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I clear my throat. “Of course.”
Thankfully the contraption is already laced up, and I merely have to tighten everything and tie it off. She smells of licorice and almflower—a false scent imposed over her natural fragrance, which is earthier, richer, with a hint of vanilla.
“Help me with the dress,” she says.
“Are you sure you can breathe in it?”
“Yes, now that the corset is looser. Don’t button it all the way up, though.”
I obey, slowly, reluctantly. It seems a travesty to cover up her skin, to seal her back into the garnet gown, the husk that the King gave her.
About halfway up the back of the dress, I quit buttoning.
She turns around, adjusting the low-cut neckline. “You behaved very well,” she says primly. “Good boy.”
At those two words, a ferocious lust roars in my head, and I nearly grab her right then. But I manage to hold myself back.
She has rerouted my plans entirely. Taken me by the head, like a restive horse, and swerved me into this contest, this race against the King’s displeasure. I don’t care about humans and their politics, or Elves and theirs. I care about keeping my belly full and my balls empty. I find amusement in jokes, tricks, theft, and small acts of subversive magic. I meant to fuck this girl and leave her, yet I’ve managed to do neither of those things. Instead I’m about to perform the most complex spell of my life, for her benefit, without the promise of any “carnal favors” in return.
I must be ill. I must have some sort of infection or disease, maybe a brain-worm addling my mind. Maybe the real Rupert is a secret sap, and his emotions or characteristics are affecting me somehow.
I’ve been silent for too long—Juliette’s eyes are narrowed, and she’s peering at me with mingled curiosity and concern. “Are you alright?”
I shake myself a little. “Just preparing for the spell. Grab some of that straw for me.”
She seizes a bunch of it and brings it over, while I seat myself on the little bench behind the spinning wheel. Oddly enough, the wheel’s presence works in my favor. Transmutation spells require a fixed constant, a point around which the changing material can flow, and the wheel is as good a locus as any.
I take the straw from Juliette’s arms. “Once the spell starts, keep feeding the straw into the stream.”
“The stream?” Her eyes gleam with interest.
“You’ll see. Be ready.” With difficulty, I push her out of the forefront of my mind. Devious woman, conquering my thoughts like this… but I’m not her slave. I can resist her charms—
She’s leaning over my shoulder, her hair swinging distractingly in my field of vision. Almflower and vanilla…
“Don’t stand so close to me,” I snap.
“Fine.” She steps back, crossing her arms.
Grasping a handful of straw, I lay it against the wheel, remove the gold necklace from my pocket, and close my eyes. I’m holding straw in one hand, gold in the other, and now I must create the link between them.
The necklace is delicately crafted, reinforced with memories. It sings of love and security, but there’s a note of bittersweet loss, too. Gold, precious and beautiful, all too easy to melt and mold.
I have the essence of the necklace firmly in my mind now, so I turn my attention to the straw. It was recently harvested from a field where it ripened beneath a bright blue sky. Its scent is sun-warm, sweet and fresh. I let it sink into my consciousness, and I visualize that sweetness growing heavier, the yellow deepening to gold, stalks melting into pliant lines of liquid metal.
Within the fleshly hollow of my hand
Let grass divide into its separate parts
And fuse with gold upon my will’s command,
A chain exquisite, forged from beating hearts
And memory, within this spell infused,
Lend life and purpose to the flowing force
Twine with the wheel, what’s given is reused,
