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My mother and James smother me in kisses and squeeze me — before remembering they should be gentle. I’m sure my gaunt cheeks and jutting collarbones make me look like a different person from the hale girl who left them a lifetime ago. Probably good preparation for introducing them to the entirely different person I’ve become.
“Mom, James. I just can’t believe it. When I woke up, I thought we must have died, because I couldn’t imagine seeing you anywhere but heaven,” I say to my mother.
Tears well up in all of us.
“Sweetheart, it was like a dream when it happened,” my mother says. “All of a sudden, trumpets were blaring outside the house. We saw this elf in clothes that cost more than our little shack, probably more than the whole neighborhood, and we were sure we were about to be kidnapped, or killed. But it was Carmichael.”
My words descend to an even more unreachable place in my throat. My mom knows me so well that she can recognize that quizzical look that says: “I’m sorry. I know you just said those words, but there’s no way they can be true."
She laughs. We always joked about our telepathy.
“I know, I know. It was so scary at first. But as soon as he started talking about you, and how much you needed us, our gut told us that this elf was okay, he seemed like he wasn’t quite as bad as the ones — ”
We exchange a glance. Mercifully, James’ words fill the room before silence takes over.
“Diane, Diane, Diane,” James says, barely able to speak from wanting to say everything at once. “We rode in a carriage, and Carmichael gave us the most delicious chocolates, and he gave mom roses. Then he did some crazy magic, and then mom was mom again.”
Even more than the bliss from feeling the warmth of her arms, I’m stunned by the rosy glow of her cheeks. The life force that I had forgotten ever existed in her now animates her entire being. Only magic could have done this. Only my Carmichael.
Even though I’m so much thinner from not eating, I have no stomach pain. Instead, my body feels like I could fly. I don’t know if that’s the influence of my family, or if Carmichael administered magic to me too, or if my passionate adoration of Carmichael started filling my veins and pumping through my heart.
“I just can’t get over Carmichael, Di. I really didn’t think elves could be nice,” James says. “It’s like, if a spider descends on a fly, it’s not because he’s about to ask it to tea. But, Carmichael, he’s, like, nice. Normal. Sort of.”
He looks around the room as he’s saying that, giving it the side-eye — not angry, but as if you just discovered there’s another planet hidden below the surface. It takes some getting used to, this place.
Their clothes are immaculate, like someone decked out dog-eared paper dolls in gold leaf ensembles. James is wearing a velvet royal blue outfit, nearly black, with a tailored jacket to match, and a velvet hat with a streak of velvet ribbon.
Mother looks radiant. You can see why she was obsessed with accumulating layers of filth. There’s no way she could have gone unnoticed when she was a pleasure girl. I can’t imagine what she went through when she was a pet, too, but under the purview of less beneficent owners.
Her dress is an opalescent silver the color of the moon. Her red curly hair bounces against her chin. I wonder if Carmichael told one of the servants to wash, cut, and style her coiffure.
“Carmichael tells me you’ve been working for him for a few months now,” Mom says with an arched brow, and I can tell by her expression that it’s a pole vault for launching into the gnawing anxieties she’s always had for me not to become her. “Is there something you’re not telling us? We had no idea where you were, and come to find out, you’re working for an elf?”
I guess that’s a word for it — “working.” He’s told me so many times that I’m lower than the zagfer. The servants aren’t told that they’re not good enough for a chair, at least as far as I know. So, why was he making like I was his prize squire, his right-hand human? I don’t get it.
“It’s been so different from what I expected, the city,” I say, knowing that it was true, but also knowing it wasn’t the whole truth. Because in so many ways, it’s been much, much worse — with harbingers here and there of something better. “What matters is you’re here now, and we’re together.”
Maybe they can learn to read, and James could play outside in the garden. I remind myself not to get my hopes up. Remember: you are not special, and there’s no happy ending — not for you.
He has said that like a mantra, that I’m nothing. Why is he dragging my family into this? He must see them as even more of nothings than the nothing that I am. And why is he telling them lies about me being his employee when I’m not?
I’m his property, bought and paid for, with the receipts to show for it. Lord knows he never lets me forget it. How does it feel to be the most high-class whore in Orthani, available to the highest bidder? Not much different from the one who costs one ipia, I’d guess.
Still, above all else, what I can never forget is that he saved me. And I know it’s crazy, but it feels like he’s starting to take pride in it, too. I remember the way he looked at me, the way he’s been getting closer every day, and every night. Then he left.
I think about that day in the library. He could have put a blanket over me, but he didn’t. There are a million quilts in the closet hall, duvets with enough feathers to cover the tops of mountains if they run out of snow. He wanted me to know he was there. He wanted his arms around me. Him being him, he did the next best thing. He wrapped me in his sleeves.
Suddenly, the mansion is buzzing, and footsteps on every level of the mansion thump rapidly, as if a jolt to the engine put all the gears into motion.
This can only mean one thing. He’s back.
My entire body flushes in anticipation when I hear the cadence of his boots on the stairs. Although I hate admitting it, he brings every part of me to life.
I smile so big that my face hurts. When I try to suppress it before he comes upstairs, my face hurts even more. I was mad at him for leaving, but none of that matters now that he’s back. I know it’s almost winter, but with Carmichael home, it feels like spring.
His footsteps send horses’ hooves galloping through my body, especially down there, to her, that place where his beautiful dick entered in and out, and stretched me, marked me as his. My nipples get harder at the thought, and my breath grows shallow. I look down to check the fullness of my breasts in the blue silk gown, the color of my eyes, with buttons in the back matching the gold of my hair. I know what he wants, and I want to make sure he gets it.
“Diane. And good afternoon, Mrs. Blaze, and young Mr. Blaze,” Carmichael says. He’s slightly out of breath, as if he broke into a run the closer he got to this room. He gives a slight bow, then realizes what he’s done. He looks taken aback by his impromptu gesture of respect, but, oddly, not repulsed.
