “A frontier of thought.” He’s making the face she likes. The irked one. “Of vision. There’s more to discovery than wood and rocks.”

  “Ya wouldn’t say this if ya had ever seen them.”

  He throws the book back in her hands. “Page thirty-seven. Open it.”

  That ends the debate she would have otherwise given. His eyes still glowing, Harriet watches her hands robotically, distantly, wrench the cover apart.

  “Recite sentence five.”

  “Love is preserved by the link a’ obligation which, owin’ ta the baseness of man, is broken at every opportunity fer their advantage…” Her voice lacks any rhythm, or tone. “... but fear preserves ya by a dread a’ punishment that never fails.”

  “Explain to me what that means.”

  “Fear can’t question. Love betrays.” Her body returning to her, Harriet closes the book. “So… better ta be feared than loved.”

  He nods. “I am not making you read these to punish you with philosophy. I want you to understand how the Court thinks. How it operates.”

  “Like a bunch a’ evil, petty tyrants?” She frowns. “An’ y’all wonder how the Unbound keep comin’ back.”

  Soteris smiles at that. “So you say. Yet the Court has outlived every monarch, every constitution, every state that has ever been built by human hands. For a government, that is success. No matter how putrid you think that success might be.”

  He’s heading back to his screen, pulling the minimalist swivel chair out. Types, never looking from the screen.

  “You’ve seen my employees. Maybe half share my vision. The rest, driven by greed, wear it like facades. They would not show kindness if I failed to pay them, would they? So why do the Unbound insist that I shouldn’t act the same way?”

  “'Cause it gets support,” she cuts back. “I never fought fer someone ‘cause I was scared of them.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  He shifts. Facing her, his legs spread out.

  “Do you think I’m… cruel, Fireside?”

  Something about that causes a hitch in her breath. Harriet has to crane her neck to see him, skin pinched by the collar. “I’m jes’ confused why ya’d want ta rule like that.”

  “Because you’re right. I don’t.” He smiles at her reaction. “Not what you expected? Fear can extend a rule, but never deepens it. Affection sustains, and yet… always... the risk you will be betrayed. So how do we do it, Fireside? How do we rule?”

  “I-” She stops. There’s an edge to his voice. An edge that makes her hair stand on end. “I-I wouldn’t know.”

  “Exactly.”

  She shrivels. Looks back. He’s… different. His posture’s sharp. His face is rigid. His eyes glow like Suns. "S-... Soteris?"

  “You never could.” He flexes his neck. Voice doubled over. “Unless I showed you.”

  “Wait.” She starts to get up. Scoot back. “W-wai-!”

  “Stand.”

  She yelps. Her muscles have sprung up, facing him. At attention. His gaze lingers on her body, her breasts, her hips. The spell pins her in place. Arms trembling. Windchimes, stirring. “Soteris!”

  “Approach me.” She has no choice. Her legs move forward in straight, even steps. He stands when she nears, arm over her back. “Fear…”

  “-hk!” A squeak. His hand’s kneading her ass. Squeezing it. She tries to move, but he pulls her closer. So she smells his breath. Cologne, shampoo. Feels the thing between his…

  Suddenly, the touch is gentle. He’s stroking her cheek. Embracing her.

  “... love.”

  “S-STOP-"

  “Lips closed.”

  They slam shut. A muffled cry. Soteris leans in, sniffing her neck, inhaling her whole, before his fingers trail up her skin. Ringing off the mask’s metal. Until the button is pressed, and she’s shrouded in darkness.

  “Fear.”

  “Mmm-nmmm!”

  She’s only warned by the lunge. His kiss is invasive, penetrative. Tongue forcing its way in. He takes her behind again, but gentler. With rhythm that makes her body jolt.

  “Love.”

  She’s overwhelmed. Face red, tiny grunts. The windchimes are screaming now. Her stomach painfully tight.

  “Fear.”

  She thrashes and bucks. He’s pulled down her shirt. Taken her chest. Applies the same rhythm. It’s horrid and wrong and disgusting and her body responds. Their aethers are flowing. Cold against warm. Warm against cold.

  “Love.”

  He thrusts his hips along hers. A single, fluid motion that sends sensation and sensation. She rises with his grip, her muffled voice high. Chained hands squeezing his clothes.

  “Fear and love in equal parts. I make no choice when I choose all.”

  She’s not here. She’s in a world she cannot see. Swimming in memories she can’t remember.

  “Don’t you agree?”

  A single tear bleeds through the glass.

  He pulls her in. His touch is so soft. Softer than her own...

  SLAM!

  They stop, he pulls back. She’s being set down. Sounds of the office rushing to life.

  “M-Ms. Traynor!” he says.

  “Boss.” Astrid’s voice is quiet.

  Still dishevelled, Harriet turns pale.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” Soteris covers over his nerves quickly. Stone-cold reply. “I told Ela that I wasn’t taking calls-”

  “Specialist came. For the ears?” Harriet trembles. Praying Astrid can’t see the lowered shirt, the open breasts. “We was wantin’ to get ‘em pierced, right?”

  A pause. Harriet can hear the gears spinning. “She’s busy. If you’re bringing a visitor, I need to be told.”

  “Better to ask forgiveness.” How does Astrid sound relaxed? “Thought that was our motto.”

  His hand tightens around Harriet's arm, the mint in his angry breath flooding through her nostrils. At this point, she can barely stand upright. Without the exhilaration, there’s only dread, stinging pain.

  “She can speak.” Soteris lets her go, directing her to the door. “But the mask stays on. She’s not ready.”

  Astrid catches her halfway through. Helping her up. “Of course, boss.”

  “And if I hear a whisper that she’s started trouble…”

  “I promise ‘at when we’re done, she’ll be on the couch, as spic an’ span as she is now.” Astrid points to Harriet’s ear. “‘Cept wiff two new diamonds danglin’ from ‘ese. An' cah'mon. I know you like 'em."

  Harriet hears Soteris move, and then she’s off, dragged from the office into somewhere Astrid can touch her.

  “Good God,” the woman mutters, pulling her bra back into shape.

  Harriet can still barely form thoughts. “A-Astrid-”

  “No. Stop. Deep breaths. In, out. Please.”

  She’s still fixing her clothes. Harriet follows. In. Out. In. Out.

  “We’ll make you some tea, an’ then I… shit, shit.” Astrid's nerves can be felt. “What do I do, what do I do? Call someone? Rent out the tools? I-”

  “Astr-"

  “We’re gettin’ you out, girl. It’s gonna be okay.”

  “Ya said he wouldn’t do this.”

  Astrid’s body grows tense. Harriet can feel that. She stops moving, or talking. A squirrel watching a fox.

  “Ya…” Harriet blinks a few times. Wet eyelashes on glass. “Ya said… it doesn’t get better.”

  A few seconds. Then she’s being pulled. Through the hallway, the people, the Sunlight. There’s no chance to stop, no opportunity to rest, and Astrid keeps marching and marching. Quick steps. Face forward.

  Never looking behind.

  Yet always moving back.

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  Harriet’s stomach is still twisting. She wrings her chained hands over it, an old motion, she knows. But hours in, and nothing's relieved.

  Instead, her hands have started to blister.

  She can hear rain, tapping the glass. There’d be no way to see it, even without the mask. Her world is a sea of white clouds and windchimes, pierced only by dread, and the dull pain from pierced ears.

  He’s coming. He’s coming, and she can’t stop it. He’s coming, and he’ll do it again. These are her thoughts, hour after hour, exhaustion. The Wilds inside pleading that she flees from what she knows can’t be fled.

  The earrings weigh on her ears. Just a little. Enough to be felt. It’s foreign to her body, like the headset on her face. The band around her neck. The tight clothes that so excite the man who forces her to-

  She whimpers, and curls up. Can’t cry, can’t allow herself to cry. She needs to hold this feeling, churn it, remember it, for the rage it will produce, the vengeance she’ll…

  …

  Two weeks at most.

  Why wasn’t it at most?

  The keypad beeps. The door opens. She hears his jacket hit the floor, his shoes slide on the wood, and fear completely envelops her. Her body failing to breath.

  “Fireside.” He exhales. “Where were we?”

  He doesn’t rush to her. In fact, he takes his time. Tidying up. Walking around. She never dares to make a word. Even as her body threatens to implode.

  Eventually, she feels the couch’s indent. The light grunt as he sets. A brief warmth passing by her shoulders. His arm. “The earrings are nice. You’ll have to see. Traynor does such a good job.”

  She bites her lip. “S-S-Soteris-”

  “Silence.”

  And she’s silent.

  There’s no violent pull. No hand on her throat. Soteris starts pulling her down, and down, and down. She panics as she nears his hip, but there’s no zipper or flesh. Her cheek touches his thigh. Half her body, curled onto his lap.

  She touches him. Touches him to warn, or alarm. But… softness. Softness curling the ends of her skin.

  Slow and steady, Soteris Chrysanthou is brushing her hair.

  Harriet shakes, and stays frozen. Invisible as she can be, sinking into the fabric as he grabs a remote. A broadcaster starts droning about sieges and schools.

  “Love and fear, Fireside.” Her Keeper says. “That is how we rule them.”

  strange. Some of you are probably very confused about why she won't admit that she's a liar. That's something that will be explored in future chapters, but for now, suffice to say, Astrid is the sort of person that needs everyone to be okay before she can be okay. If a lie will make someone feel okay, in the immediate term, she will tell that lie instantly, future consequences be damned. And since she doesn't intend anything malicious... that's not really lying, issit?