Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Your very first meeting with the dollmaker Donna Beneviento is somewhat of a misunderstanding.

You think the situation is pretty cut and dry yourself—you’re running for your life with a pack of lycans hot on your tail and you’ve somehow ended up here, on her property. It’s probably a combination of the disorienting mist clouding the air and the sheer fact that you’re just too damn terrified to really be paying attention to where you’re going right now, but all of your surroundings seem to pass by in a blur. A suspension bridge. Countless gravestones tangled between overgrown trees. An old elevator that you cram yourself into and mash the button until the creaky iron door drags shut. And finally, the looming manor sitting before a roaring waterfall. It looks warm, it looks dry, it looks blessedly safe, and you would gladly take whatever’s inside over the lycans any day.

You make a wild dash to the front door. And then, because your luck seemed to decide all on its own that things weren’t quite bad enough already, there’s a very inconveniently placed rock right in the middle of your path that you don’t see until it’s too late.

There’s also a very inconveniently placed clothesline laden with shirts and skirts and dresses, and you also don’t see this until it’s too late—as you trip over the rock and scramble for anything to help break your fall. The only things within reach are the hanging pieces of laundry, and oh what a shame it is when your flailing hands pull everything down with you into a pile on the ground.

You lay there for a moment, dazed, and think to yourself that perhaps this isn’t the worst way to meet your death. The tangle of cottons and linens are coiled around you like a welcoming hug, and you think you can smell an enticing mixture of cedar and rosewood when a section of cloth brushes over your nose. It’s a lovely scent and you breathe it in deeply, allowing your eyes to flutter shut for a minute or two.

When you open your eyes, there’s a black-clad woman with a matching veil standing over you, and a doll in a white wedding dress poking at your feet, and some part of your brain still capable of rational thought muses that the howls of the lycans are far in the distance; it seems they had lost interest in you somewhere near the suspension bridge. You are safe.

Safe.

You blink. Blink again. And by the third blink, enough of the residual dizziness has faded away for you to realize this is Lady Beneviento standing in front of you, and you are taking a nap in a pile of her shirts, and she is probably weighing all her possible options for murdering you right now.

Not safe, then. Very not safe. You’re not pretending to be the most well-versed in the church’s teachings, but as you glance down at the laundry tucked around your body, you’re still pretty sure whatever you doing is probably some kind of sacrilege.

Scrambling into a kneeling position, you bow your head low in supplication. As the blood drains from your face, you find you’re too frightened to make a sound while the Lord, renowned for her silence, doesn’t say anything either. Perhaps it’s lucky the animated doll, whose name you remember to be Angie, is present to break the awkward standoff the two of you have going on. “Hey!” she screeches. Her voice is shrill, grating. “What do you think you’re doing there? Those are Donna’s clothes you’re wrapped up in, weirdo!”

“I-I wasn’t—“ Your heart is pounding and you try to think of an excuse, any excuse. Telling the truth seems like the most logical option you have here. “My deepest apologies, my lady, I needed a place to hide but I wasn’t paying attention where I was—“

Angie is up in your face the instant the word hide leaves your lips, close enough that you can see your own frightened reflection in her glass eyes. Her jaw drops open, an approximation of a smile. “You’re trying to hide? You’re here to play hide-and-seek? Oh, we haven’t had a playmate in ages!” She bounces up and down on little wooden feet. The childish glee in her movements is uncannily lifelike. “Play with me, human! Let’s play!”

You steal a glance at Lady Beneviento, standing ramrod straight with her hands clasped in front of her. She remains silent but you think you can see her veiled head tilt to the side, as if waiting for your response. Your eyes fall back to Angie, still vibrating excitedly in her little wedding dress. 

Playing games with a talking doll certainly isn’t how you imagined your day would go when you got up this morning, but if going along with Angie’s demands will postpone your death at Lady Beneviento’s hands for tromping all over her dresses, then you suppose you don’t have much of a choice here. You offer the doll a shaky smile. “Of course, Miss Angie! I made a special trip here just to play hide-and-seek with you. Shall I hide first, or would you like to hide?”

Beady glass eyes roll in the doll’s head, her exasperation clear as day. A spindly wooden hand plucks up a dress still draped over your leg and flings it straight in your face, and you flinch out of reflex. “Hide-and-seek’s my favorite, but I’m not playing it with a idiot like you,” she jeers. “It wouldn’t be any fun if this is the best hiding spot your dumb human brain is able to come up with.”

Against your better judgement, you actually find yourself feeling insulted by the doll’s casual jab at your intelligence. “I assure you, I can do much better than crawling under Lady Beneviento’s skirts,” you sputter in indignation. And then you promptly clap your hands over your mouth because wow, that sounded a lot better in your head.

The wooden doll bursts into screeching, howling laughter. It’s not a pleasant sound. From the corner of your eye you can see Lady Beneviento shift on her feet, hands clenched together into white-knuckled claws.

Maybe Angie is right, maybe you are an idiot. You seem to be an idiot whenever you’re in the vicinity of this particular Lord, at least. It’s a distressing thought, and on any other day you would file it away in your mind and maybe later try to analyze exactly why you are unable to make intelligent life choices when within a ten foot radius of one of the most powerful figures of the village. As it is, however, this isn’t like any other day, and you are far too busy wondering how the dollmaker will dispatch of you to do any profound soul-searching right now.

Panicking, shaking, you prostrate yourself at the black-clad woman’s feet again. Hot tears are already beginning to blur your vision, so you squeeze your eyes shut. “Lady Beneviento,” you choke out. “Again, my deepest apologies for my transgressions and any inappropriate comments. I did not mean to insult you or cause any inconvenience or—“

Something brushes the crown of your head and it makes you clamp your jaw shut instantly. Whatever it is feels very soft, but it might as well be a branding iron for how violently you flinch at the touch. You dare to open your eyes and you can see the hem of Lady Beneviento’s skirt at the edge of your vision. Another gently insistent touch prompts you to raise your head.

You’re afraid of what you might see, but the sight that greets you is remarkably benign. A soft cotton handkerchief, embroidered with pretty little lilacs, offered from an outstretched hand with long, slender fingers and nails neatly painted the color of dark plums.

You stare past the handkerchief, past the hand, and into the mesh of the veil where you assume the lady’s eyes would be. Her shoulders stiffen as she seems to flinch away from your gawking, but she stands her ground and gestures with her other hand toward the embroidered cotton square.

Hands shaking, you take the offering and do your best to clean up your flushed, tear-stained face. The handkerchief has that same smell of cedar and rosewood. It’s calming and your stuttering heartbeat slowly begins to return to its normal rhythm.

Angie pipes up from somewhere behind you. “If you’re done being all weepy and dumb, let’s play tag now.” She punctuates her request with a sharp jab of her little wooden fist into your side and a cry of, “You’re it!” before running off.

You rise to your feet shakily and risk a glance at Lady Beneviento. She offers you nothing more than a silent stare and a slow tilt of her veiled head. 

Some residual sense of fear still taunts you, but it’s mostly faded by now. Turning to the direction where Angie had disappeared, you take a deep breath, stuff the soiled handkerchief into your pocket, and begin to run.

Playing tag with Angie is very much like playing tag with the village children you occasionally babysit for. When it’s your turn to chase, you purposely make your lunges exaggerated and dramatic, with missed attempts resulting in you on your hands and knees on the grass with her shrieking with laughter. And when it’s Angie’s turn, you allow her to topple you over with every tackle of her wooden body, covering your face with your hands while she pokes and prods at you on the ground.

Lady Beneviento sits quietly on her porch step watching, and in between each chase you can’t help but find yourself stealing glances in her direction. Are you doing this right? Are you doing a good job? Is she still thinking about killing you? God, you hope not.

After a good twenty minutes of tag, Angie tackles you to the ground one last time and flops down next to you triumphantly. “I win.”

“Yeah, you did,” you agree, pulling the handkerchief back out to dab at the sweat beading on your forehead. 

The doll crawls under the shade of a tree and leans against its trunk with a wistful sigh. “Maybe next time we can play hide-and-seek,” she says. “If you promise to come up with some better hiding spots, I mean.”

Returning to this place hadn’t really been in your plans, but you don’t want to voice that thought out loud. Angie mumbles a few more things under her breath but then goes quiet and still, resting against her tree. She’s… asleep? 

You don’t have time to wonder about what passes for sleep for an animated doll, because a flutter of black fabric appears in the corner of your eye and you whip around. Lady Beneviento has risen to her feet and slowly makes her way over to the clothesline. There’s a guilty, sinking feeling in your stomach when you see the jumble of dirtied clothes still in a pile on the grass.

You jump to your feet and jog over to her side. She freezes, a blouse hanging limp from one hand, and retreats a few steps backwards when she sees you approach. Biting your lip, you hold out the handkerchief and nod your head toward the laundry. “Lady Beneviento,” you stammer, “I-I will wash those for you. And your handkerchief too! Since it was my fault for, um, for knocking your things down.”

She shakes her head and waves a hand dismissively. This only makes the guilty pit in your stomach even worse and, feeling foolish, you dare to pick up one of the fallen dresses. The Lord is silent, watching you, but eventually she steps to the side and drags over a wicker basket you hadn’t noticed before. She gestures to the clothes, then to the basket, and you nod.

The two of you pick up all the clothes in silence. When every piece of laundry has been safely stowed away, you pluck up the courage to speak. “I mean it, you know. I would be happy to wash your things and bring them back to you, my lady. Please?”

She doesn’t respond, so you try again.

“I’m good at washing clothes. They’ll be fresh as new when I’m done. And, well, I can cook too. Maybe I could help you with other things as payment?” You’re rambling at this point, but her silence makes you nervous and you find you’re unable to stop. “I’ve been mostly doing whatever odd jobs I can find in the village, so I’m not picky. My family was killed by lycans a while back and it’s been pretty tough financially, so I take what I can get and, um. Well.“

You force yourself to shut up before you dig yourself even deeper into this proverbial hole. Embarrassment makes a heated flush rise in your cheeks. Pathetic. Lady Beneviento is one of the four Lords, she didn’t sign up to hear your life story—

“…Your family is gone?” The question comes from Angie, still sitting in the shade of her tree. Not asleep, then. Her grating voice is gentler than it had been before. Still standing across from you, Lady Beneviento says nothing, but you think you can hear a soft exhalation from somewhere behind her veil, a faint puff of air making the fabric flutter gracefully. There’s a burning sensation behind your eyes, and you find it’s easier to just stare down at the wicker laundry basket than to look at either the doll or her quiet maker.

Jaw set in a frown, you nod. “It was almost four months ago,” you reveal bitterly. “My parents and brother were all killed and there’s not much left of our house after the lycans sacked it. Some of my friends in the village have let me stay at their places, but they're struggling too, you know? The last thing anyone here needs is an extra mouth to feed. I don’t want to be a burden like that."

Yes, a burden. That’s what you feel like right now. A burden to your friends and definitely a burden to Lady Beneviento, who surely wants nothing more than for you to leave her alone so she can wash her clothes in peace. A tug somewhere around the back of your legs breaks you out of your musings and you turn around. Angie is standing there behind you, spindly wooden fingers clutched around a fistful of your grass-stained skirt. “You know,” the doll begins, glassy eyes darting back and forth between you and Lady Beneviento, “I was just telling Donna the other day, well, wouldn’t it be nice if we had a maid?”

You gape at her, then at the Lord, and back to the doll once more. “A maid?”

Angie shakes her handful of your skirt. “Yes! There’s a lot around here that needs work. The plants are all overgrown and the foyer needs a good dusting and that elevator is so rusty it sounds like Moreau puking whenever the door shuts.” She pokes at your legs. “Also, I like you! You’re good at tag! Even if you’re trash at hide-and-seek. If you worked here we could play some more.”

This is all moving so fast. One moment you’re running for your life, then you’re playing tag with a talking doll, and now you’re being offered a job. Wasn’t there supposed to be an interview part during a job application? Was your game of tag the interview? Oh, if only your family could see you now.

You’ve tuned out of the conversation for a moment, but then you realize Angie is still talking. “…be paid very well, and you’d be expected to live here with us. Not like you have anywhere else to stay!” Angie’s eyes roll over to Lady Beneviento, who makes a quick flexing motion with her hands. “Oh, fine. Donna says that was rude, so… sorry, I guess?” The doll looks back up at you. “What do you say? Wanna be our maid?”

You stare at the hopeful doll, then at Lady Beneviento, and finally down at the basket of laundry that had started this whole fiasco. Not for the first time, you wish your father was still here. You’d always been able to count on his advice whenever the world seemed a little too crazy for you to handle. “Gotta grab these opportunities when you see ‘em, kid. Whether it’s love or money or anything else, there’s nothin’ in this world’s going to come without a fight.” You can almost hear his gruff voice speaking those words. That’s probably what he would have told you. 

And, well. This is certainly an opportunity. It might be the best opportunity you could ever hope to find in this little village, and it’s not like you can live off the generosity of your friends forever.

Before, you would have felt more wary. It would be a lie to say you no longer feel any fear for Lady Beneviento, but both she and her doll seem much more human than you had originally expected. Among the villagers, Mother Miranda and her four Lords were spoken of with equal parts reverence and terror, and this is the first time you’ve even been in the presence of one of them. Certainly, you and Lady Beneviento could have met under better circumstances, but she has been… well, relatively kind to you.

An image springs up in your brain, of those beautiful hands holding out a handkerchief as you sob on the ground. 

Yes. She has definitely been kind to you.

You find yourself nodding as a hesitant smile spreads across your face. “…I would be happy to work as your maid, Lady Beneviento, Miss Angie.”

Angie lets out a cheer. “New maid, new maid! I’m gonna tell all our friends inside!” She dashes through the front door of the manor and out of sight. You can’t help but chuckle at the sight.

Lady Beneviento is still quietly standing there at the clothesline, the wicker laundry basket now held in her arms like a protective barrier, and your expression sombers quickly. You bow your head low. “I hope this is all okay with you, my lady?” you venture. “I assumed… ah, well, maybe it’s not my place to assume such things. But I assumed you and Miss Angie are connected in a way, and that the proposal of my… employment was your idea as well?”

Her veiled head dips in a slow nod, and you’re surprised at the amount of relief this brings you. The smile returns to your lips as you reach out to gently take the basket from her. “Then as your new maid, Lady Beneviento, I must insist I wash these clothes for you!” you say brightly. You wait a moment, but there’s no protest from her, either verbal or nonverbal, so you smile in triumph.

And then she speaks.

She speaks. You hear her voice, barely above a whisper, from behind the veil. “…Tell me, maid. Why did you really come here?”

The basket nearly drops from your arms but you secure it just in time, clutching it to your chest. Lady Beneviento’s voice is deeper than you would have expected, with a slightly raspy quality to her words, as if she hadn’t spoken out loud in a long time. She sounds simultaneously gentle and powerful and you find yourself shivering at the sound of those first few words you’ve ever heard from her. Your heart pounds and you manage to squeak out, “Wh-what?”

The Lord hesitates. Her body language is harder to read with most of her covered in draping black fabrics, but you can see it in the way her pale hands twist and wring together. “Angie believes you came to play games, and for her sake I would like it if you continue to go along with that story. But before she interrupted, you said you were looking for a place to hide.” That veiled head tilts to one side. “What were you running from?”

Your fingernails dig into the wicker basket as you squeeze your eyes shut, remembering the howling monsters and how close you had come to death today.

You open your eyes again. “Lycans,” you whisper shakily. “They chased me out of the village, and I ended up here. I tripped over a rock and fell into the contents of your clothesline, Lady Beneviento, and I still offer my deepest apologies for it.”

Lady Beneviento sighs. It’s a sympathetic sound. “A misunderstanding.”

You nod. “I apologize again for… misleading you and Miss Angie.”

“Let us hope that will be the last of our misunderstandings then,” the Lord says, stepping forward to push the manor’s doors open. “Come inside, and we’ll show you all your job will entail.”

Chapter Text

Lady Beneviento brings you into her home and you instantly fall in love.

You think the floors and wall panels are cherry, by their rich red color. Everything is intricately carved and beautifully preserved, if a tad dusty. You can see various pieces of furniture here and there, namely a rocking chair and its small matching table sitting lonely in the middle of the foyer as well as an old grandfather clock, a chest of drawers, and a record player tucked against the back wall.

“This way,” Lady Beneviento says softly, and you snap back to attention to see her halfway up the stairs to the second floor. You hurry over to follow her and your eyes are then drawn to a cloth-covered… something on the wall. From its size and rectangular shape you assume it to be a framed painting, but you don’t have time to ponder for long because the lady clears her throat and you hurry back to her side, murmuring a faint apology under your breath.

She leads you to one of the rooms and gestures inside with one hand. You peek your head through the doorway and are greeted with far more storage space than you’d currently know what to do with. The furniture within this room is made from a similar wood as what you saw in the foyer and includes a bed, a wardrobe and dresser, and a desk laden with books.

“Do you have personal belongings you’d like to retrieve from the village?” the Lord asks as you quietly take in the room.

“Not much. Some clothes, a few sentimental items, things like that,” you admit. It is with a slight feeling of embarrassment that you weigh the amount of space within the wardrobe and dresser against the number of clothes you actually own. Everything you have would barely fill even one drawer. After your home had been ransacked, you’d chosen to retrieve only a few things—all of which could be crammed into a single bag. After all, when you had to bounce back and forth between the residences of whichever friend could house you for the night, it was easier when you packed light. “I’ve been staying with my friend Elena and her father Leonardo for the last month or so. My things are all still at their house.”

Lady Beneviento twines her fingers together. “…If it feels too soon for you to move in, you can take a few days with your friends first.”

“No, no, there’s no need for that,” you quickly protest. “Elena doesn’t say so, but my being there is actually a big hassle for them. Also, I’ve been kind of… sleeping on their couch, so to be honest, this bed looks pretty damn inviting in comparison.”

Lady Beneviento shakes her head, but you swear you can hear the faintest huff of a laugh from beneath her veil. “Go retrieve your things and come back to me then.”

Thankfully, your trip back down to the village takes place without incident. The misty fog isn’t half as bad as it had been earlier and you vaguely wonder if somehow your fear had conjured it up. While you still tread cautiously, straining your ears for any telltale howls of lycans, you can at least retrace your steps at a much more leisurely pace and take in the surrounding area as you walk.

It’s… well, it’s something. You wouldn’t exactly call it pleasant. The trees are overgrown and have nearly swallowed up the path in a few spots. Gravestones are scattered here and there, some fairly new while others are so old their engraved text has been worn nearly illegible. You pass by a large grave surrounded by yellow flowers and your eyes are drawn to the broken plaque upon its surface. Most of the first name is missing, but the last name unmistakably reads Beneviento.

You stare at the grave for a moment. Was this person a relative of Lady Beneviento? Well, they must have been, of course. The finer details behind Lady Beneviento’s history are steeped in mystery but it’s common knowledge among the villagers that she lives alone as the last remaining member of her family. Earlier, Angie had sounded sympathetic when she’d inquired about the death of your own family. Perhaps she and Lady Beneviento understood your pain all too well.

You shake your head and resume walking.

It’s still fairly early in the morning and you don’t encounter anyone else as you pass through the gate separating Lady Beneviento’s territory from the rest of the village. Before you know it, you’re already standing at the front door of the Lupu residence and you are suddenly struck by the realization that you have no idea what you’re going to say to either Elena or her father.

There’s a blur of motion from behind a window and you think you can see a darkish blob resembling Elena’s hair. Sure enough, a few moments later your friend opens the door and blinks, surprised at the sight of you. “Oh!” she exclaims. “I thought that might be you. You’re certainly back early. I wasn’t expecting you for a couple hours yet. Weren’t you going to ask around the village for work?”

“Um. Yeah, so about that…” You sheepishly rub the back of your neck. “I think I found a job and a permanent place to stay? So I’m just here to pick up my stuff and…” The paltry explanation trails off when you notice the smile begin to slip from Elena’s face.

Your friend fixes you with an unimpressed scowl, then hauls you inside the house by the sleeve. She pushes you into the rickety wooden chair by the fireplace and crosses her arms. “Okay, what’s going on?” she says, in that same flat tone you’ve known her to use whenever she wasn’t in the mood for entertaining whatever bullshit you’d gotten into. “You’re gone for maybe two hours and in that amount of time you’ve somehow acquired housing and employment?“

“That just about sums it up.”

“What kind of job is this?” Elena presses insistently. There’s an urgent sort of concern reflected in her eyes; the same sort of worry you’ve seen on her face during times when Leonardo’s hunting trips have run too long into the night. “Is it… don’t tell me you’ve taken a position at Castle Dimitrescu! You know half the maids who go up there never come back!”

Her hands grab at your shoulders, anchoring you in place. You place your own hands over hers, trying to ease the tremors running through your friend’s body. “I am not employed under Lady Dimitrescu,” you say, trying to sound soothing. It helps a little bit—you can see Elena’s bloodless face slowly regaining color as you squeeze her hand. Still, though, she looks terrified.

“One of the other Lords, then?” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. It sounds like she’s trying to puzzle through what little you’ve told her. “But Lady Dimitrescu is usually the only one who employs women… Lord Heisenberg and Lord Moreau take the men, and Lady Beneviento… well, she hasn’t hired anyone in years, so it wouldn’t be her. Oh, how could it not be Lady Dimitrescu?” She squeezes her eyes shut, as if already mourning you.

“I am not employed under Lady Dimitrescu,” you repeat firmly. It’s the truth, after all, and if it brings Elena comfort, you will say it over and over again until she believes you.

Elena is tense and still for a long time, until finally she relaxes her grip upon your shoulders. “…Maybe I jumped to conclusions there,” she whispers, slowly lowering her hands. She takes the chair next to yours and the two of you sit in silence for a few moments. It feels a bit uncomfortable. Silences between you and Elena have never been so tense before.

“Tea?” you say, more an excuse to break the silence than anything else. The other woman makes a noncommittal noise that you take as ‘yes’ so you busy yourself with filling the kettle and lighting the wood within the stove. You hear the scrape of a chair and glance over your shoulder to see that Elena has followed you into the kitchen.

She tilts her head to one side and holds out her hands expectantly. “Well?” she says, with thinly veiled impatience.

You blink. “Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me where and what your new job is?” she demands.

You open your mouth and then promptly shut it, feeling hesitant. Elena had expressed relief at your insistence that your newfound employment was not at Castle Dimitrescu, but you’re not sure how warmly she would receive the news that you’ll be staying with Lady Beneviento instead. Here in the village, the Lords were revered figures to be both respected and feared—preferably from a distance. Even though Lady Beneviento had shown you nothing but kindness so far, it’s unlikely Elena or any of your other friends would understand your willingness to work for her.

“I met someone who lives on the outskirts of the village,” you finally say, avoiding Elena’s eyes and setting two cups, sprinkled with dried tea leaves, onto the kitchen table. “She said I could live there in exchange for doing some chores around her property.”

Your friend is giving you that unimpressed glare again. “Okay, and does this mystery person happen to have a name?”

“I… I didn’t ask?”

It’s a feeble attempt at deception and both of you know it. Never in your entire life have you been able to lie convincingly, and that certainly hasn’t changed now. Elena buries her head in her hands. “I can’t believe you’re not being honest with me about this,” she grumbles. “Look, I know Pa and I are stretched a little thin right now, but you’re like family to us and you can stay as long as it takes for you to get back on your feet again.”

“There’s no need for that. I found a job, a real job. I swear!”

“A real job for some mystery woman you can’t even tell your best friend about!” Elena snaps. “I know desperate times call for desperate measures, but still—you can’t just wag your tail and roll over for any pretty face you see. There are some awful people in the village. They might be trying to take advantage of you.”

On the tip of your tongue is the retort that you have no idea if Lady Beneviento has a pretty face to roll over for, but you bite it back just in time. The kettle starts whistling and you hurry to pour the boiling water. Both you and Elena stare down at the steaming cups, but neither of you make any move to drink.

Finally, she raises her eyes to yours. Her mouth is set in a stoic frown as she says, “Your stuff is still where you left it this morning.”

Your head bobs with a stiff nod. Walking past the tea, you make your way over to the old couch where you had slept the night before. Your bag is laying open on the leftmost cushion and you do a quick inventory check. There really isn’t much there. Your wallet of lei. A few of your nicer clothes. Your mother’s dogeared cookbook. Your father’s favorite hunting knife. The violin your brother sometimes liked to practice with.

The sight of that old violin brings a tightness to your chest and you wrap it back in its protective cocoon of clothes. It wouldn’t do you any good to dwell on the past right now, you think to yourself as you turn to leave.

Halfway out the door, you’re halted by a light tug on the back of your shirt. You glance back and shoot your friend a questioning look as she slowly lowers her hand. “Hey,” Elena says, eyes fixed on the floor. “Um, I’m sorry I got mad. I’m just worried and… and look, I know the job search isn’t really any of my business, but if you get in trouble or anything, just… promise you’ll tell me, okay?”

The tenseness between the two of you breaks and you can’t help but sag in relief as tears threaten to fill your eyes. “Of course,” you vow, and Elena must sense the authenticity of your words because her face lightens into a shaky smile.

“Oh, go on and run away to your mystery woman now,” she sighs with a swat against your shoulder, and you can’t help but laugh at that.

With your bag slung over one shoulder and your heart feeling considerably lighter now, you make your way back to Lady Beneviento.

When you return, the rest of your first day at the estate is spent in relative leisure. Lady Beneviento is nowhere to be seen so Angie gives you a tour of the rest of the manor—a task that takes longer than strictly necessary since she makes sure to introduce every single doll you two come across. She also brings you outside to explore the gardens and the small, connected greenhouse. The only locations in the entire property you are barred from entering are Lady Beneviento’s bedroom and her workshop, and you quickly commit those two places to memory.

Meals come without any action on your part, which is a bit of a surprise to you. You thought you might be tasked with the cooking from now on, but when you bring this up with Angie at dinnertime, she only shrugs.

“Donna likes to cook,” the doll says, sliding a heaping plate your way. It’s piled high with fragrant veal shanks atop a soft, buttery rice mixture.

You inhale the savory aroma of the food and nearly moan out loud. “What is it? I’ve never seen a dish like this before.”

“Osso buco and risotto. Donna is Italian through and through, and it shows in her cooking! Don’t let her catch you breaking the spaghetti in half, that’s a surefire way to piss her off.”

You carefully cradle the plate with both hands, while Angie carries your fork and knife. “Where should I eat?”

The doll stares at you, and if she could blink in confusion she surely would have chosen to do so at this moment. “…The dining room, of course. What, didn’t they teach you anything in villager school?”

You stare down at your food for a moment. Lady Beneviento hadn’t been in the dining room when you and Angie passed through on the way to the elevator, and she certainly isn’t here in the kitchen with the two of you right now. Chewing your lip, you broach the topic as delicately as you can. “And the lady? Will she be eating with us there?”

Angie nearly trips and juggles your cutlery in midair for a second or two, a sight that might have been humorous if not for the imminent threat of that shiny steel knife stabbing you in the leg. “Why’re you asking something like that?” she demands, a tad aggressively. Despite the doll’s diminutive size, she reminds you very much of a protective mother bear at this moment.

“No reason!” you squeak, courage quickly waning. “I just thought it… it might be nice?”

The doll just grumbles in response. You nervously eye the steak knife still tucked between her wooden arms and opt to remain silent as the two of you head back up to the main floor. You plop yourself down at the dining room table and nibble at your dinner, but there’s an uncomfortable twisting sensation in your gut that makes the food seem less appealing than before.

“Donna’s eating in the study today,” Angie says at last, seated atop a pile of books on one of the other chairs.

You frown, swirling your fork around the risotto. “…Is it because of me?”

“Probably.” When you wilt at this, the doll quickly amends her response. “It’s not your fault! Donna’s just really shy, you know? But she’s happy you’re here, I swear. She’s just not so good at showing it.”

You brighten a bit at Angie’s declaration and the next bite of veal is a burst of flavor across your tongue. “I’m happy to be here too,” you say, beaming. A little smile stays on your face through the rest of dinner, and when you retire to your room for the night, you feel… hopeful about your future here. More hopeful than you’ve felt for months, when the death of your family had sent you spiraling into despair.

There’s no way around the fact that Lady Beneviento is shy about being around you. This is fine, you reason. Her reclusiveness was common knowledge here in the village. You just hope that someday, she might feel more comfortable in your presence. You fall asleep dreaming about cooking side by side with the Lord, and taking your meals with her at the table, and all sorts of ordinary, domestic things you’ve perhaps taken for granted all these years.

Your second day at the estate sees you being awakened by sharp fingers prodding at your face until you manage to force your eyes open and squint at the culprit. Angie kneels atop your chest with her grinning porcelain face a mere inch from yours, and you’re so startled you scream and fall off the bed into a tangled heap.

The doll shrieks with laughter. “Good mooooorning! Oh, I got you! I got you good, didn’t I?”

You can only groan in response. There’s a faint pitter-patter of Angie’s little wooden feet as she dances around your body. Sitting up, you rub the sleep from your eyes and stretch. “Time to get to work, I suppose?” you manage through a huge yawn.

“Sure is!” Angie affirms. “First thing Donna wants you to do is wash the clothes you got all dirty yesterday. Might as well wash your things too, while you’re at it.”

“Sounds good.” You gently shoo the doll out of the room so you can get dressed, and then make your way back down to the foyer. Angie greets you again at the bottom of the stairs and she leads you to a small laundry room with a washtub already filled with warm, soapy water. The wicker basket containing Lady Beneviento’s clothes is already there, and you dump your own items into a second, matching basket.

You take a moment to look over your setup. It’s better than what you’re used to, honestly. Laundry is one of those tasks no one in the village seems to enjoy doing, so over the last few months of desperately grabbing any odd jobs you could find to add some lei to your wallet, you’ve done a lot of other people’s laundry.

A quick glance reveals that the basket contains all the same items you’d seen yesterday on the clothesline—dresses, shirts, skirts. It seems there’s no expectation for you to wash any of the more… intimate articles of clothing Lady Beneviento possesses. There had been a small drying rack in your room that you plan to use for your bras and underwear, and you suspect the Lord perhaps has something similar in her own room. Secluded as her estate happens to be, you’re sure she wouldn’t want items like that hanging from her clothesline for the rare visitor to see.

Either way, you thank Mother Miranda for small favors. After that one week of washing Anton’s sweaty socks and underwear, you had sworn to yourself never again. It was just far too awkward.

You grab a dress and start scrubbing away. The washboard is a bit nicer than the kind most of the villagers have and Lady Beneviento’s things are only lightly dusted with dirt at the most, so the job passes quickly. You’re maybe halfway through the Lord’s basket when you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Elbow deep in sudsy water, you turn and see the black-clad woman peering through the doorway at you.

Hesitantly, you wave at her. The action splashes a bit of water down your front so you hurriedly plunge your hand back into the washtub.

Lady Beneviento taps her fingers against the doorframe. “…Softer, please.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Your method of scrubbing is a little too… rough.”

Your face flushes red. “Oh! My apologies… Um, how’s this instead?” You demonstrate for her, much more gently this time. She dips her head in approval and then retreats from sight. Letting out a shaky breath, you return to your work. Your heart thuds, much louder than before.

Upon finishing the first part of your task, you bring the baskets of washed laundry out to the clothesline and that is when you discover a problem. It’s a problem that has caused minor inconvenience in several moments of your life, from the annual forays to the apple orchard to the times your mother had asked you to grab whatever herb or spice she had stowed away in the kitchen cupboards. 

To put it simply… you are short.

Not excessively so, but you are certainly a bit below the average height of the other adult women in this village’s little corner of Romania, and even though Lady Beneviento doesn’t approach the ridiculous stature of Lady Dimitrescu, well. She’s still much taller than you. And it’s obvious that the clothesline in front of you is tailored to her height.

Of course it is. It’s her clothesline, after all.

You stretch your arms up and the wire is just barely out of your reach. Frustrated, you lower them with a huff. Your mother and father, when they were still alive, had been tall. Your brother had been tall. And yet, genetics had blessed you with a physical makeup that, while handy for squeezing into nooks and crevices during any future games of hide-and-seek with Angie, was far less useful when presented with the simple task of hanging your lady’s clothes up to dry.

You step back, cross your arms, and rack your brain for a solution.

There was a folding step stool you’d seen tucked away in a corner of the laundry room, you recall. You hurry back into the manor and bring it out now. It seems stable enough here, even though the ground is a little uneven in spots, and you test your weight on the bottom rung. It holds.

Satisfied, you begin hanging up the clothes, humming to yourself. You think maybe you’re using an excessive amount of clothespins, but you’d rather be safe than sorry. The last thing you want is for Lady Beneviento’s things to end up on the ground again.

When the contents of the first basket are all pinned onto the clothesline, fluttering cheerfully in the breeze, you look down at the second, rather emptier basket containing the few things you own. There is still plenty of room left on the clothesline, but you hesitate. Would it be okay for you to put your clothes right next to the Lord’s? She didn’t say you couldn’t, so… surely she wouldn’t mind?

Slowly, you pick up a dress from your basket. It’s one of the nicer ones you own, a gift from your mother for your last birthday, and you fondly trace your finger along the soft cream-colored cotton. It’s a cheerful spring garment, and when you hang it on the line next to one of Lady Beneviento’s somber black blouses, the contrast makes you smile in amusement.

You continue with the rest of your clothes, scooting the step stool along as you go, until your basket is empty as well. It’s not much, but… well, you can’t help but feel satisfied at the sight of the task you’ve completed. With any hope, you can at least say you’ve repaid your original debt to the dollmaker for what happened yesterday.

…Or not. For when you do a quick once-over along the clothesline, your eyes are drawn to that last blouse of Lady Beneviento’s, the one hanging right next to your cream dress. It’s a button-up blouse and you can definitely see that there’s a button missing.

“Shit,” you hiss. Hurriedly, you scramble back up the step stool and grab at the garment. Maybe you just forgot to do up one of the buttons? Nope, it’s just plain missing. There’s even a bit of fraying thread hanging from the fabric where it should have been sewn in.

You think back to Lady Beneviento gently chastising you for scrubbing the laundry too roughly. Was that when it happened? Come to think of it, you’re pretty sure you can recall a moment where something on that same black blouse had snagged against the washboard. That was probably when the button had been pulled off. And you’ve already dumped the water from the washtub into the drain, so that button is probably halfway to Lord Moreau’s reservoir by now.

Sighing, you go to pull the blouse down. It holds tight on the way-too-many clothespins you used and, with a cry, you find yourself overbalancing and tumbling off the step stool. You land in a way that knocks the breath from your lungs, and then the step stool lands on top of you, its top step smacking against the side of your neck hard enough that you know it’ll leave a bruise. And as if to add insult to injury, the blouse is still hanging from the line by a single clothespin.

Sore and winded, you lay there on the ground for a moment and think to yourself that at the rate your current employment with Lady Beneviento seems to be going, maybe you’d be better off at Castle Dimitrescu after all.

When you’ve recovered, you get back to your feet and pull the blouse more carefully from the clothesline. Upon closer inspection, you can see it’s a common sort of top that many of the women in the village wear. You’re pretty sure Luiza has this same shirt. An idea springs to your head: if you can find a replacement button to sew back on, then Lady Beneviento probably won’t know the difference.

But where to get a matching button?

Maybe one of the villagers or even Luiza have a spare they’d be willing to part with. Or even better, if the Duke is nearby he’ll surely have something you can use. With that in mind, you tuck the blouse under your arm and hurry back down to the village. The garment is still damp and it leaves an unpleasant chill against your side, but you grit your teeth and ignore it as best you can.

The village is busier than when you’d gone to retrieve your things from the Lupu residence yesterday, and you attract a few curious looks when you jog through the gate and weave past the altar. The Duke has set up his shop here today and you could almost weep at the sight.

“Welcome,” the merchant says warmly. “How goes your job search? I regret to say I am not hiring at the moment, but if you’re looking to make a purchase, I’m sure I have everything you could possibly—“

“Buttons!” you cut in, shaking the blouse urgently in his direction. He blinks at your interruption and you find yourself wilting a bit at your rudeness. “Oh, s-sorry. It’s just… uh, I really need a replacement button for this top and I’m in a big hurry, so…”

You trail off, feeling ridiculous, but he gestures for you to continue. More gently this time, you hold up Lady Beneviento’s blouse. “Duke,” you beg, “please say you have spare buttons like these in stock?”

“I certainly do,” the man says with a smile, and you let out a sigh of relief. He rummages through the back of the carriage and emerges with a glass jar filled to the brim with shiny metal buttons. In the meantime, you reach into your pocket to grab your wallet.

Your hand comes up empty.

Oh, your wallet is still in your room at the manor. Of course it is.

The Duke, perceptive as always, is quick to read your crestfallen expression. “Oh,” he chuckles. “Forgotten something, have we?”

You almost have to shove a fist in your mouth to stifle the frustrated scream bubbling up from your chest. “Lady Beneviento is going to be so upset with me.”

You hadn’t meant to say it out loud and you know you’ve made a mistake when the handful of villagers also perusing the Duke’s wares all turn to look at you and begin whispering among themselves. On the other hand, the Duke himself leans forward with an eager, curious smile. He pops the jar open and withdraws a single button, holding it before you.

“Yours for free, in exchange for sharing what troubles you,” he offers benignly.

With longing, you stare at the little metal disc. “Duke, that’s embarrassing,” you whine. “And it’s not even that interesting of a story.”

He just smiles a little wider. “Indulge a merchant’s curiosity?”

Defeated, your eyes fall to the damp blouse still clasped between your fidgeting hands. “Lady Beneviento offered me a job and a place to stay,” you reveal, trying to be as concise as possible. “I must have pulled this button off somehow, and I’m afraid she’ll be angry if she finds out.”

“Ah!” the Duke cries with a clap of his pudgy hands. “I was wondering when I saw you coming through that gate. Not many travel that way, as you know. But still, Lady Beneviento is a gentle soul. I am sure she will be understanding.”

 “She already told me I was being too rough,” you admit, and the whispering behind you grows louder at this.

The Duke hums. He gestures for your hand and presses the button into it. “Well, in the throes of passion, we sometimes forget ourselves, don’t we? Shirts ripping, buttons flying, ah, I’m certain the lady appreciates your enthusiasm still.” He winks.

You return his entertained look with a noncommittal shrug. Personally, you don’t think the sight of yourself scrubbing piles of laundry while bent over a washboard is the sort of thing that would drive Lady Beneviento to great passion, but the Duke certainly knows more about the mysterious dollmaker than you do, so you opt to keep your mouth shut and close your fist around the offering.

Then you realize you’ve forgotten something. “Um, do you also have a needle and thread?”

“I do,” the merchant affirms cheerfully. He pulls out a little spool of black thread and a needle secured within a scrap of fabric. “All yours for just twenty lei.”

You pause, hand already outstretched, and narrow your eyes at him. “…You gave me the button for free.”

“And that is where my charity ends, I’m afraid.” The Duke leans back and seems completely unfazed by your outraged look. “I daresay Lady Beneviento already owns more needles and thread than she knows what to do with. Surely you can make the necessary repairs once you’re back at her manor?”

“But I don’t want her to know about all this!”

“Transparency is very important in a relationship,” the Duke says wisely. “Go to her. I have known Lady Beneviento for many years, and I can promise you this: she will not be upset at an honest mistake.”

Defeated, you turn away. Anxiety is still gnawing away at your nerves, but the weight of the tiny metal button in your fist feels grounding in a way. Folding the damp blouse back under your arm, you make your way back to the estate and pray under your breath that the Duke’s assessment of your employer is correct.

You were hoping your detour might have gone unnoticed, but when you arrive back at the manor you can see that is not the case. Lady Beneviento is there right now, standing by the clothesline and staring at the empty spot where her missing blouse should have been hanging. Her back is to you, but you can tell she hears your approach by the way her shoulders tense.

Pausing a few steps back, you hold the garment between shaking hands and wait.

It’s a standstill.

You’re not sure if you should speak first—fall to your knees again and beg her forgiveness, perhaps—but then she turns to face you and beckons with one hand. She gestures to the blouse and you hand it to her; she pins it back onto the line with an ease that makes you recall your own clumsy attempts with an embarrassed swallow. 

The Lord pauses as she adjusts the hanging top, fingers brushing over the site of the missing button, and you can’t help yourself. You thrust your hand forward, opening your fist to reveal the replacement you’d received from the Duke. “I-I think I tore it on the washboard earlier,” you confess, wincing at the sound of your words. “So I went to the village and the Duke gave me this for free, but I forgot my wallet so I couldn’t buy the needle and thread to fix it.”

Lady Beneviento carefully plucks the button from your palm. She rolls it between her long fingers and your heartbeat quickens at the sight. “Why?” she says quietly.

You force your gaze back up to the mesh of her veil. “What?”

“I have dozens of these buttons in my workshop, and plenty of sewing supplies. Why did you go through all the trouble of visiting the Duke when I could have easily repaired this at home?”

She doesn’t exactly sound angry, but still there’s a certain strained quality to her voice and you cringe under the questioning. “I thought you would be upset,” you admit.

A pause, and then a fervent shake of her veiled head. “I wouldn’t be upset by something so small as a missing button.”

“But you are upset about something,” you dare to say.

Her fingers flex, tendons twitching through the backs of ghostly pale hands. The Lord clasps those hands together, as if willing them to sit still, and you’re about to apologize for speaking too freely when her shuddered voice cuts you off. “…I thought you’d left me.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “Well, I… I have no other home or job to return to elsewhere, Lady Beneviento, so if it’s any reassurance, please believe me when I say I have no intention of running away.”

“You will. Everyone does eventually,” she whispers.

Her tone, so sad and defeated, invites no argument. Instead, you look back over to the hanging black blouse. “…So, I never learned how to sew from my mother,” you tentatively reveal. It’s a clumsy change of subject, but it’s the only thing you can think of at the moment. “The last time I did a button, it didn’t turn out very well. Maybe when this is dry, you can teach me?”

Lady Beneviento stares at you for a long moment, and then nods. She takes your hand and presses the metal button back into your palm, and you shiver at the gentle brush of her fingers against yours.

Chapter Text

Despite all the fiascos you have caused in such a short period of time, you feel like the relationship between Lady Beneviento and yourself somehow… improves, as the week progresses.

It starts small. On your third day of employment, you wake and find a small breakfast of coffee and some sort of sweet breakfast pastry already laid out for you at the dining room table. Afterwards, you head outside to the clothesline and, perched atop the step stool, you carefully pull all the dry clothes off the wire and fold each item into a clean basket. You drop off Lady Beneviento’s basket outside her bedroom door and bring your own things back to your room. Under Angie’s instruction, you spend the next few hours carefully dusting the woodwork in the foyer.

Miraculously, this task is completed without incident. In the back of your mind, you entertain the thought that perhaps the only reason for the lack of disaster is that dusting doesn’t have anything to do with laundry.

Lunch is taken with only Angie for company, once again. Today’s midday meal starts off with pieces of tomato, melon, basil, and some kind of smooth white cheese you’re not familiar with. Everything is neatly speared through little wooden skewers and drizzled with a sweet, dark sauce that tastes strongly of vinegar. This is followed by a dish of homemade pasta in buttery sauce, sprinkled with chopped parsley. Last is a small serving of sliced chicken cooked with lemon and garlic. It’s all so delicious and Angie seems delighted by your enthused reactions at each new recipe.

Stomach comfortably full, you’re surprised when you then return to the kitchen, empty plates in hand, to see Lady Beneviento at the sink washing dishes. It sends a pang to your heart when you notice how she tenses as you approach, so you do your best to smile and try to look as nonthreatening as possible. “I can finish washing those if you’d like?” you offer, and after a brief hesitation she shuffles over to the side and awkwardly stands there watching you.

You add your plates and silverware to the sink and begin scrubbing away. Over the splashing of the water, you say to her, “The food was delicious.”

She says nothing, but in the corner of your eye you think you can see her standing a little straighter. Encouraged, you add, “I finished with the dusting. Did you have something else for me to do after this?”

Lady Beneviento doesn’t respond for a long time. In fact, you almost resign yourself to the fact that you probably won’t be hearing her speak today. But then she does, and her voice is laced with quiet hesitation. “…Are you ready for your sewing lesson?”

You’re honestly a bit surprised she’s taking you up on your suggestion from yesterday. Surely she must have more important things to do than teaching her maid how to properly sew a button… but yet here she is, offering just that. You give an eager nod. “Yes, of course! I-I mean—“ You clear your throat. “I would be honored to learn from you, Lady Beneviento.”

She clasps her hands together and gently sways from side to side. It’s not your place to say such things, but you’d be willing to bet a good chunk of lei that she’s excited about teaching you. “Then I’ll go gather all the things we need. Please meet me in the dining room when you’re done here,” she says, before disappearing from the kitchen.

The rest of the dishes are washed and dried as quickly as you can. You’re almost dizzy with anticipation. The fact that the Lord is excited about the lesson is exciting to you in turn, and you have to take a few deep breaths to calm your nerves. You’re in such a hurry to join her that you completely forgo the towel by the sink in favor of just patting your hands dry on your skirt as you make your way back to the dining room. She’s sitting at the table there with the damaged blouse, some pieces of fabric, and a whole bunch of those shiny metal buttons.

You sit at the chair opposite of hers. Immediately, there is a square of scrap cotton being pushed your way, followed by a needle and thread, a pair of sewing scissors, and a single button. Lady Beneviento gestures down at the items before you. “Let’s begin,” she says simply.

You stare at the cotton square, then at the Lord, and then back at the square again. “Aren’t you going to show me how first?”

“I can correct you as we go along, but I’d like to see where our starting point is first.”

“Um. Okay.” Feeling self-conscious and even a little bit foolish, you thread the needle and clumsily sew the first button into the fabric. It’s… well, it’s solid. That’s about the nicest thing you can think to say about your attempt. It would probably be fine for work clothes being worn by a commoner, but nothing fancier than that.

“I told you I’m not very good at this,” you sigh, placing the cotton scrap into the Lord’s open hand.

Lady Beneviento examines your work, holding the fabric close to the mesh of her veil. Not for the first time, you wonder how well she can actually see through the thing. She tugs at the button experimentally, then flips the fabric over to examine the stitches on the opposite side. The cotton square is a pale yellow in color, and the black thread of your clumsy stitches stands out in stark contrast.

“You have the right idea,” she says. In your opinion, that’s a very generous way of putting it. The Lord rethreads the needle and sews another button onto the fabric, right next to yours. She does it quite slowly, with the fabric angled in a way that allows you to easily see what she is doing. Then the fabric is handed back to you, along with another loose button. “Try again, but make your stitches smaller like mine.”

You complete a second attempt and hand the cotton square over to her; she comments on your technique and demonstrates again for you, pointing out things that you did correctly and things that still needed more work. This sort of back-and-forth goes on for some time until finally you produce a perfectly sewn button.

Very quickly, your exhilaration is replaced with a fresh wave of anxiety when Lady Beneviento then picks up the damaged blouse and asks, “Would you like to try the real thing now?”

You hesitate. “What if I mess it up?”

“Then I’ll cut the stitches out and we can try again. But I don’t think it will come to that. Here, I’ll show you where to start.” The dollmaker places a threaded needle into your grip. Her fingers glide over your hand, nearly intertwining with yours as she guides the point of the needle into the correct spot. Barely daring to breathe, you give a dumb nod in response as goosebumps prickle over your skin. 

Lady Beneviento’s hands are soft but not without wear. There are calluses on her fingertips and the dark polish on her nails is beginning to chip in a few places. Almost invisible against the alabaster of her skin is a crisscrossing web of scars across her knuckles. You think about placing your other hand over hers at this moment—of curling your fingers around hers and running a thumb over the back of her hand.

But no. She brings her hands back to the table, folded neatly in front of her, and you forcibly remind yourself of the task at hand. Sewing lesson. Sewing lesson. Mother Miranda’s sake, stop getting distracted!

Luckily, all those practice buttons have paid off. Even with your hands shaking a bit from nerves, you manage to complete the task without sticking yourself with the needle. You’re beaming as you hold up the blouse, turning it inside-out to reveal the neat little stitches on the other side. “I did it!”

Lady Beneviento claps her hands together. Even though her face is hidden as always, she’s emanating a sort of energy you can only describe as delight. The thought of inspiring some kind of genuine happiness to the Lord fills you with a bubbly, giddy excitement that flushes your cheeks and spreads warmth all through your chest. 

Oh. It feels so good to make her happy.

As the days pass, you find the Lord still isn’t exactly… outgoing around you yet. Quite the opposite, in fact—she’s still quite shy. She doesn’t eat meals around you and there are long stretches of time at the estate where you don’t see or hear anything from her at all. But there are other times that make you think she’s trying. Little bottles of soaps and lotions to keep your hands soft had appeared outside your bedroom door one day. And then, just yesterday while you were weeding the garden, the lady herself had brought out a pitcher of cold water and a platter of fresh fruit for you. Things like that.

Angie had mentioned earlier that Lady Beneviento was happy you’re here. You just hope you won’t let her down in any way.

It’s on day six that you return to the village. Today’s dinner will be a delectable-sounding rabbit stew, so Lady Beneviento tasks you with visiting the butcher. She tells you this herself, rather than through Angie, which you take to be a good sign. The Lord isn’t terribly talkative most of the time, so getting to hear her voice feels like an achievement in and of itself.

The trip to the butcher shop is uneventful, although when you pass through the more crowded streets it seems like a lot of people are pointing and looking your way. Pausing at a nearby window, you give yourself a quick once-over. The dirty glass isn’t the most flattering mirror out there, but still you’re pretty sure there’s nothing so wrong with your appearance that would cause all the attention you seem to be attracting.

Strange.

It’s a similar thing that happens when you arrive at the butcher shop. The older man seated behind the counter gives a quick glance when you push open the door, but then he does a double take as you wander a bit closer. He jumps to his feet and smooths out all the wrinkles in his blood smeared apron.

“It’s you!” he exclaims. There’s something in his voice that makes you think of the way villagers address the four Lords or Mother Miranda—a mixture of awe and fear. That sort of tone is not something you’ve ever heard directed at yourself of all people, and you immediately feel uneasy. Out of instinct you turn your head to see if the butcher is greeting someone standing behind you instead, but no. It’s just you here in the shop.

Unnerved, you point a hesitant finger toward your own face. “You’re talking to… me, right?”

“Yes, of course! You’re Lady Beneviento’s new employee, aren’t you?”

Surprise makes your mouth fall open as an unpleasant swooping sensation makes itself known in your stomach. “How did—where did you hear something like that?” you squawk.

The man shrugs, as if such a detail isn’t important. “Well, I was looking to buy a new whetstone at the Duke’s a few days back, see. That was when you came running through Lady Beneviento’s gate looking for buttons and thread. Now, my ears aren’t what they used to be, but I’m pretty sure you said something about working for the dollmaker now.”

So much for keeping your job a secret. You can’t help but cringe. News of your employment was always going to get out eventually, but you had hoped it would take a little more time.

The butcher perhaps misinterprets your reluctant expression. “No need to look so worried, miss. I am still more than willing to do business with you. In fact, I often reserve the very best selections of meat for the Lords. Anything Lady Beneviento wants is yours to take, for a very fair price.”

“A rabbit, please,” you say at once. At this point, you just want to finish this task and return to the manor. “Actually, can you make that two rabbits?”

“An excellent choice,” the butcher says. “Lucky for you, I have here two rabbits left. Very young, very tender. The lady will not be disappointed, I assure you.” He wraps the meat in brown paper, neatly tying the whole thing together with a length of coarse twine. You dig into the pouch of lei you’d been sent with and slide the appropriate amount onto the counter.

The exchange is made and you grab the bundle of meat. Wrapped package in hand, you exit the shop and nearly jump out of your skin when you immediately come face-to-face with an irritated Elena. Hands on her hips, your friend shoots you a withering glare and says, “So. What do you have to say for yourself right now?”

Still somewhat in shock, you just wave the little package of meat in her direction. With furrowed brows, you shift on your feet and try your best to disguise the fact that you have no idea what Elena is talking about right now. “Um. Sorry for buying the last of the rabbit?” you try weakly. 

Her face scrunches up at your feeble response. “Is that what you think this is about?” she hisses. The two of you are starting to attract attention so she lets out a great sigh and grabs your arm, leading you to a more secluded spot between a couple of buildings. Still feeling bewildered, you sit on a tree stump and place the wrapped meat to the side as your friend paces back and forth, clearly agitated.

Midstep, she suddenly pivots and points an accusing finger at you. When she speaks, her voice is an odd mix of anger, worry, and betrayal. “I am so mad at you right now!”

“Elena, please!” you plead, shaking. Coursing through your veins is confusion and shock and a whole bunch of other things you don’t really want to be feeling right now. “I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you, but I’m sorry! I am, really!”

Elena pauses at the raw emotion in your voice, and she seems to deflate at the sight of your stricken eyes and the ashen pallor your face has taken on. Her next words are spoken very slowly, and with a hint of disbelief. “…You really don’t have a clue what I’m angry about, do you?”

“I’ll swear it on my family’s grave, Elena. Please.”

“Fine.” Your friend leans heavily against a wall and begins to aggressively pick at the flaking paint there. “I’ll give you a hint. It has something to do with your cozy new job with Lady Beneviento.”

Oh. Oh.

You run your tongue over suddenly dry lips. “…So you know about that too, huh?”

“Everyone in the entire village knows!” Elena exclaims, clenching her fist and slamming it against the wall. “You know how fast rumors spread here. It’s all anyone has been talking about the last couple days.” She glares at you then, with eyes full of hurt. “I can’t believe I had to learn about this… thing you have with one of the Lords through a bunch of gossip instead of from my best friend’s own mouth!”

Your jaw had dropped sometime during Elena’s outburst, but now you clamp it shut with a dull sensation of guilt bubbling up in your throat. You stare down at your feet. “I knew you’d worry if I told you,” you mumble, but the excuse feels hollow.

“Well, you got that right. I am worried. But more than that, I’m just relieved to see you’re still in one piece,” Elena sighs. She looks you up and down. Her next words, lowered to nearly a whisper, are spoken with what you can only describe as some sort of morbid curiosity. “Lady Beneviento is, um… gentle with you, right?”

At this point you’re feeling almost desperate for some approval from your friend, so you nod vigorously. “Yes! She’s very kind, very gentle.” Your mind wanders back to the sewing lesson and the way the Lord’s fingers had danced over yours, soft and guiding. The memory makes your lips curl into a dreamy smile. “Her hands, especially. Lady Beneviento has lovely hands. She’s already taught me a lot.”

Elena makes an odd choking noise. “God, forget I asked—that’s already way more than I needed to know.” She hesitates for a moment or two, and then taps a finger against the side of her own neck. “And what about that?” she asks, voice still laden with a reluctant inquisitiveness.

You stare at her, momentarily confused, before remembering the nasty bruise you’d received on your neck when you fell while hanging things on the clothesline that first time. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, you rub a hand over the purplish mark. “I, uh. I fell.”

“Fell doing what?”

Embarrassment makes the blood rush to your face. “I was struggling with Lady Beneviento’s clothes and I fell off the step stool I was using.”

“You need a step stool to undress her?” Elena looks like she’s torn halfway between laughter and screaming. “Are you sure it’s not actually Lady Dimitrescu you’re working for?”

“Wait, wait. Why would I undress her?” you ask, bewildered. The mere thought of it deepens your blush, and you do your best to push such an idea from your head. “Elena, why would you say something like that? Are we even talking about the same thing here?”

The other woman is giving you that weird, disbelieving look again. “You are working for Lady Beneviento, right?” she says slowly, as if speaking to a toddler.

You nod just as slowly. “Yes.”

“You live there with her now?”

“Yes.”

“And you two are sleeping together.”

“Yes—no! Absolutely not!” The shock of it all makes you nearly fall off the tree stump. “I’m there as her maid, nothing more. We have a completely professional relationship!” You suck in several deep, calming breaths. This time it’s harder to empty your head of such a scandalous idea; you’re doing everything in your power not to imagine it right now, but the memory of the Lord’s beautiful hands pops up in your brain again—markedly less innocent than before. “Why would you think I’m doing… doing that with Lady Beneviento?”

Your friend rolls her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says flatly, “maybe because a little bird told me that a few days ago, you visited the Duke all panicky about her being upset with you for losing a few buttons after ripping her shirt off.”

“But that’s not how it happened!” you wail in protest. “I ripped that blouse on the washboard when I was doing the laundry, that’s all.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

Elena exhales sharply and squeezes her eyes shut. “Well, this is awkward. Because the whole village is convinced you two are lovers now.”

“The… the whole village?” Blood is beginning to roar in your ears. You take a staggered step backwards. “What do you mean the whole village?”

A grim shake of your friend’s head is the answer to your fears. “I already told you, didn’t I? You and Lady Beneviento—it’s all anyone has been talking about these days.”

Oh, this is bad. The butcher is just one person. Elena is just one person. But everyone in the village? You jump to your feet and bolt toward the gate. Elena is yelling at you—yelling about how you’re forgetting something—but you barely register her voice over the thunder of your heartbeat. Everybody’s looking at you. Everybody’s staring. They all think you and Lady Beneviento are…

You don’t know how to handle this. How could you have messed up so badly? You’d thought things were going so well, but clearly that is not the case. A mistake like this is a hundred times worse than a pile of clothes torn from a clothesline. A thousand times worse than a tiny missing button. Lady Beneviento had forgiven you for those small slip-ups, but how could she be so understanding for something like this, when her own reputation is at stake?

You don’t know what to do. 

You don’t know what to do.

…

Run away, a tiny voice in your head whispers.

You skid to a halt, somewhere in the middle of the swaying suspension bridge. You stare off into the distance where the waterfall is barely visible through a cloud of misty fog.

You could do it. Just go back and beg Elena to let you stay at her house again. Your friend would probably be relieved and overjoyed to have you safely within sight. And you don’t think Lady Beneviento would come looking for you in the village.

But then you remember how upset the Lord had been that first time she thought you ran away. The pain and resignation you sensed when she quietly voiced her expectation that it would only be a matter of time. That eventually you, like all the others in her life, would disappear.

No. You couldn’t do that to her.

You don’t know if or how you can fix this, but the one thing you do know is that you won’t leave her. This calms the storm in your head enough to resume your jog back to the manor. 

You know you won’t run away.

But that doesn’t mean you know how to ever make this up to her.

You burst through the front door, trembling and gasping for breath. Lady Beneviento is at your side in an instant, her hands pausing in midair a mere inch or so from your shoulders. “What happened? Are you hurt?” she cries out. It’s perhaps the loudest you’ve ever heard her speak. She looks you over, daring to wrap long, thin fingers around each of your wrists so she can extend both arms and examine the unblemished skin there.

Such a soft touch brings back the less-than-innocent thoughts about her hands that had briefly invaded your mind back in the village. You tremble again—this time for a different reason.

Lady Beneviento seems satisfied that you are unharmed, though she doesn’t release you from her hold quite yet. One hand reaches up to brush the damp hair away from your eyes, dark painted nails scratching pleasantly along your scalp as she tucks a few loose strands behind one ear. Under the gentle caresses, your breathing finally begins to return to its usual rhythm. Still shaky on your feet, you stare up into the mesh of her veil and wish you could see what kind of expression she wears. Would it be a tender, compassionate smile? A worried frown?

Regardless of whatever is going on beneath your lady’s veil, this quiet moment is quickly brought back into reality with a grumble from Angie. “Seriously, you didn’t even buy any rabbit for dinner?”

The spell breaks and both you and the Lord jerk away from each other. Momentarily dumbfounded, your gaze lowers to your empty hands as if the package from the butcher might magically appear there if you concentrate hard enough. “…Oh. I think I forgot it back in the village.”

“How could you just forget it somewhere? That’s the only thing we sent you to do! You had one job!” Angie looks like she’s about to rip into you some more, but a sudden wave of Lady Beneviento’s hand renders her mute. Her porcelain jaw opens and closes like a fish, but no sound comes out—she makes do with extending both middle fingers in your direction instead.

“Angie,” the Lord growls. The sound, deep and gravelly, sends a shiver down your spine. Not the least bit intimidated by comparison, Angie just rolls her eyes and disappears somewhere down the hallway.

You’re still staring down at your hands, unwilling at the moment to look anywhere else. The gravity of what Elena told you still feels like a heavy weight in your stomach, but you’re not sure how to bring up such a difficult topic. Instead, you just mumble, “I’m sorry about the meat.”

Lady Beneviento waves away your quiet apology. “What happened?”

“I know a few vegetarian dishes if that would be okay for dinner instead?”

The dollmaker takes a step forward and grabs your chin, tilting your head up to meet her gaze. At such a close proximity, you are suddenly aware of how much taller she is than you. Her voice is low, slow-spoken, and scolding in the gentlest way possible as she repeats her question. “Don’t try to change the subject, maid. Answer me. What happened?”

Being almost caged in with the wall at your back and Lady Beneviento looming at your front nearly sends your poor little heart into overdrive. You hadn’t even considered coming up with an excuse, so instead you just blurt out the truth. “I heard some rumors in the village and it… it upset me to hear such things.”

The Lord releases you. It happens so quickly you almost miss the blur of movement as she scrambles back and stands there with her arms crossed protectively, shoulders tense and drawn up. Without thinking, you reach out to her but she flinches away, so you let your arm fall back down.

The black-clad woman’s breathing is labored. Her hands, so white-knuckled they nearly look bloodless, twist and tug at her veil. “Always… the villagers always have things to say about me. Never nice things.” Her tone has changed—it’s sporadic and strained and it almost sounds like she’s crying. She shakes her head violently. “It’s not true, whatever they said. It’s not. It’s not, I promise! Don’t leave me, please!”

“I’m not leaving!” you manage to squeak out, trying to inject some confidence in your words even as you’re still shakily standing there flattened against the wall. She thinks you want to leave her again? But that’s exactly the scenario you’re trying your damnedest to avoid! Your heart aches just looking at the Lord and you want so badly to comfort her, but you’re not sure how to do that without making the situation worse. Instead, you focus on clearing up what seems to be some sort of mix-up in communication. “The rumors weren’t about you! Well, they were about you, but it’s really more like, uh, rumors concerning the both of us?”

“The both… of us?” Lady Beneviento repeats weakly. You almost have to strain to hear her voice, it’s faded into something so wavery and quiet now. “What could the villagers possibly have to say about the both of us? Do they even know you’re working for me now?”

“I guess a few people puzzled it out when I went to see the Duke that last time,” you mumble with reluctance. “There’s been some misinterpretation of a few things I must have said that day. And because of that, everyone thinks… um, well. They all think we’re…”

Lady Beneviento takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself for the worst. “…Yes?” she prompts quietly.

You open your mouth and then pause at the last second. The phrase Elena had used—sleeping together—made things between yourself and the Lord sound purely sexual in nature, and while it’s certainly far from the most vulgar way of putting it, you can’t help but wonder if a different choice of words might soften the blow a little bit. After a few more seconds of agonized deliberation, during which Lady Beneviento begins to wring at her veil again, you finally blurt out, “The villagers think we’re in some sort of r-romantic relationship?”

Lady Beneviento’s hands freeze in place, and for a moment she just stands there stock-still in the middle of the foyer. “A romantic relationship,” she slowly repeats.

There’s no anger in her voice. Nor is there any disgust or resignation or… really much of anything. If you had to define it, you’d say the Lord simply sounds blank—which doesn’t really give you much to work with. The safest option you can think of is just to stare at the floor, and that’s exactly what you are doing right now. “Yes.”

The dollmaker is silent for a long time, and you almost wish for Angie to return and yell at you some more. Being chastised over a couple missing rabbits would be much easier to handle than whatever this awkward silence is surely leading to.

Finally, the Lord seems to relax. She straightens her back and flexes both hands; you nearly jump at the popping sound as she cracks her knuckles. “An easy enough rumor to dispel,” she says, voice back to its usual solemn timbre. “I have a plan. The two of us shall return to the butcher to buy something else for dinner, and we will do so simply as employer and maid. The villagers will see how there is nothing going on between us, and they will conclude that their fanciful gossip is only that. Gossip.” Lady Beneviento tilts her head in your direction, and you get the feeling she’s carefully studying your expression. “After all, there’s no truth in it, is there?” she presses.

“…No, there’s not,” you agree, but the words feel hollow on your tongue. Now that the initial crisis of explaining the rumors is over, your panic fades away just enough for self-deprecation to take over. Inwardly, you wonder if the other woman feels ashamed of how the villagers had so easily misinterpreted your employment with her. As one of the four Lords, Lady Beneviento surely has much better prospects than a lowly commoner like yourself. It’s no wonder she’s so eager to put an end to these rumors.

Something of your melancholy must have shown on your face, because Lady Beneviento reaches out and gives you a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Please don’t take it as a slight against you,” she sighs. “The villagers already spread rumors about me and they are usually unkind, so I simply don’t want you to have to endure something similar just because you work for me.”

Indignation makes you scrunch your nose. Why would the villagers be so blatantly unpleasant to a Lord, let alone one as gentle as Lady Beneviento? “That’s terrible. They shouldn’t be saying bad things about you like that.”

There’s a low hum from behind her veil. “How gallant of you. But what if those bad things were true?”

This gives you pause.

“...I don’t believe they are," you say. Uncertainty makes your words waver a bit, but you refuse to give in. "You—you told me yourself they’re not true, didn't you?”

“And you believe me?” She tilts her head.

“Of course.”

The Lord sharply inhales. “You are very sweet,” she whispers. There's a quiver in her voice, like she's close to tears again. Then she gestures to the front door. “Shall we?”

Angie is still sulking somewhere in the manor, but Lady Beneviento says with you there as her mouthpiece, there shouldn’t be any problem leaving the doll behind for the trip to the village. Privately, you’re a bit pleased by this. The last few days have certainly endeared Angie to you, but ever since the sewing lesson you’ve also coveted any opportunities to simply spend time alone with the Lord. You just wish this time spent together today could have been under better circumstances.

The two of you take a different route to the village than the usual road. It’s beginning to get a bit windy outside and Lady Beneviento had expressed some concern about crossing the suspension bridge. You aren’t familiar with any alternative routes, so she ends up leading the way with you following a few paces behind. Most of the walk is spent in silence, although occasionally the Lord warns you about low-hanging branches or a protruding tree root in your path. In turn, you murmur a quiet thanks but don’t try to initiate any idle chitchat otherwise. You don’t know if she’d appreciate your chattering right now, and you’re a little too nervous to test it out after all that’s happened today. 

Despite the unfortunate reason for this trip into the village, the stroll itself lends an idyllic sort of peacefulness. It’s distracting in a guilty way to be able to walk behind the Lord and admire the graceful way she navigates the path. Maybe on a different day—one not tainted by whatever grievous mistake you’re liable to become entangled in—you might ask Lady Beneviento if she would enjoy walking with you again. You idly wonder if she would say yes, and then you scold yourself for daydreaming.

It takes a little longer to get to the village this way, but eventually the gate comes into view. You pull the heavy doors open and bow your head as you wait for Lady Beneviento to enter first.

Exactly how a lowly maid would be expected to behave around her mistress.

There’s still a lot of bustling activity around the altar at this time of day, especially since the Duke has set up shop here again today. Even so, a sudden hush comes over the area when the veiled Lord steps into view. The villagers all freeze in place and begin whispering among themselves. You can hardly blame them—of the four noble house leaders, only Lord Heisenberg is known to commonly make appearances in the heart of the village. And even among the remaining three, sightings of Lady Beneviento are few and far between. To see her here with an ordinary human woman instead of her constant companion Angie? Hell, if you were just a bystander you’d probably be staring too.

You shut the gate and take your place behind your employer. Respectful distance. Eyes politely lowered. Hands folded in front of you. Okay, this is fine. You can do this. There’s no way things can go wrong.

Fate, or at least the weather, seems to have different plans.

The two of you don’t make it to the butcher shop. In fact, you barely make it five steps past the Duke’s carriage. Without warning, there’s a tremendous gust of wind that rattles the gates and shakes the trees. A heavy branch splinters off one of the larger trees and nearly lands on you—in fact, it would have landed on you had Lady Beneviento not called out your name and pulled you out of the way at the last second. The Lord is fussing over you again in an instant, fingers dancing over your face, your arms, anywhere she can reach as she looks you over for injuries. She’s too preoccupied to notice a second rush of wind.

There’s a flutter of black fabric as the wind starts to blow her veil up. You can see the slender column of her neck, her chin, a pair of pale lips slightly parted with shock.

There’s no time to debate if what you’re about to do is stupid or not. You’re pretty sure it’s stupid, but that’s something to worry about later. Your biggest priority is Lady Beneviento, and you immediately rush forward and yank the fabric down to cover her face again. Clumsily so—you’ve misjudged the distance and end up putting far too much force into your lunge. It’s almost more like a tackle, to be honest. The dollmaker stumbles backwards and her back slams against the side of the Duke’s carriage. Momentum carries you forward until you’re halted by her body, both hands fisted in the fabric of her veil and your face squishing right into the middle of her chest.

She’s… warm. And soft. She smells like cedar and rosewood. And this is probably not where your face is supposed to be right now.

You recover from your dazed state just enough to back up half a step and awkwardly smooth down the front of her shirt. Then you dare to raise your head just enough to stare into the mesh of her veil, and you draw a sharp breath when you see she’s staring back at you, the glint of one eye just barely visible from behind the black mesh. Lady Beneviento’s hands hover at your waist, spiderlike and jittery, like she’s not quite sure what to do with them. Slowly, she rests her hands upon your hips. The solid pressure of her fingers there elicits a small squeak from you, as well as an electric sort of thrill that jolts down your spine.

For a few short moments, it’s like nothing else in the world really matters.

Then you hear someone clear their throat, followed by a metallic rattling sound. You and Lady Beneviento both turn around to see the Duke leaning forward almost halfway out of his seat. He’s merrily shaking a familiar glass jar of buttons.

“Welcome, Lady Beneviento! Perhaps you might consider keeping a few spares on hand just in case the little maid is too enthusiastic with her hands again? For you, a mere three lei apiece,” he chuckles with another cheerful little shake of the jar. “Ah, but I will have to ask you to sign a waiver should the two of you decide to continue your romantic endeavors against the side of my shop. Insurance for any future broken goods, you see.”

“Duke, please stop talking,” you say in a mortified whisper. At the same time, Lady Beneviento wriggles out of your hold and flees back through the gate. She’s in such a hurry she doesn’t even close it behind herself; both doors swing like a pendulum before finally coming to a halt, still half-ajar. It all happens before your brain really has time to process everything, and before you know it you’re standing there by yourself with everyone in a thirty foot radius just… staring at you.

And then they all start talking at once:

“Did you see how the Lord pulled her maid out of danger when that branch fell?”

“Very protective of her. Maybe she’s not so bad after all?”

“Seems the maid couldn’t even wait until they got home to show her gratitude. She’s certainly an eager one!”

“They seem to be very good friends…”

Well, if nothing else, you can take solace in the fact that these latest snips of conversation are… mostly positive in nature. Even if Lady Beneviento remains a mysterious enigma among the villagers, hopefully after today they’ll know she’s kind enough to not let you be crushed by a falling tree branch at least.

“Hey,” one particular voice calls out directly behind you. It’s a voice you recognize instantly so you whip around and are greeted with the sight of Elena standing there awkwardly. Tucked under her arm is the package from the butcher you’d left with her.

“Elena, were you here this whole time?” you ask.

Your friend sighs. “I just got here so I only saw the tail end of… whatever it is that happened here,” she says. “You know, you’re not really doing a good job of convincing me that you and Lady Beneviento aren’t together.”

“I’m telling you, we’re not!”

“Is that why you were getting frisky with her over there?”

“I was not getting frisky with anyone. I was trying to protect her modesty.”

Elena slaps her forehead. “You don’t protect someone’s modesty by shoving your face right in their breasts!” she hisses.

Well, there’s no good way to respond to an accusation like that. Especially when it’s true, albeit by accident. Instead you just squeeze your eyes shut and vaguely wish the ground would just swallow you up right now. Maybe in a year or two you might feel comfortable with showing your face in the village again. Jerking your head at the package still resting under Elena’s arm, you make an attempt at changing the subject. “Give me the meat, please?”

She holds the package out but doesn’t quite release it from her grip as you go to take it. When you shoot her a cross glare, she holds your gaze with a steely sort of conviction that makes you feel like you’re a child being scolded by your parents again. 

“…You promised, remember?” Elena says. “Back at my house, you promised you’d tell me if you were in trouble.”

“And I’m not in trouble. I haven’t been, the whole time I’ve worked there. Lady Beneviento has been very, very kind to me. I have to go back to her. Elena, please.”

It’s a standstill for nearly a full minute, but finally your friend backs down first. You nearly fumble the rabbits when she suddenly pulls away her hands. Mouth set in a frown, she says, “I’ll trust you on this, but just… please, be careful?”

“I keep trying to tell you, I don’t think I’m in any sort of danger over there.”

“There are different troubles than just the life-threatening kind, you know,” she sighs.

Well. You’re not quite sure how to respond to that, but surely this is just Elena being paranoid. After all, you’re really not in any sort of trouble, life-threatening or not.

...Aren’t you?

When you finally get back to the manor, you half-expect Lady Beneviento to be waiting for you in the foyer again. Instead you are only greeted by Angie, who gives you an exasperated glare that instantly reminds you of Elena. “What did you do this time?” the doll screeches.

You hold up the meat. “I got the rabbits back. Where is Lady Beneviento?”

“She’s in the kitchen but I don’t want you there bothering her. It’s probably your fault she came back acting all weird! Hand that stuff over, I’ll take it to her instead.”

Weighing the package in your hands, you can easily tell it’s too heavy for the doll to carry on her own. You suspect she knows it as well. “Please let me take it myself, Miss Angie? I have to apologize to her too.”

“Oh, so it is your fault,” Angie grumbles. “Fine, just make it quick. Then come back so we can play tag.”

You get the feeling that a very strenuous game of tag is probably Angie’s idea of revenge for causing such stress to Lady Beneviento, and you resign yourself to the fact that everything you’re wearing will likely be covered in dirt and grass stains before the day is over. Tucking the rabbits under your arm again, you take the elevator down and make your way over to the kitchen. 

The dollmaker is busily chopping something at the table with her back to you, but she freezes and quickly adjusts her veil to cover her face when she hears your footsteps. You stand there in the doorway, suddenly at a loss for words. Feeling foolish, you hold out the wrapped meat for her. “Um, hi. I got back the rabbits from earlier.”

She doesn’t respond in any way, and with a sinking heart you wonder if your actions back in the village destroyed any progress you’d made with her. Still, you have to try and apologize. Setting the meat on the table, you bow as low as you are able. “Please, Lady Beneviento. I offer my deepest apologies for what happened earlier. I hope you are not too angry with—“

There’s a hand on your head and instinctively you snap your jaw shut. That hand runs gentle fingers through your hair and coaxes you to straighten out your spine again. It reminds you of that first day you’d met her, when she offered you a handkerchief as you cried on the ground. You think you can smell something fragrant on her hand and, as she pulls you back into an upright position, you sneak a glance at the cutting board to see little piles of chopped basil and parsley.

Feeling more awkward than ever, you just stand there and stare at her. Slowly, Lady Beneviento lowers her hand. As if nothing had happened, she turns back to the cutting board and begins chopping more herbs. “You seem to worry often about angering me,” she says in an even voice.

There are several braids of garlic hanging from the ceiling, and you glare at the nearest one as if doing so might redirect the sudden feeling of shame that burns through you. “Only because I keep messing up.”

There’s a lapse in the chopping sounds, and you bring your gaze back down to see the Lord resting her knife against the board with her head turned toward you. 

She speaks then, slowly and carefully. “You didn’t mess up. What happened in the village was… unfortunate. In fact, I suspect our trip did nothing but make the rumors worse. But you hid my face, and I am grateful to you for that.”

Relief floods through you. “Well—of course I did. Aren’t I sworn to protect you or something like that?”

Lady Beneviento hums. It almost sounds like a laugh. “I don’t remember swearing you to do anything. Besides, do you really think a Lord like myself is in need of her little maid’s protection?”

You smile at her. “You may not need it, but it’s yours still. I promise.”

This time it’s a full laugh from her, low and quiet. “And you’ll protect me from what? The wind?”

“Uhm. Maybe? If you give me some time, maybe I can figure something out,” you joke. She laughs again and your heart pounds at the rich tone of it. Warmth seeps through every pore of your skin, burning, burning. It almost feels hard to breathe.

And in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is the sort of trouble Elena was worried about.

Chapter Text

“Aren’t you the one who’s dating Lady Beneviento?”

You hold back an annoyed groan with some difficulty. Elena chuckles quietly at your left, a sound that quickly morphs into a grunt of pain when you drive an elbow into her side. Arranging your face into your best attempt at a polite smile, you turn to face the latest interruption to your trip to the market: an older woman, perhaps around Luiza’s age, with a openly curious expression upon her weathered face.

“Not at all, I simply work there as her maid,” you say with as much cheer as you can muster. The grin stretched across your lips probably looks more like a grimace, but it’s not like you can help it—no fewer than seven people have approached you today with questions about the nature of your relationship with Lady Beneviento, and your jaw is starting to cramp from all the fake smiles you’ve sent their way.

“Convincing performance, that was. You know, if your maid job falls through maybe you could find your next calling in theatre,” Elena murmurs dryly, grabbing your arm and leading you to one of the less crowded vegetable stalls.

“You’d think everyone might have better things to do than hounding me with questions,” you whine.

Your friend hums low in her throat, sounding remarkably less annoyed about these continued injustices than you were. “Maybe it would’ve been better to wait a bit longer for the rumors to settle before coming back here.”

“But we’re running low on tomatoes!”

Elena smacks your arm. “Then stop complaining.”

You grumble under your breath and pull out the grocery list to recheck. The tomatoes are the last thing Lady Beneviento had requested, but she’d sent you into the village with some extra lei to get a few things for yourself as well.

Her generosity had warmed your heart when she handed over the money to you earlier. It’s not like you’re short on cash these days. Lady Beneviento pays you well for your work at her estate. She doesn’t ask you to pay rent or contribute to food costs, so the paychecks have mostly been gathering in your wallet. You’re well within your means to buy a few treats with your own lei, but she had sent you along with extra anyway. 

You want to do something nice to thank her. Not just for the money, but for everything. Flipping through your mother’s old cookbook last night, the desserts section had caught your eye. You’re thinking of buying some apples to make plăcintă cu mere, a traditional apple cake. You mention this to Elena and she is encouraging, if a tad teasing. 

“Buttering up your girlfriend, are you?” she says, watching you pick out five of the best looking fruits from one of the stalls.

“Elena, how do you manage to be worse than all the others put together?”

“Hey, I’m not the one whose idiocy caused these rumors to exist in the first place.”

You pay for the apples and drop them into your bag. “A real friend would be on my side here,” is your grumbled response. “Come on, help me find some nice tomatoes, will you?” The two of you wander over to the more crowded sections of the market. You see one of your favorite vegetable sellers right away; a husband and wife duo whose produce is always of excellent quality.

The tomatoes are almost within your grasp when you feel a sudden tug on your sleeve. You look down. A little girl, no older than five, stares up at you with wide doe eyes. “Mama says you’re the doll lady’s bed warmer. Is that true?”

Elena barely manages to stifle her laugh. You, on the other hand, barely manage to stifle a scream. “Well, you can go tell your mama that I’m forbidden to go into the doll lady’s bedroom under pain of death,” you say with a grin that probably makes you look a little unhinged. The little girl’s jaw slackens and she runs away to bury her face in the skirt of a young woman who shoots you a disapproving glare.

“Was that really necessary?” Elena asks. She watches as you count out the lei for a basket of tomatoes.

“Yes.”

“But was it really?”

“Stop, I’m already feeling guilty now.” Tomatoes in hand, you turn to leave.

Before the two of you can walk away, the man from the vegetable stall darts forward to intercept you. “Excuse me, miss, did you—“

Like throwing oil on a fire, your annoyance finally hits breaking point. “Yes, it’s me!” you bellow at the top of your lungs. “I’m Lady Beneviento’s maid and also her lover, she holds me in her arms and calls me her precious doll and every night we make wild, passionate love until the bed breaks!”

The market goes silent. It feels almost cathartic and, for a moment, you relish in the shocked looks on everyone’s faces. In the corner of your eye, you think you can see Elena slapping a hand against her forehead.

The vegetable seller falters, determinedly avoiding your eye as he offers one outstretched hand. “…That’s very nice, miss, but I just wanted to tell you the oxheart tomatoes were on sale today. I have your change here.” He drops a handful of lei into your slack palm and then hurries away.

The bravado from before is nowhere to be felt now. You scurry back to Elena’s side and do your best to hide in her shadow. She shakes her head at you. “Good job. That’ll help with things for sure.”

“Shut up.”

You decide Lady Beneviento probably doesn’t need to know about your little outburst at the market today. 

The sound of footsteps nearing the kitchen makes you tense, but you soon recognize the light tapping sounds as Angie’s wooden feet rather than Lady Beneviento’s slower, heeled gait. Sure enough, the doll peeks into the doorway and giggles at the sight of you dusted with flour. “Hey, whatcha doing?”

“Baking,” you say distractedly. “I wanted to surprise Lady Beneviento with something sweet. She’ll be in her workshop a while longer, right?”

Angie makes a sound that’s halfway between whininess and frustration. “Ugh, Donna’s probably gonna be in there all day! She’s been working nonstop to finish a dress for the tall lady. You’d think she’d set aside some time to play with me, but nooo…”

You hum in thought, measuring out sugar and cinnamon into two little bowls. “She does commissions for the other Lords?”

“Mostly just the one. Lady Tallness has trouble finding seamstresses willing to work with her size.” Angie climbs onto the table and rolls an orange between her hands—you have to lunge over to grab it before it wobbles off the edge and onto the floor. “This time it’s more like a trade, I guess?” the doll continues, now poking at your bowl of grated apples.

“A trade?” you ask. You snatch the apples away as well, and she pouts at you.

“Yup. You know that painting in the foyer? The one that’s got a cloth over it?” the doll says casually. You nod, so she continues, “Madam Beanstalk painted that for Donna, but it got damaged last time Heisenberg helped move furniture upstairs. She said she’d fix it in exchange for a new dress.”

You freeze. An implication in Angie’s words has just hit you, and it makes your insides coil with fear. “Is, um. Is Lady Beneviento going to have me take the dress and painting to the castle?” you squeak. Despite your best efforts, the bowl of apples rattles in your hands. A cold sweat runs down the back of your neck as you remember Elena’s warning of how so many of the maids sent to Castle Dimitrescu have never been seen again.

Oh, sweet Mother Miranda. You’re going to be sent to make a delivery to the castle. You’re going to die.

A wedge of orange colliding with your face breaks you out of your panic; you shoot Angie a cross look while she just rolls her eyes. “Gonna faint on the floor or something? You look terrified,” she observes in a cheerfully singsong voice.

You scramble to secure your grip on the bowl again. “I’m not terrified.”

That’s a blatant lie, and sure enough Angie calls your bluff right away. A few more orange slices are chucked in your direction. “M’kay, good to know. In that case, tomorrow we’ll send you over to make the delivery.” The doll waits until the blood has finished draining from your ashen face before bursting into shrill, cackling laughter. “Ha. Not terrified, my ass! Anyway, I’m just messing with you. Lady D’s coming over herself.”

Relief makes your shoulders relax, but then you tense up again. Lady Dimitrescu, here? You’re not sure how well this bodes for you either. Either out of sympathy for your stressed nerves or just plain boredom of the previous conversation, Angie quickly changes subjects and starts firing off questions about the dessert you’re making instead. It’s not much of an improvement as far as topics go. There’s a bittersweet feeling of nostalgia that washes over you as you describe the cake you’re putting together, and it makes your chest ache.

How long has it been since you’ve made this particular recipe? It was your mother’s favorite, back when she was still alive. Back when your family was intact and whole. Back when your life had little to do with Lords and lycans and talking dolls.

“Why the long face?” Angie asks, seated on the table. She watches as you pull two pans of cake from the oven and set them on wooden trivets to cool. After that, you melt some butter in a saucepan and add the grated apples, along with spoonfuls of the sugar and cinnamon. You’re not trying to avoid her question, not really. It’s just… when was the last time you’d really talked about your family? It’s a sensitive topic, even now. Elena had tried with you months ago, back when the pain was still so fresh and raw, but you’d always clammed up when the topic arose. Eventually your friend had stopped asking, though her worried looks never quite went away completely.

“Mom used to love this cake,” you finally sigh, stirring a spoon through the bubbling, caramelized apples. That’s all you say. You’re not sure if you’re ready to share any more than that. The contents of your saucepan smell deliciously sweet, but you can barely even bring yourself to look at it right now.

There’s a pause, like Angie’s not quite sure how to respond. But then she says, “…Well, if it helps you to know this, I think Donna will like it a lot too.”

You meet the doll’s glassy eyes and then look down at the apples again. Like a lifeline, you cling to Angie’s words. It’s just a cake, that’s all it is. You’re making it for Lady Beneviento. She likes you. At least, you think she does. Hopefully she’ll like your cooking as well. 

And with just a bit of surprise, you realize… it does help.

When everything has cooled enough, you spread the apples onto the first cake in an even layer, then carefully maneuver the second cake on top. The whole thing is dusted with powdered sugar before you slice the plăcintă cu mere into generous squares. The most attractive square is placed onto a nice china dish with a little sprig of mint as a garnish. 

You hold it out for Angie to see. “What do you think?”

“Looks yummy,” she says. “That’s a pretty big piece, though. You trying to give Donna a stomach ache or something?”

“That’s not my intention, no.” You make your way down the hallway with Angie at your heels. Stopping at the doors to Lady Beneviento’s workshop, you can hear the faint sounds of papers rustling. “…I, um. I didn’t really think this far ahead,” you admit. “Should I just leave the plate out here for her?”

“Nah, I’ll just bug her to take a break now,” Angie says, rubbing her little wooden hands together with something like mischievous glee. The doll pushes hard at the doors, but they’re too heavy for her to move on her own. She backs up half a step and shoots you a meaningful look.

“Oh, here, let me get that…” You push one door open just a crack, keeping your eyes lowered and focused on your shoes. You don’t dare look up—not when this is one of the two places Lady Beneviento hasn’t given you access to enter. Angie slips through the door and you can hear the faint pitter-patter of her footsteps as she dances inside. After a moment’s hesitation, you close the door and continue waiting in the hallway. You think you can hear Angie and Lady Beneviento inside the room, but their voices are faint and you can’t quite make out what’s being said.

It feels like you wait for a long time, but probably no more than a minute or so actually passes before the door creaks open again and Lady Beneviento steps out. She pulls it shut before Angie can follow, and the doll immediately starts yelling muffled obscenities through the thick wood. The Lord sighs and rubs her forehead through her veil.

“Long day?” you say with a sympathetic smile. 

She nods and hums tiredly. “Angie says you have something for me?”

“Oh! Um, yes. There were some nice apples at the market today so I made plăcintă cu mere.” If you hadn’t spent so much time moping in the kitchen, maybe you could have come up with a better speech than that. Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now. With shaking hands, you present the dessert to her. She takes the plate but makes no move to eat, simply staring down awkwardly at it. You glance down too and realize—oh, you’ve forgotten to bring a fork.

Damn it.

Lady Beneviento seems to realize the missing utensil too, because she balances the plate in one hand and moves the other toward the cake. Her fingers freeze an inch or so from its sugar-dusted top and then curl in on themselves, forming a fist.

“I haven’t washed my hands,” she sighs. “I’m sorry, I can go and—”

“No, no, there’s no need!” you interrupt, scrambling forward. “Mine are clean, see? Here, just let me... um…“ You pluck the cake up and hold it before the Lord’s veil, trying your best to keep it hovering over the plate to catch any crumbs. There is a beat of silence. The thought occurs to you that this probably isn’t one of your better ideas. You feel stupid and foolish, in fact, but… well, what else is new?

You’re about to put the cake back down and apologize, perhaps even offer to fetch her a fresh piece with a damn fork this time, but her hand comes up to grab your wrist, freezing you in place. The breath catches in your throat. “L-Lady Beneviento?” you stammer.

The fingers around your wrist gently squeeze. Your heartbeat is skyrocketing and you’re sure she must be able to feel it thrumming at your pulse point, but the Lord makes no comment on it. Instead, she pushes the empty plate toward your spare hand. “Hold this, please?” she murmurs.

You do as she requests and take the plate from her, still feeling a bit unsure about where she’s going with this. Then you’re shocked when she uses her now free hand to pull her veil forward. Just barely—not enough for you to catch a glimpse of her face, but enough so that she can lean forward to guide the cake, as well as your hand, underneath the tented fabric. The warmth of her breath ghosts over your fingers and you’re doing all you can not to crush the cake into a crumbly mess. A satisfied hum comes from behind her veil. The cake suddenly feels lighter in your hold.

“Orange zest?” Lady Beneviento says softly. With the way your wrist is still held beneath her veil, the words are a gentle whisper against your skin. For a few moments her question doesn’t quite register in your brain, but you snap back to attention when she repeats herself hesitantly.

Flustered, you give a vigorous nod. “A fair amount. One orange’s worth. Mom always said a bit of citrus brightens the flavor of the apples.” Talking about your mother doesn’t feel so painful in this context, you’re relieved to find. “Is it… does it taste okay?”

“It’s very good,” Lady Beneviento says. She bows her head—you wouldn’t have noticed if not for her veil shifting across your arm like the softest of caresses. The dollmaker’s next words are very quiet. “…Thank you. It’s been a long time since someone has cooked for me.”

“If you’d like, I can do it more often,” you offer, almost giddy with relief. “Not that your cooking isn’t delicious, Lady Beneviento. But if you ever wish for a break, I would be happy to help. And if you ever wanted it, maybe we could… t-together…”

Your voice trails off and you look away. The Lord squeezes your wrist. Her thumb rubs back and forth, a soothing gesture, before she releases you. You place the remainder of the cake down onto the plate and she takes it from you and asks gently, “What’s that, maid?”

You bite your lip. “Maybe… would you eat meals with me? In the dining room, not the study?”

She tilts her head at you. “Is that what you want?”

You weren’t expecting the conversation to turn to you. The dollmaker’s tone is one of curiosity with a hint of challenge, though not aggressively so. It suddenly feels like too much to hold her gaze, so you lower your head and stare at the floor as if the worn tiling is some sort of incredible conversation piece. “I am your servant, Lady Beneviento. It is above my station to want things here, at your estate.”

“And if we were equals?”

You jolt back up. “What?”

“If we were equals,” the Lord repeats slowly. She takes a step closer and tilts your chin up, rooting you in place where you stand. “If you were not my maid and I were not your employer. If the two of us were merely just… you and I. What would you want then?”

The breath leaves your lips in a soft exhale. The hallway feels too narrow, almost claustrophobic, like the walls could close in on you at any moment. Your heart pounds, heavy and quick. It’s a frantic rhythm only you can hear. You didn’t inherit the same bravery your father had possessed—the best you can do for the words stuttering from your throat is a tiny whisper. “I would want to eat meals alongside the person with whom I share a home, my lady.”

Lady Beneviento nods before stepping back. The movement is a little shaky, like she’s nervous, but her words are firm as she says, “Then we will dine together, starting tomorrow. And you should remember something. While it’s true you are my servant, please don’t forget that you are also human… and it’s only human to want things.” The last sentence is heavy with finality, a signal that the conversation is over for now. You watch as she turns and begins to move away. Taking a hesitant step forward, you manage to blurt out the question still lingering in your mind just as she pushes the workshop’s heavy doors open:

“My lady. Even as one of the four Lords, surely there must be things you want as well?”

The dollmaker freezes halfway through the doors. Her head whips around to face you once more, and you suddenly feel very small. She stares for a long moment, one hand still holding the plate with its half-eaten chunk of cake while the other twitches against the door.

“Answer me this, maid. Should a monster have a right to want anything of life?” she finally whispers.

You answer without hesitation, though not without fear. “There may be monsters in this village, Lady Beneviento, but I would never count you as one of them.”

Maybe some of your father’s reckless bravery rubbed off on you after all.

Lady Beneviento is still for a long time, and then she turns away. “Thank you again for the treat, dolcezza,” is all she says, before vanishing into the workshop and pulling the door shut behind her.

True to her word, Lady Beneviento eats breakfast with you the following morning. You’re nibbling on a leftover slice of the plăcintă cu mere, washing it all down with sips of coffee while doing your best to keep up with Angie’s endless chatter. The chair beside yours scrapes across the floor and you whip around to see the Lord balancing a plate and a cup of hot tea in her hands. There’s a rush of embarrassment as you consider hiding the fact that you’re eating nothing but cake for breakfast, but then you glance at the dollmaker’s own plate.

Cake, and quite a bit more of it than you took yourself.

You snort into your coffee and burn the roof of your mouth, but it’s worth it. Lady Beneviento does some flippant hand gesture in your direction, fingers pursed together. “The cake is very good and I’m famished,” she says. The words are defensive but her voice sounds warm toward you.

Honestly, you’re relieved. After the conversation outside the workshop yesterday, you’d spent the rest of that night and a good part of this morning feeling on edge. Surely you’ve ruined things this time? But no, here she is eating at the table with you as though nothing odd happened. You watch out of the corner of your eye as she pulls her veil forward and neatly brings a forkful of cake underneath. Nervously, you turn your gaze back to your own breakfast and chug a few more gulps of coffee. No need to make things awkward by watching her like a weirdo.

“Alcina will be coming over tomorrow around this time,” Lady Beneviento says, now stirring a bit of honey into her tea.

The talking doll across from you nearly smashes her wooden fist into the remaining food on your plate. “What? Madam Beanstalk said she’d be over today!”

“Tomorrow, Angie.”

“It’s today!”

The Lord groans and wags a finger. “No, Angie, it’s tomorrow. Tomorrow.”

Angie grumbles under her breath, crossing her arms. Lady Beneviento shakes her head at this and then turns her attention to you instead. “Have you been filled in on the details?”

“Um, from what I understand, you have a dress for Lady Dimitrescu? It’ll be in exchange for fixing that painting that’s covered up by the stairs.” You nod your head vaguely in the direction of the foyer. Half-hopefully, you tack on, “Should I just, uh, stay in my room while she’s here?”

Lady Beneviento sets her cup down and tilts her veiled head to one side. “Are you afraid of her?”

“No!” You pause, Elena’s warnings running through your brain once more. “…Actually, yes. Please help.”

The other woman sighs. Her painted nails trace a nonsensical design on her cup. “Alcina is proud and powerful and should be treated with respect,” she says slowly. “But even she knows better than to touch what’s mine.”

You almost choke on a crumb of cake. Lady Beneviento stiffens and nearly knocks her tea over completely. “That is, you’re my maid. Mine,” she sputters. Her voice is higher than normal, and cracks on the last word. “She... Alcina has her own help. So she should leave you alone. That’s… that’s all I meant by that.”

You nod vigorously. Yes, that makes perfect sense. “O-of course, Lady Beneviento, I didn’t take it to mean anything else.”

She nods as well. “I’m glad you understand, th-thank you.”

Silence.

Then Angie says in a loud whisper,“ Geez, why don’t you two just get a room already and—”

“—Speaking of clothing!” Lady Beneviento yelps. She’s speaking uncharacteristically fast and very frantically, as if to drown out Angie’s grumbling. “I couldn’t help but notice, you don’t have too many outfits, do you? You said you had to pack light before, but maybe you’d like some new things now that you’re settled in?” She says it all in a rush, but somehow you manage to catch every word.

“Uh, well, you certainly pay me well enough to update my wardrobe. I suppose I could treat myself sometime soon?” you say, feeling uncertain.

“No, no, I meant—I thought maybe…” She fidgets with her veil. “It occurred to me, as I worked on Alcina’s commission. That is, if you find it acceptable, I would like to sew something for you as well?”

Oh. Your heart feels warm and fuzzy from how earnest she sounds about this. You nod again, this time with enthusiasm. “I would be very happy to accept such a gift, Lady Beneviento,” you say with a smile, daring to reach out and touch her wringing hands. She seems to relax slightly at the contact, a faint laugh coming from behind her veil.

Angie makes a few fake gagging noises in the background, but both of you determinedly ignore this.

“I’ll need your measurements. It won’t take much time at all, dolcezza. Do you mind if I start now?” the Lord asks, jumping to her feet. She scurries to a chest and starts rummaging around one of the drawers. You think she sounds both eager and thrilled, and you wonder if it’s filling her with some sort of contagious, bouncy energy. 

“That’s fine with me!” you call after her. In a quieter voice, and only to Angie, you whisper, “That’s the second time she’s called me that. What’s it mean, anyway?”

“What, dolcezza?” the doll says distractedly. She’s busy moving the cups off to the side to make some room on the table. Wanting to help tidy up the space as well, you stand up to grab yours and Lady Beneviento’s empty plates. “It’s like, a term of endearment or something. Means dumbass in Italian.”

A plate nearly falls from your hands. “It does not.”

“Fine, go and ask her yourself if you don’t believe me,” she fires back.

You’re about to respond with some smart remark, but by now Lady Beneviento has returned with a soft tape measure in one hand and a notepad and pen in the other. For a moment, the two of you just stare silently at each other. 

Feeling unsure, you lick your lips and sort of gesture down at yourself. “So, I should just stand here or what?”

Lady Beneviento flips her notepad to a fresh page. “Have you ever been measured before?”

“I don’t think I have, no.”

“That’s fine, you really don’t have to do much.” She uncoils the tape measure and lays it across your shoulders. “Simple, see?” 

You nod. “Simple.”

The dollmaker returns your nod with one of her own, and then her hands grow tense on your shoulders. She’s just… standing there staring down at the tape measure. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Way too long. Long enough to make you worry. Oh, god, is there something wrong? Are your body proportions freakishly off?

“Oh dear,” she sighs.

You’re vibrating with barely concealed horror at this point. “What’s wrong with my shoulders?”

“What? Nothing’s wrong,” she reassures you. “I just… I can’t read these numbers very well with my veil on.” She sounds a little embarrassed, like she’s reluctant to tell you something like this.

“You could take it off,” you suggest, and she instantly recoils. Gulping down a hasty breath, you quickly add, “Or I can close my eyes! I won’t look, I swear it.”

Lady Beneviento makes a nervous sound in her throat. Her presence feels somehow muted compared to the enthusiasm she’d exhibited just minutes earlier. She grabs something from the table and looks it over. It’s one of the spare cloth napkins from breakfast. She folds it in half, into a triangle, and then folds again and again until she has something like a long rectangle in her hands. Finally she holds it out to you, clenched between shaking hands.

“Would you be willing to wear a blindfold?” she asks.

Startled, you glance down at the cloth, then up to where her eyes would be behind the veil, and back down to the cloth again. Chewing your lip, you consider the request. It wouldn’t be that much different than just closing your eyes, right? Nothing weird about that. Sure, you’ll probably feel a bit vulnerable standing there unable to see, but you doubt anything’s about to happen. The two of you are just doing a clothing measurement. That’s all.

“I’m fine with that,” you say. “Mind putting it on for me?”

She nods and then carefully loops the folded cloth around your head. You bow forward a bit so it’s easier for her to tie the ends into a snug knot. The makeshift blindfold does an excellent job—you blink against the soft fabric a few times but your eyes are greeted with nothing but darkness. You hear a rustling sound, like something has just been placed on the table. Lady Beneviento hums in a pleased way.

“That’s much better,” she says. “Let’s try again, shall we?”

You nod in agreement, but the quickening beat of your heart almost makes you reconsider. Taking away your sight has kicked everything else in your body into overdrive. You can’t see the dollmaker anymore, but that hardly matters when you can keenly sense her all around you. There’s the subtle warmth emanating from her body, a gentle hand pressed to your bicep, the touch of her other hand upon your side when you start fidgeting too much. You can smell her perfume when she leans close and feel her breath fanning across your ear as the tape measure is laid across the length of your shoulders once more. You shiver and go slack against her.

“Are you uncomfortable?” she asks at once. The words are murmured directly in your ear. The Lord’s voice sounds clearer without the veil in the way, though its low pitch and raspy quality still remain. Her hands jitter and twitch on your shoulders for a moment before withdrawing completely. The sudden loss of contact is disorienting—you find yourself swaying backwards until she catches you with a firm hand against your back.

“Oh, um.” You feel around for the edge of the table and steady your balance as best you can. “The blindfold feels a bit strange, I guess? I think I just got a little dizzy back there.”

“I can put my veil back on,” she says immediately.

“No, no, this is fine!” you insist. Your left leg starts bouncing where you stand—a nervous habit you’ve had since childhood. “Your comfort should come first, Lady Beneviento. I mean, you’re doing all the hard work here. I have the easy job, all I have to do is stand still.”

The Lord makes a humming noise in her throat. There’s the sound of wooden footsteps and then something small and hard swats at your leg. The culprit is certainly Angie, and sure enough you can hear the doll’s sarcastic voice somewhere near your waist. “Yeah, and you’re not even doing that properly.”

Sheepish, you release the edge of the table and plant your feet firmly on the floor. You do your best to stand motionless, and your efforts must be good enough because then the tape measure is on you once more. Lady Beneviento starts with taking the measurement of your shoulders again. Then she moves on to check your waist and the length of your arms, pausing each time to scribble it all down in her notepad. You feel a light tap on each elbow. “Lift.”

You turn your head toward her, then realize how stupid that probably looks when you’re still blindfolded. “Um… lift?”

“Your arms. Lift them for me? I still need to…” The Lord’s voice falters. When she speaks up again, she sounds flustered. “I need to measure your bust.”

The breath leaves your lungs in a sudden wheeze. It almost feels like jumping in a tub of icy water. “Oh! Um, right, of course,” you squeak. You raise your arms up toward the ceiling and then you can feel Lady Beneviento’s hands brush past your ribs. The contact makes you tremble. She draws the tape measure snug across your breasts and holds it there just for a moment. Just long enough to read the numbers.

She backs away half a step, releasing you from her hold. You can hear her pen scratching on the notepad. “Still doing okay?” she says cautiously.

You lower your arms again and bob your head up and down. Nervousness makes your voice a little faint, but you manage to stammer out, “Uh, y-yeah. Doing great. Just peachy.”

There’s a lull in conversation, and even without your sight you can feel Lady Beneviento’s gaze on you. A hand presses to your forehead, right above the blindfold. “…Your face is very flushed. Are you feeling dizzy again?” she asks. There’s concern in her voice, as well as a hint of embarrassment.

“No!” You vigorously shake your head and immediately regret it when she pulls her hand away. “Sorry, sorry. I’m good though, really! What… what else do we still need to do here?”

There’s a gentle rustling near your feet. “I need to measure your lower body now,” Lady Beneviento says softly. You can hear her quiet voice from somewhere near your waist, and you realize with a jolt that the dollmaker has dropped to her knees in front of you. Hands trail up and down from your waist to your thighs, settling at a point in the middle where your hips are at their widest. As she pulls the tape measure tight around your body right there, you wonder if she can tell how nervous you are. Involuntarily, your leg starts bouncing again. The movement is stilled when you feel a hand against your knee. She gives you a reassuring pat. “Hips, thighs, knees, calves, inseam. It will go quickly, dolcezza, please stay still just a little longer.”

You try to stand still. Really, you do. But it’s difficult—for when Lady Beneviento nudges your legs apart so she can wrap the tape measure around your thigh, the muscles there flex and shiver beneath her hands. Your knees threaten to give out when she measures those next, and when she moves to your calves they’re so tense you can feel your toes curling in your shoes.

The final measurement is the inseam. It starts with a hand pressing to the inside of your trembling thigh. You can feel the rest of the tape measure fluttering against your leg as Lady Beneviento’s hand moves up, up, until her fingers are right there, flush against the junction between your legs— 

And then the muscles in your thigh cramp and spasm, and you scream.

A whole bunch of things happen all at once. Your twitching leg kicks out and you think maybe it connects with Angie, because you can hear her shrieking profanities at you. Wobbling on your other leg, your butt hits the edge of the dining room table and you begin to tip backwards. Lady Beneviento leaps to her feet and you grab fistfuls of her shirt in a last-ditch effort to salvage your balance. It doesn’t work—you land flat on your back against the table and she’s pulled down on top of you. Your leg jerks again and the Lord hisses something in Italian when you manage to knee her in the groin. Something shatters on the floor and you wonder if it’s one of the plates from breakfast.

“Ah, shit, I-I didn’t mean to—” you gasp out. The lack of sight is a keenly felt detriment now. You pull your hand away from Lady Beneviento’s shirt and move it toward the blindfold, but she grabs you by the wrist and slams your arm down against the table. 

“Don’t look,” she pants, gravelly and winded. She’s directly above you, her uneven breaths hot against your parted lips. Her hand flexes on your wrist, hard enough to hurt. “Don’t… I can’t let you. Please. If I release your hand, will you promise me you won’t look?”

Trembling and with a wildly pounding heart, you nod. The dollmaker keeps your wrist pinned a few seconds longer and then finally loosens her grip. She makes a tiny, pained noise as she runs her fingers over your skin, very gently this time. 

“This will bruise,” she whispers. There’s grief and self-hatred in her voice. “Oh, oh no. I’m so sorry, dolcezza, I shouldn’t have… I didn’t…”

Tears threaten to well up in your eyes, but with the blindfold still drawn over your face there’s nowhere for them to fall. You feel awful for her, as well as for yourself right now. More than anything, you wish she would allow you to see her so you could figure out how to comfort her better. “…It’s fine, my lady, maybe we can just call it even now?” you offer. “After all, I think I got you pretty good with my knee back there.”

Angie lets out a screech. “What about me? You just punted me halfway across the room!”

You wince. “That too, Miss Angie, you both have my deepest apologies…” Your leg spasms again and you cry out. “Ow, ow, fucking damn it!”

A tiny wooden hand swats at your shoe. “The hell’s wrong with you, anyway?”

“My leg’s cramping. It hurts something awful,” you moan. The limb in question suddenly jerks at the knee and locks around Lady Beneviento’s waist. She’s pressed impossibly close to you, the whole of her body lying flush against your torso and between your parted legs. She feels so warm and soft, a solid and comfortable presence that beckons you to close your eyes and go limp beneath her.

It’s almost terrifying.

Lady Beneviento lets out a shuddering breath, the sound jolting you out of your stupor. “Dolcezza, please, you need to let me go.”

“Can’t move my leg,” you gasp. “Sorry, just… just give me a minute?”

She shifts on top of you, and then you feel her hand on your cramping thigh. Her fingers knead and rub into the sore muscle and oh, her hands are strong. It’s not the least bit surprising, not when you know how she spends such long hours woodworking and carving. Still, the sudden touch makes you jerk in shock.

Her hand whips away as if burned. “Sorry, I just thought it might help if I—“

“No, it’s fine,” you stammer. “You… that actually feels pretty n-nice.” It does feel nice; already you can feel your muscles losing some of their stiffness. Lady Beneviento’s hand hesitantly makes its way back to your thigh and resumes its massaging motion. When she kneads into a particularly tight knot, your own hands clench and tangle into the fabric of her shirt. “Oh, oh, right there. H-harder, Lady Beneviento, please?”

She does as you ask, bracing one forearm on the table so she can put more weight onto her other hand, fingers pressing and squeezing. Your back nearly arches off the table as the tension leaves your leg in one cathartic spasm, the limb flailing out and connecting with something hard and wooden, sending whatever it is crashing to the floor. Not Angie again, thankfully, but probably one of the dining room chairs instead.

You lie there on the table, suddenly feeling so boneless and exhausted. Lady Beneviento strokes your cheek and you lean into her hand. She runs a thumb over your lips as your mouth curves into a shaky smile.

And then you hear the front door slam open. A rapid click-click-click of heeled footsteps. A second slam indicating that the door to the dining room has been thrown open as well.

Someone’s calling out from the direction of the foyer. “Donna, are you okay? I heard a crash and—Oh, my. I seem to be interrupting something.”

The new voice is booming and deep, richly seductive and ringing with what you can only describe as aristocratic condescension. It’s a voice you’ve never heard before but somehow you already know who it is, and you find yourself instinctively curling into your employer a little closer out of fear. Lady Beneviento straightens her back, pulling the two of you off the table and back into a standing position. You’re wobbly on your feet like a newborn fawn, so she smooths a calming hand over your back and confirms your hunch with her next words. “Alcina,” she says, voice carefully neutral. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

Angie lets out a frustrated yell, making you jump. You’d almost forgotten she was here too. “I told you, dummy! I told you it was today!”

“I regret to say our little Angela is correct,” Lady Dimitrescu chuckles. “Now, if you knew you’d be busy at the time of our meeting, Donna, the polite thing would have been to reschedule. Although, I suppose I am well aware of how these moments of passion sometimes come about unexpectedly.” Those heeled footsteps come closer, and you let out a tiny squeak when the dollmaker’s arms tighten around you. Directly above your head, at a proximity far too close for comfort, the countess speaks again. “So nice to see your pretty face for a change, dear.”

Lady Beneviento sharply exhales. It’s a bitter, reluctant sound. Her fingers twitch at your back, twisting into the fabric. “Alcina, don’t. Just… just hand me my veil, please?”

You hear an exasperated click of the tongue from the countess, followed by the sound of shifting fabric. There’s suddenly a constricting sensation around your chest that threatens to squeeze the breath from your lungs. You realize it’s the tape measure, somehow tangled around your torso and now being tugged by a firm hand. “Blindfolded and tied up like a pretty little gift. Were you planning to take her right here on the dining room table?” Lady Dimitrescu hums, amusement dripping from every word. “How very adventurous of you. I’d have expected something more along the lines of classical music and a scattering of rose petals on the bed.”

“Let her go!” The pressure around your chest goes slack and you gulp for air. Lady Beneviento is still speaking, her arms protectively around you again. “It’s not what you think, we weren’t even... No, never mind. I-I have your commission, Alcina, but I need to package it up still. Can I ask you to wait in the foyer? Angie can show you to the painting, and… and the ceiling is taller there, so it’ll be more comfortable for—“

The countess cuts her off with a laugh. “Oh, my dear, you know how I enjoy teasing you. I can see I’m not wanted here, interrupting your private time with this tiny maid of yours.”

“That’s not—“

The dining room door slams shut.

Lady Beneviento makes a mortified little sound and you feel her hands cup your cheeks. “Oh, how could I have gotten the date wrong?” she gasps. Her fingers run through your hair for a moment before swiftly undoing the blindfold. You blink several times. Having your vision restored so suddenly almost feels a bit dizzying. The dollmaker is wearing her veil once more, and the dark fabric of her outfit is a comfortable, muted thing for your eyes to stare at while you adjust. She tosses the blindfold aside and then her hands are on your face again. “Dolcezza, I’m so sorry for this, but I have to go to my workshop. Will you be okay? If you’re not comfortable around Alcina, we can just let Angie entertain her.”

“Does Angie even know how to entertain guests without insulting them?” you ask.

Lady Beneviento draws a breath, like she’s about to say something, but then she wilts in defeat. In the lull in conversation, you think you can hear Angie screaming something about cake and lycans from the foyer.

It takes several calming breaths before you finally feel ready to peek out of the dining room. You can hear the countess’s heavy footsteps making their way up the stairs before coming to a halt. Taking another deep breath, you tiptoe further into the room. Peeking around the railing, you can see the woman pulling the covered painting off the wall while Angie supervises from the sidelines. The Lord is so tall the top of her head nearly brushes the ceiling still. Nervous, you clear your throat. “Lady Dimitrescu, w-would you like me to carry that for you instead?”

Golden eyes snap over to you and you wither under her gaze. The countess looks you up and down and then snorts, as if unimpressed. The heavy painting looks as light as a sketchbook cradled between her strong arms, and you immediately feel stupid. You are tiny compared to the Lord, and that painting is much safer in her grasp than in yours.

Trying to make yourself as unnoticeable as possible, you sort of idle in the corner as Lady Dimitrescu carefully brings the painting down to the main floor. A large, gloved hand lifts up the cloth covering the frame, prompting the woman to shake her head with a dramatic sigh.

“How ironic,” she murmurs. There’s something in her voice you can’t quite decipher, but there’s no time to think on that because the countess then lazily turns to face you and beckons with a tiny jerk of her head. “You, maid. Come here.”

The sheer power of her voice threatens to root you in place, but you take a deep breath and inch your way in her direction. You’re not quite able to hide the fear running through you, and Lady Dimitrescu quirks an immaculate eyebrow at the way you’re trembling on your feet.

“Y-yes, my lady?” you stammer. You’ve made it as far as the stairs, gripping the railing with white-knuckled hands and ready to bolt up to your room if need be. The countess rolls her eyes at you.

“Here, I said,” she chastises. “Do you mean to make me wait?”

Heart pounding, you glance down at Angie, who’s been chattering at Lady Dimitrescu since she’d arrived. The doll skips over and unhelpfully kicks the back of your shins until you start to walk again. Traitor. 

You make your way over until you’re standing there at the countess’s side. She turns the painting around for you to see. “Look here, pet.”

The breath leaves your lungs with a soft gasp. It’s a portrait of a woman, staring straight ahead with a doll held loosely at her side. You instantly recognize the doll as Angie, though she looks somewhat cleaner and less worn than the version that you’ve become accustomed to. Still, it’s the woman who enraptures you. Her features are attractive, with a straight nose and plump lips and a strong jawline. She has pale coloring that emphasizes the black hair pulled up into a messy bun atop her head. Her eyes are dark and solemn, with neatly arched brows. You think you could easily stare into those eyes forever.

She’s beautiful, and yet…

You instantly notice the spot on the painting that Lady Dimitrescu intends to repair. The painted woman’s right eye has taken the brunt of the damage, layers of paint peeling off in long strips along that side of her face and extending into the background. The gouges are deep enough that hints of bare canvas can be seen beneath the scratches.

What a shame.

Lady Dimitrescu clicks her tongue at your aghast expression. “Something you wish to say, little maid?” she asks.

The countess’s voice is… well, the only word that comes to mind is dangerous. Her eyes are fixed on yours and you feel like a lamb being sent to slaughter. The damage to the painting is extensive, but it doesn’t look like anything that can’t be repaired. You certainly don’t want to insult the woman by implying she wouldn’t be able to fix it up again.

“Your skills are very impressive, my lady. It’s a beautiful piece, despite the damage,” is what you end up saying.

Lady Dimitrescu tosses her head. A dismissive gesture. “While you are quite correct, pet, we must also remember a portrait can only be as beautiful as its subject,” she scolds. “Despite the damage, as you so gracelessly put it, is Donna not still lovely to behold?”

With a swallow, your eyes dart to the woman in the painting again. You’d guessed it was probably Lady Beneviento, but hearing it confirmed feels startling in a way. There’s a dryness in your throat you weren’t aware of until now, and it makes your next words come out hoarser than you intend. You lick your lips nervously. “…Is that what she looks like?”

The countess blinks. She seems a bit surprised. “You haven’t seen her face? Her veil was off earlier.”

“I… you saw how I was blindfolded, Lady Dimitrescu. She always wears the veil around me otherwise.”

“Always, you say?” the other woman probes. She sounds exasperated. “Even during the act itself? Does our sweet dollmaker not wish to gaze into your eyes unobstructed when you die a little death upon her lap, pet?”

You haven’t had a brush with death since that first day with the lycans, and you’re also fairly certain you’ve never sat in Lady Beneviento’s lap before—a thought that makes your heart pound a little faster—so you’re not really sure what the countess is talking about right now. Unsure of the best way to respond, you just give a noncommittal shrug. 

Maybe not the best answer. Lady Dimitrescu has the painting propped against the wall and is in the middle of re-covering it with its cloth drape, but in reaction to your shrug she scrunches her nose and mutters something under her breath. You think it sounds an awful lot like, “I swear, for the love of Mother Miranda. I need a drink to deal with this.”

You jump to attention. “C-can I get something for you, my lady?” you squeak. Rumors of maiden’s blood being used for the wine at Castle Dimitrescu flood your brain, and you can’t stop your legs from shaking.

The countess smiles and runs a tongue over painted lips. “Good girl. I suppose I could do with something red.”

Lady Dimitrescu waits in the foyer as you rummage through the wine cabinet tucked away in a corner of the dining room. Angie accompanies you and helpfully picks out a wine in a dark bottle, the label aged and peeling. You pour a hefty amount into a glass that you’re guessing must be solely for the countess’s use, for it’s far larger than any other wine glass you’ve ever seen in your life.

“And how are you enjoying your work here, pet?” Lady Dimitrescu drawls when you return with the drink. “From what I recall, Donna hasn’t kept any house staff in years. There must be something special about you.”

The glass is heavy with wine and it takes all your focus not to cause a spill as you carefully hand it over. “I just try my best to do my job and keep her happy, my lady. There may have been a few, um… mishaps… along the way. But still, I believe Lady Beneviento has been satisfied with my work so far.” You retreat half a step and stand there awkwardly.

In the back of your mind, you wonder if Lady Beneviento has encountered any mishaps of her own in the basement, because she sure is taking her sweet time in rescuing you here.

The countess looks you up and down, golden eyes piercing through you like a hawk. She smirks at the sight of the fading bruise on the side of your neck as well as the newly-forming ones encircling your wrist like a handprint. “Judging by the way you were whimpering and squirming underneath her before I even opened the door, little maid, I’d guess the two of you are very satisfied with each other,” she says. Mockingly, she raises her voice until it resembles something breathless and whiny. “Oh, Lady Beneviento, harder!”

Your cheeks flood with color. Is that what you actually sound like? God, you hope not. The countess chuckles at your horrified expression. “You… you could really hear us from outside?” you whisper. The thought of Lady Dimitrescu knowing all about your dumb leg cramps is just another embarrassment to add to the pile.

“My senses are much sharper than those of a normal human,” the Lord says primly. With expertise, she swirls her wine around the glass and takes a small sip, parting her painted lips to aerate the deep red liquid on her tongue. “Vintage from 1948. Produced from fetească neagră grapes, though not from my own vineyards,” she murmurs. Her intonation sounds almost clinical. “Moderately acidic and aged with fresh oak for just a hint of spice. Good tannin structure and notes of plum and black currant. A fine pairing for the types of food Donna favors.” She blinks at you owlishly as your own eyes widen. 

You don’t remember what the wine label had read, so hurried to prepare the countess’s drink that you had barely spared it a glance. Still, you hadn’t been able to resist giving the bottle a cursory sniff after popping the cork out. It had smelled like wine, but that’s the most you could have said about it—you really don’t know much about the fine details of wine tasting, after all. But still, could Lady Dimitrescu really know all those aspects of that wine from just a single taste, right down to the year of harvest?

The countess’s voice breaks you out of your musings. “Speechless, are we? But regrettably, my aim is not to impress, pet, but rather to demonstrate.” She extends a single finger and taps your chest, making you almost stagger backwards from the force. “Your heartbeat, I can hear it right now. Beating like that of a tiny mouse in the claws of a cat. I can see the hairs on the back of your pretty little neck standing on end. And your scent…”

She curls her lips into a smile and you resist the urge to give yourself a self-conscious sniff. “You smell like fear right now, maid, but do you know what I smelled on you as soon as I walked through that door?”

You wonder if the wine cabinet is large enough to cram your body into. “Wh-what’s that, Lady Dimitrescu?”

Her smile widens. “I smelled lust.”

Your jaw drops. No, that couldn’t possibly be right. Perhaps stupidly, a protest bursts from your lips. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I think p-perhaps you are mistaken?”

Golden eyes grow sharp. The countess takes another sip of wine and bares her teeth, stained through with red. “How so, pet?”

Words tumble from your lips haphazardly as you tremble on your feet. “The-the blindfold, remember? There was no way for me to see you when you opened the door, Lady Dimitrescu, so how could I have been feeling lust for you? And, and also! I don’t harbor any inappropriate feelings for you—that’s not to say you aren’t attractive, because you are, definitely you are! But I don’t, I-I’m not...” You snap your jaw shut and flush a fiery red when Lady Dimitrescu laughs, deep and throaty.

“Oh, you sweet young thing,” she purrs, sounding amused. The Lord seems pacified by your explanation, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking on your part. Peering at you over her glass, she continues, “Donna appears to be quite fond of you, and it seems you treat her well in return. See to it that you continue to do so, pet.”

It’s a change in topic to something much more comfortable, and you jump on the opportunity eagerly. “Of course, Lady Dimitrescu. That’s all I wish to do, really. There’s no way I can ever repay Lady Beneviento for the chance she’s given me and… and frankly, she’s shown me more kindness than I deserve, considering all the trouble I’ve had with her clothes,” you sigh.

The countess makes an unladylike sound into her glass. It almost sounds like a snort. “You… have trouble… with her clothes.”

First Elena and now Lady Dimitrescu. Why does everyone express surprise when they hear about your struggles? You dare to meet the imposing woman’s eyes, then lower your own gaze immediately. Of course someone of Lady Dimitrescu’s incredible height and status could never understand the struggles you’ve faced. “Removing them still gives me trouble,” you mumble, thinking about the too tall clothesline. “Then there was that button I ripped off by accident. And also the thing with her veil…”

The countess leans forward. An inhumanly large, gloved hand grabs your chin and tilts your head this way and that. She smiles, seemingly genuine, and it is far more frightening than the condescending smirks from before.

“A bit of advice, sweet maid,” she hums. “Donna is a shy little thing, but I’ve found that even the shyest of maidens will scream in delight when you simply rip their garments off.”

You stand there, frozen. Your mouth is probably agape like a beached fish. The countess lets you go with a pat on the cheek. She winks. “Think about it, dear.” Her eyes dart to the side and her grin widens a bit. “Mmm, she’s on her way now. Finally. Indulge me for a moment, little maid? I find myself craving a bit of entertainment after such a lovely wine.”

“Entertainment?” you squeak. A large hand comes to rest upon your shoulder, warm but somehow lacking the comfort of Lady Beneviento’s touch. Fingers nearly the length of your entire forearm curl around your neck. You go stiff with fear, but Lady Dimitrescu’s hand is surprisingly gentle. She merely holds you in place, making no move to squeeze any tighter.

From several rooms away, you hear the chime of the elevator, followed by Lady Beneviento’s faint footsteps. The door creaks open and the dollmaker hurries through with a large, wrapped package in her arms. She skids to a halt at the sight of you and the countess standing there by the front door.

Lady Dimitrescu’s gloved fingers caress the front of your throat. She could snap your neck like a twig if she wanted. A whimper escapes your lips but you don’t dare pull away, instead letting your eyes desperately stare into the mesh of your employer’s veil. The countess chuckles. “I’ve enjoyed my stay, Donna, as well as the delightful company of your maid. How much could I pay you to part with her? Such a sweet girl would be a wonderful addition to my staff.”

“She’s not yours, Alcina,” the dollmaker says. Her voice is a low growl, deeper and fiercer than the tone you’d heard her sometimes take when irritated. This was more than just irritation—you can hear the snarl in her words and see it in the way her shoulders are rigid and how her dark painted nails threaten to tear through the paper wrapping of the package she holds in shaking hands. 

Lady Dimitrescu heaves a long-suffering sigh. “My, my. Possessive as ever, aren’t we?” she grouses. Her hand falls away and you collapse to your knees. Lady Beneviento is at your side in an instant, shoving the wrapped package into the countess’s hands so she can lift you up and hold you protectively behind her. You melt into the dollmaker’s embrace, gulping in lungfuls of her scent in a bid to calm your racing heart.

“You have your dress and the portrait, Alcina. There’s no reason for you to stay any longer. Please leave,” Lady Beneviento hisses. The other Lord just smirks, everything bundled under one massive arm, and dips her head in the shallowest of nods.

“Until next time, Donna,” she purrs. Golden eyes dart to you, still trembling behind your employer’s furious form. The countess winks. “And you as well, pet. Know the offer still stands if you ever wish to work under me instead.”

“Leave!” Lady Beneviento snarls, and finally Lady Dimitrescu ducks through the front door and out of sight. You let out a relieved sob and slouch into your employer’s arms, suddenly exhausted. Her fingers comb through your hair and she leans her head against yours. “You’re okay? You’re not hurt anywhere, are you?” she whispers, back to something closer to her usual tone, although her voice is still tremulous and strained.

“Yeah, I’m… I’m good. Whew.” Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, but you force them back open with a shake of your head. You glare at Angie as she meanders over to join the two of you in the middle of the foyer. “Hey. You sure weren’t very helpful during all that,” you grumble at the doll.

She throws her skinny wooden arms up in the air, a carelessly nonchalant gesture. “You looked like you had things under control, so I thought I’d just hang back and watch the shitshow.”

Your jaw falls open and you’re about to rage at the doll some more, but then you feel Lady Beneviento tremble against you. You turn to her and she cups your face with her hands.

“Don’t go to the castle. Don’t leave me. Please,” she begs.

There’s a twisting sensation within your chest, like your heart is writhing out of its ribcage. “I won’t,” you whisper. 

Your life may be full of Lords and lycans and talking dolls now, all waiting to rip you apart without so much as a warning, but at least there’s one certainty you can count on. You are never going to leave Lady Beneviento behind.

Chapter Text

Whether it’s fear or insecurity or something else entirely, you find that Lady Beneviento has been clingy lately.

It doesn’t bother you, not really. But throughout the first few days after Lady Dimitrescu’s visit, there’s a subtle difference in the dollmaker’s behavior toward you. She’s a bit more vocal, a bit more touchy-feely, and she’s been popping in at random intervals throughout the day to check up on you as you complete your chores. The first time this happens is in the kitchen as you dry a few dishes while waiting for the water kettle to come to a boil. She’s not one to announce her presence so it comes as a small shock when you turn to stack the crockery on the table and notice her quietly watching from the door.

“Hi,” you say, a little cautiously. It’s not fear but rather a tentative urge toward reassurance that softens your voice to a near whisper. Veiled head dipped in a bow, Lady Beneviento draws closer and fidgets with something she’s holding between her hands.

You don’t want to push her, not when it feels like there’s something fragile about her in times like these. Instead, you patiently wait until she’s ready to speak. The silence is a little awkward so you busy yourself with pulling out tins of dried tea leaves and a matching pair of cups.

“How is your wrist?” Lady Beneviento suddenly asks. 

In the middle of pouring water into the cups, the abrupt question makes you jump. Water splashes onto the table and brings thin wisps of steam into the air. Heart pounding, you set the kettle back on the stovetop and mop up the spill with your towel. “My wrist?” you stammer.

She nods and gestures down with a tiny jerk of her head. “The bruises. From before, when I…” Her voice falters and her shoulders draw up. “From… from before.”

Setting down the damp towel, you hold out your arm to her. The bruises are there, their shape painting your wrist with a blemish that remains distinctly hand-shaped. The mark has not yet begun to fade, although the purples and blues have lightened to a sickly sort of green in places. The joint is still tender to the touch, faintly sore when you flex and bend your hand. 

Lady Beneviento takes your wrist and holds it like a priceless object. Her fingers gently press and squeeze so she can test the tiny bones in your hand. You glance down at your joined hands but curiosity brings your gaze back up. You study the tenseness in her shoulders and the stiff way she holds herself. For a moment you think about reassuring her. Perhaps insisting you’re hale and hearty and that it would take more than a bruised wrist to get you down, if only to put her mind at ease.

The Lord pulls her hand away and for a moment you’re worried she might have noticed your gawking. But then she brings forth her other hand, a small glass jar held tight in its grasp.

“I made this for you,” she says. Her voice is nervous, almost halting in its shakiness. “In my lab, from the plants in the greenhouse. Arnica for bruising, peppermint oil for pain.” She pops the cap off the jar and then reaches for your hand again. “May I?”

Surprised, you nod. You hadn’t expected Lady Beneviento to make something for you, but somehow it’s not the least bit surprising. It makes you feel… cared for. Doted upon, in a way you haven’t felt since your own family. Not daring to speak, you extend your arm to her once more. You watch as she scoops out a small amount of the jar’s contents, warming it between her palms. Slowly, methodically, she massages the ointment onto your wrist. The cool bite of peppermint oil wafts up to your nose, mixed with something faintly herbal. It’s a pleasant scent. This time, you closely study the movement of Lady Beneviento’s hands as she continues the treatment. Long, dextrous fingers, their every movement so precise and exact. Callused at the tips, yet otherwise smooth. The kitchen light catches on her knuckles, illuminating sharp lines of scar tissue. Without thinking, you raise your spare hand to touch the back of hers.

“What happened here?” you ask.

The dollmaker stiffens, hand trembling in your hold. Like it’s too difficult to hold your gaze, she turns her head and looks away. Through the narrow part in the side of her veil, you can see her throat working furiously.

Abashed, you go to release her but she catches your hand and squeezes tight. There’s a profound sort of discomfort in the rigid way she’s holding herself, and it feels like a pit has just opened up in your stomach. Why didn’t you just keep your mouth shut? Hastily, you squeak out, “Just—you can just forget I said anything, okay? I’m sorry, Lady Beneviento, really—“

She mumbles something, cutting you off in the middle of your apologetic babbling, but her voice is so low the words are nearly inaudible. Somber, still laden with regret, you bite your lip. “I… I didn’t catch that, sorry.”

The Lord lets out a sigh. The words are bitter, every syllable dripping with exhaustion as she turns to face you and says lowly, “I broke a mirror.”

You’re quiet for a moment, but then you say, “…On accident, right?”

“If putting my fist through glass could be considered an accident.”

Swallowing, you run your fingers over the faded scars once more. “But… why? Why do something like that?”

Lady Beneviento shakes her head. “Perhaps I didn’t like what I saw reflected there.”

A face flashes through your mind, immortalized in oils on canvas. A painted woman’s face with fine features and hauntingly dark eyes. Not for the first time in your life, your mouth charges ahead before your brain has time to catch up. “But you’re beautiful.”

The dollmaker’s hand jerks in yours, startled. You hear her sigh. “Dolcezza, please. You’re very sweet, but you haven’t even seen me without my veil.”

“I saw your portrait,” you blurt out. The way she flinches at your words almost makes you burst into more apologies, but you force yourself to meet her gaze.

Lady Beneviento is silent for nearly an entire minute, simply staring down at your hand held between hers, but when she does finally respond, her voice is a low whisper. “…Alcina showed you?” At your sheepish nod, the dollmaker makes a displeased sound in her throat. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” she growls.

“She said you made a beautiful subject and that you were lovely. I certainly don’t know Lady Dimitrescu like you do, but she didn’t seem the type to sugarcoat words.”

Your employer shakes her head vehemently. “I could be bleeding out in a wine barrel and Alcina would find that lovely as well.” With a huff, she resumes massaging your wrist.

Her dismissal stings but you try to rationalize it. It’s not your place to say such personal things to a Lord, you tell yourself scoldingly. The silence suddenly feels stifling. You still want to say more to Lady Beneviento. You want to reassure her. The words stick in your throat. There’s a curious ache in your chest. It reminds you, inexplicably, of how it felt when you lost your family.

Biting your lip, you lower your eyes to your joined hands and don’t bring up the portrait again.

Humming to yourself, you cast a critical eye over your shoulder bag as you scrub it against the washboard again. Angie had thrown a very soft tomato at you just an hour ago and despite the doll’s suspiciously insincere apologies, the tan canvas is still a blotchy shade of pink in one corner. Dumping a little more soap onto the whole thing, you scrub a few more times and hold it up to the light. Good enough, you suppose. Your bag is getting a little battered anyway, so you’re already thinking about procuring a replacement sometime soon.

You don’t think there are any lingering remnants of tomato in the soapy water, but you don’t want to take any chances when Lady Beneviento’s laundry is next. The washtub is drained and refilled with clean water while you set your bag off to one side. The wicker laundry basket is pulled over to where you can easily reach in. At this point, the whole thing has become a comfortable routine for you. A simple chore, something you can do while idly entertaining whatever daydreams you wish. First is a skirt; you scrub it and set it aside in a clean basket. Shirt, scrub, set aside. Pants, scrub, set aside. Bra, scrub, set aside.

…Wait a minute.

Eyes wide, you snatch that last piece of clothing back out of the basket. You stare at what you’re holding with furrowed brows. A bra, from Lady Beneviento’s laundry. Did you grab something of yours by mistake? Nope, it’s definitely not one of your own bras, this you’re certain of. Slowly, you run your fingers over the fabric. Soft black cotton, plain except for a line of lace decorating the neckline. 

Lady Beneviento has never left things like this in her laundry for you to wash before. Did she drop it into her basket by mistake? That’s the only explanation you can think of. Nervousness makes you shift on your feet. What are you supposed to do with this? Should you return it to her? Should you hang it on the clothesline with everything else? You don’t want to embarrass your employer in any way, but it’s not like you can just hide this bra away and hope she forgets it exists.

You stand there for way too long, in the middle of the laundry room, and run all the possibilities through your head over and over again. This time you’re thankful for the silence because you can suddenly hear something approaching.

Footsteps.

You swear your heart is about ready to burst out of your chest. In a single swift movement, you stuff the bra into the largest pocket of your shoulder bag and out of sight, and then you dump a handful of clothes into the washtub at random. By the time Lady Beneviento peeks her head around the doorframe a moment later, you’re splashing around elbow-deep in the water again while doing your best to look innocent.

You shoot her a nervous grin. “Sure is a great day to do laundry, wouldn’t you agree, Lady Beneviento?”

She just stares at you silently so you make a big show of scrubbing whatever’s in the washtub and then pull it out to show her. Unfortunately it ends up being a pair of your own panties held in your hands, so you quickly shove them back underwater, heat rising to your face.

Lady Beneviento nods slowly. “Oh. Yes, I suppose today is a… very nice day for laundry.”

You scrub a few more things and subtly try to nudge your bag a little further from her reach. “Did you need anything from me, my lady?”

“…No.”

You blink. “Oh. Um, okay then.” You stand there, hands pruning in the warm water, and stare at her.

She stares back. “I’ll just… be going then?” she says, sounding unsure.

“Okay,” you say.

She wanders away.

You shrug and continue scrubbing your things, and you can’t help but think you’ve forgotten something.

Pulling all the clean laundry from the clothesline and folding them into the appropriate baskets, you take down your bag last and pat it between your hands. It’s dry enough to be used again, although you note with a wry chuckle that the pinkish tomato stain still remains. You throw your usual things back into the pockets—wallet, knife, handkerchief, a few bandages just in case—and then sling the strap over your shoulder.

“You’re heading to the village now?” Lady Beneviento pipes up. You pause in the middle of lacing up your boots, looking over your shoulder to see her standing there with Angie held loosely in her arms.

“That was the plan, yeah,” you affirm, knotting your laces and standing with a stretch. From the side pocket of your bag, you dig out the shopping list. “Flour, onions, carrots… Did you have something else to add to this?”

She shakes her head and glides right past you to the front door instead, pulling it open while Angie makes a grandiose gesture for you to make your exit. You step out into the open air but it comes as a surprise when the pair follow you onto the porch. “Will you be gardening today, my lady?” you ask, puzzled.

“Does it look like Donna’s dressed for gardening?” Angie grumbles.

“I suppose not. It’s a fine day for a walk though, is that what you two will be doing?”

The doll rolls her eyes at you. “Geez, you’re pretty slow, aren’t you?”

“Hush, Angie,” Lady Beneviento says. Scoldingly, she flicks the back of the doll’s head, prompting a loud screech. Over Angie’s complaints, the dollmaker continues, “Dolcezza, I would like to go into town with you today.”

It’s not your place to deny the Lord from doing what she pleases, but still you can’t help but feel hesitant. “Are you sure, Lady Beneviento? Even after what happened last time?” you ask, forcibly reminded of the fiasco that happened on that windy day.

“The weather is quite calm today,” she says lightly, though you notice a slight tensing in her hands. She’s nervous, you think. Maybe not about the weather, but there’s still a nervousness about leaving the seclusion of her estate.

“You won’t have to worry about the wind blowing up your veil,” you hum in agreement. Lady Beneviento begins walking along the path so you trot along behind her. When she still looks tense, you add, “I’ll be there right with you. Miss Angie will be there too. It might be… fun for the three of us to have a little adventure? I’m always happy to visit the village—not that it’s wrong if you don’t enjoy it as well, you don’t have to like the same things as me! I just…” You swallow and stare off into the distance, at the fog covered mountains painting the horizon. “…I want you to be happy, Lady Beneviento, that’s all.”

The dollmaker is silent for a long time. For several minutes, the only sounds to be heard are the rustling of grass and an occasional twig snapping beneath your feet. Even Angie is curiously quiet. When the three of you approach the gate, however, you hear the Lord’s low voice. “Sweet girl,” she whispers, a sigh that nearly misses your ears. “I’m always happy with you here.”

Your heart pounds. Suddenly feeling warmer than the weather would suggest, you look at her and she shyly lowers her head. “I’ll be behind you,” she murmurs, tension edging into her body once more. “Let’s get the things on our list, shall we?”

As it turns out, today there seems to be less fanfare that occurs compared to the previous time you and Lady Beneviento ventured into the village. Perhaps the novelty of the reclusive Lord having a new employee has worn off, or maybe people are just growing more used to the two of you being seen together. Either way, the villagers stay out of your path and watch with caution, but at least they don’t freeze in place or flee the vicinity. There are curious glances and respectful bows sent the dollmaker’s way, but the energy doesn’t feel nearly as loaded as before.

Of course, Angie is here too this time. With her chattering away at everyone who comes within a ten foot radius of your party, there’s no chance for awkward silences to take over.

For the most part, Lady Beneviento hangs back while you haggle with the shopkeepers. It’s not exactly a bad thing to have her standing a few paces behind you like this—you suspect the groceries are offered at much lower prices simply thanks to her quiet presence. Still, you can sense her discomfort at being around so many other people. You can’t help but feel guilty about this.

“Do you want to go back home?” you ask after everything on the list has been purchased. Lady Beneviento just shrugs. There’s a droop in her shoulders that suggests tiredness, you notice with a frown, so you steer her over to a small table set in the quiet outskirts of the market. The table and its three matching chairs are homely things, constructed from painted iron and speckled with rust in a few spots, but they do stand in the shade of a towering willow tree at least. The Lord takes a seat in the chair closest to the tree, Angie settling comfortably on her lap. You drop into the chair next to her and the three of you take a few moments to just peacefully watch the villagers meandering through the square.

It’s quiet and lovely and as fate would have it, of course you do something to ruin it barely a minute later.

It happens when you spot Elena browsing the vegetable stalls. Without thinking, you call out to her and wave. She raises a hand in return, but then realizes far too late that you’re not alone. The smile freezes on her face, almost comically so, and even from the short distance you can see how her eyes widen in fear.

There’s a tug on your sleeve and you look down to see Angie grabbing at you. “Hey, who’s that you’re gawking at?”

“Oh. Just my friend, Elena Lupu. I think I mentioned how I stayed with her and her father before starting my job with you two?”

Angie makes an impatient sound. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. What are you waiting for, bring her over here so we can introduce ourselves!”

You look toward Lady Beneviento for confirmation, but she’s silent. Curiously, you think the dollmaker looks almost as frozen and rigid as Elena. 

Shrugging, you turn back to your friend and gesture for her to come over.

Elena glances around in desperation, as if you could possibly be inviting anyone else. She then tiptoes over, agonizingly slow, and bends forward into a stiff bow. Her skin is as pale as a ghost, eyes squeezed shut like she can’t bear to see what will happen next. “Lady B-Benev…” Your friend’s voice wavers and squeaks. “B-Benvenuto.”

Angie makes a delighted sound and wriggles in Lady Beneviento’s arms. “Oh, she speaks Italian! This day just gets better and better!” she shrills. “Sit down, sit with us!”

Still looking ashen and grim, Elena sits in the remaining chair with all the grace of an injured lycan. You pivot in your own chair to shoot her a questioning look. “You speak Italian? You never told me that.”

“That’s because I don’t!” your friend yelps. She cringes at the volume of her words and shrinks into herself, and you frown at this.

In the weeks following your employment, Elena had taken to teasing you about the rumors of your supposed relationship with Lady Beneviento. In the actual presence of the dollmaker herself, however, your friend’s playfulness is all but absent. Fidgety and tense, terror plainly reflected in wide eyes, the look on her face mirrors how you’re sure your own expression must have looked during your first meeting with the quiet Lord. A feeling of sympathy washes over you, as well as an urge to reassure your friend. Hoping to demonstrate your support, you reach over and grab Elena’s hand and—

Lady Beneviento moves. It’s subtle but unmistakable, a tiny jerk of her veiled head and a twitch in her hands that jostles the talking doll still supported between them. A peculiar scent hits your nose, bitterly floral, something you think you’ve smelled before from the yellow flowers dotting her estate.

A tugging sensation brings your attention back to Elena. She rips her hand out of your grasp and scoots her chair a comfortable distance away, eyes rapidly darting between you and the Lord. “We’re friends, just childhood friends, my lady. Nothing more than that,” she squeaks out, hands raised appeasingly. You blink at her, and then at Lady Beneviento. You think you can just barely hear the Lord’s soft exhale, her veil fluttering almost imperceptibly. The floral scent fades into the air. Glancing down, you can see the dollmaker’s spidery fingers curling into the fabric of her skirt.

An awkward sort of silence hangs over your little party of four. Well, it would be silent if not for Angie happily chattering at Elena. The doll is talking so much it would be almost impossible for the other woman to get a word in edgewise—not that you think your friend is eager to participate in the conversation anyway. 

Feeling uncomfortable, you sneak another glance at Elena’s tense shoulders and then at Lady Beneviento’s tightly clenched hands. Surely there must be some way to break the tension hanging in the air? Then, as if from Mother Miranda herself, inspiration strikes you. Drinks. Refreshments. Something to break the ice, something that everyone at the table might enjoy.

“I’ll go get us some tea,” you announce, rising to your feet. Elena makes an agonized little noise and shrinks back into her seat. She looks like she wants to accompany you but thinks better of it after another nervous glance in Lady Beneviento’s direction. Reassuringly, you add, "I'll be right back, you'll barely even notice I'm gone."

"Oh, I think I'll notice," Elena manages.

Angie shrieks with laughter and it's the last thing you hear as you hurry away.

There are a few places to get tea in the village, but only one place sells the dark earthy blend that Lady Beneviento favors. From his carriage, the Duke smiles when he sees you approach. “Well, if it isn’t the little maid! I have buttons if you need them...“ He shakes the glass jar that always seems within reach whenever you’ve stopped by the shop lately. “…and a lovely new selection of cotton fabrics, although I’m afraid Lady Beneviento’s order of custom silks has not arrived yet.”

“It’s fine, Duke. Actually, I’m here for tea this time. Can I get a pot of that fancy stuff the lady likes?”

“Ah, a pot of aged raw pu-erh. Lady Beneviento has excellent taste, as always.” With a flourish, the man sprinkles a few generous pinches of tea into a glazed teapot and adds the boiling water. “Still, it piques my curiosity why you are requesting a freshly brewed tea rather than a refill for her supply of dried leaves.”

You watch as steam rises from the spout of the teapot. When you meet the merchant’s eyes, he winks at you knowingly. “Well,” you say even though you’re fairly sure he’s puzzled it out already, “that’s because she came into town with me this time. I just thought she might enjoy something to drink.”

The Duke sets the teapot onto a metal tea tray. “This is the second time you’ve managed to lure the elusive lady into the heart of the village,” he hums. “Impressive, impressive.”

Is it really so rare for Lady Beneviento to venture out of her estate? Thinking about it makes you sad, but you’re also touched that she pushed past her obvious discomfort to accompany you today. Frowning, you fiddle with the strap of your bag. “How much for the tea today, Duke?”

“I’ll just add the charge to the lady’s bill. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind sparing a few lei for her darling lover’s sake.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s me. Lady Beneviento’s lover,” you deadpan, far too used to Elena’s teasing for the Duke’s similar comments to faze you.

There’s a coughing sound nearby, gruff and explosive, like someone’s inhaled a mouthful of sand. The Duke peers over your shoulder and waves a benign hand. “Lord Heisenberg,” he says cheerfully, “perhaps a glass of water to calm your throat?”

A chill runs down your spine. You whip around and see, standing behind you, the Lord of the factory. He’s holding his trademark metal hammer in one hand and a pitiful-looking cigar in the other, half-crushed and raining tiny motes of ash. Through dark tinted sunglasses, you can see narrowed eyes glaring at both you and the merchant.

Gesturing at the sorry remnants of that cigar, the Duke laughs. “My good man, you’re not supposed to actually inhale the smoke!”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” Lord Heisenberg growls. He stomps the smoldering roll of tobacco beneath one heavy boot, crushing it into the dirt. When he smirks at you for staring, you squeak and hurriedly turn back to the Duke.

Seemingly unbothered by it all, the merchant places a few teacups onto the tray. “Now, would I be correct to assume Miss Angie accompanies the two of you today? Would three cups suffice?” he asks cheerily.

“Four, please,” you say nervously. “Elena Lupu is there with us too.”

“The more the merrier. Four cups of aged pu-erh, to be charged to the lady’s account—“

“Make that five cups, and it’s on me,” Lord Heisenberg grunts, digging through his pocket. He drops a handful of lei into the Duke’s hand—far more than the amount needed to cover the cost of the tea. Apparently not concerned about getting his change back, he hoists his hammer back over one shoulder and does a sort of snapping gesture with his spare hand. The metal tea tray, its contents shifting but thankfully not spilling over, rises into the air and hovers there unsupported. Your jaw drops open.

The man walks a few steps, the tea tray following close behind, and then turns back to face you. His mouth curves into the hook of a smile. “Gonna catch flies if you don’t close that mouth, lover girl. And trust me when I say the flies around here can be a bit… bitey.”

You snap your mouth shut with a click. 

Apparently satisfied, the Lord nods. “Better. Now then, why don’t you lead the way? Hell if I can ever find Donna when she’s hiding.”

The table isn’t quite within eyeshot yet, but still you can hear Angie jabbering about something or another, the doll’s voice becoming more clear and distinct as you and Lord Heisenberg approach the old willow tree. Turning the corner, the table and its occupants finally come into view. Lady Beneviento doesn’t look like she’s moved a muscle since you left, a motionless shroud of black fabric upon which Angie excitedly bounces. Elena is stiff in her chair, a nervous smile frozen on her lips. Your friend’s expression visibly relaxes when she sees you, then becomes one of confusion when the tea tray floats by a second later, and finally turns to terror when Lord Heisenberg saunters around the corner.

“So this is the other one, eh?” the man asks, fingers idly tapping against his hammer as he examines your frightened friend. “What, was one maid not enough, Donna?”

Angie pipes up before anyone else can respond. “That’s no maid, that’s Elena! She’s my new girlfriend!” the doll screams. 

“A match made in heaven if I ever saw one,” Lord Heisenberg grunts, voice thick with sarcasm. He lowers the tea tray onto the table with a flourish, then plops himself down heavily upon the remaining empty chair. Your chair. 

“Uh,” you say, and then slap a hand over your mouth.

The man shoots you a lazy look and then goes so far as to rest his feet on the table. “Oh, did I take your spot? My bad,” he says, not sounding the least bit sorry at all. His eyes flash from behind the dark sunglasses. You would bet all the lei in your wallet that he’s baiting you, challenging you, to voice a complaint.

Well… you never were one to rise to a challenge. “It’s fine. I’ll just stand,” you quickly say.

Across the table, you can see Angie making a big show of wiggling her little wooden self in place, patting the black fabric beneath her. “Hey, why don’t you sit next to me? There’s plenty of room.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s Lady Beneviento’s lap you’re sitting on, Miss Angie.”

“And it’s niiiiice and comfy here!” the doll sings.

Lord Heisenberg roars with laughter. He prods at you with his hammer, gently but still with enough force that you wince and rub your backside. “That’s right, lover girl, go and sit on Donna’s lap.”

Frozen, you stand there rooted in place. What are you supposed to do? What’s the proper way to handle this? Lady Beneviento is the one you answer to, but she’s been entirely silent ever since the arrival into town. Should you follow Angie’s orders? Should you follow Lord Heisenberg’s?

As if to answer your questions, the male Lord’s grin turns wolfish. Hints of bare teeth flash between scarred lips while a gloved hand tightens around the handle of that great metal hammer, leather creaking beneath the force. The tea tray clatters. “Girl. I said sit.”

The high-pitched squeak that escapes your lips surely would have been the source of much teasing from Elena had your friend not looked similarly terrified for your sake. Eyes wide, you desperately glance toward the last remaining occupants of the table. Angie is still giggling and swaying in place. She extends a wooden hand to pat where Lady Beneviento’s thighs must be beneath her black skirt, the dollmaker herself remaining stock-still, rigid, a statue draped in fine cloth.

A deep breath. Then another. You inch closer. From the corner of your eye, you can see Lord Heisenberg watching through narrowed eyes and Elena peeking at the scene through her fingers.

When you reach Lady Beneviento’s side, you find yourself nervously holding your breath. There’s… there’s just enough space between the dollmaker and the table where you could squeeze through if you were careful. Angie laughs and scoots to one side, making more room for you, but Lady Beneviento herself is nearly motionless. She sits there, pale hands fisted in her skirt, and the only indication that she’s aware of your approach is the way her head turns slowly to face you.

For a brief moment, you remember what Lady Dimitrescu had asked you that day. Something about sitting upon Lady Beneviento’s lap and dying a little death there. You wonder if this is what the countess had been talking about. If this next action of yours will seal your fate, if your employer will finally decide your presence isn’t worth the endless inconveniences you’ve thrown her way.

Maybe it would be better just to get it over with, like ripping off a bandage.

You’re just about to lower yourself down when the dollmaker bolts to her feet, so violently that the chair wobbles on its legs and nearly tips over. Angie tumbles off her lap and screeches, digging spindly wooden fingers into her maker’s skirt in an attempt to hold on. Lady Beneviento winces. She reaches down with one hand to awkwardly grab the doll around the waist while her other hand slams the chair back down onto all four legs. From one side of the table, you can hear Lord Heisenberg’s stifled laughter. From the other side you think you can hear Elena quietly praying under her breath.

Heart pounding and feeling entirely unsure of what to do, you reach out to help with the squirming doll in your employer’s hold. Lady Beneviento shakes her head tensely and it stops you cold. You can’t help but think she looks almost frazzled right now. Strung tight as piano wire, a complete opposite from the unmoving figure she had cut just a few moments earlier. You lower your hands, feeling useless.

“…Please, just sit. I will stand,” Lady Beneviento finally says, gesturing down at the empty chair with her free hand.

Elena exhales softly in surprise. Living at the estate, you’ve become accustomed to hearing the dollmaker’s voice but you realize this must be the first time your friend has ever heard her speak. There’s no time to think on that, however, because the Lord gestures again after you just stand there dumbly for a few seconds too long, a hint of impatience in the movement this time. You scramble onto the chair in a rush, knocking your hip into the corner of the table and jostling the tea tray again. There’s a sudden pressure on your shoulder and you glance down to see Lady Beneviento’s hand resting there. She’s standing behind you, motionless if not for her nervously twitching fingers. Without thinking, you cover her hand with your own and crane your neck so you can send her a reassuring smile.

“Oh,” you think you hear Elena quietly gasp, and you look back across the table to see your friend’s bewildered expression. Even Lord Heisenberg looks a little surprised, the laughter fading from his face as a gloved hand coming up to scratch at his scruffy beard. “Huh,” he grunts. A shrewd sound. Calculating, but not without a hint of pleased satisfaction.

You gently squeeze Lady Beneviento’s hand. Her thumb runs across your fingers in response.

Dangling like an infant from her maker’s arm, Angie kicks the back of your head.

Almost like an afterthought, Lord Heisenberg summons a fourth chair from Mother-Miranda-knows-where.

“Karl, couldn’t you have just done that from the start?” Lady Beneviento sighs as she sits and soothingly strokes Angie’s hair. You watch the movement of her hands with a slight feeling of jealousy, already lamenting that there will surely be a lump on the back of your own head from the doll’s flailing foot.

Lord Heisenberg barks out a laugh. “Nah, where’s the fun in that? Maybe I was just curious to see what this little maid of yours would do.” He looks at you closely over his sunglasses. “Tell me, girl. What’s your job in that creepy ass manor? Does Donna dress you up in frills and lace, parade you around like her other dolls?”

You can’t help but wonder if Lord Heisenberg is suggesting you don’t do any real work around the estate. Though you keep it from showing on your face, you do feel a bit indignant at such an implication. “I clean and cook, my lord. I work in the garden when the weather allows it. Sometimes I come to the village for groceries and to pick up Lady Beneviento’s orders from the Duke. Oh, and I do laundry as well.” Your gaze flits over the man’s jacket, speckled with dust and motor oil, and you privately wonder when was the last time he himself had washed his clothes.

Lord Heisenberg snorts. “Oh, I bet you do Donna’s laundry.” He drains what’s left in his cup and then lazily tilts his chair back. When he looks at you again, his expression is more serious this time. “Sounds like you’re there to stay. So tell me, lover girl… you met Miranda yet?”

“Karl,” your employer hisses. A warning.

“She’ll have to meet her eventually, you know. Hell, I’d be shocked if Miranda doesn’t already—“

There’s a subtle motion from Lady Beneviento’s hand, a quick little flex of her fingers that prompts Angie to knock over her cup with a clatter of broken china. Lukewarm tea splatters everywhere, most of it managing to land right on your shirt. You flinch and jump to your feet out of reflex. “Oh, how clumsy of me!” Angie chatters. An artificial apology, you think. Something coming from the dollmaker rather than the doll herself.

Lady Beneviento rises to her feet as well, one hand reaching out to take your arm. “I think we will take our leave now,” your employer announces firmly. “My maid's shirt will stain if it’s not washed soon. Not that it’s likely you would appreciate something like that, Karl.” The dollmaker inclines her head toward the other Lord’s unwashed jacket but just receives a derisive grunt in response.

Shivering, you look down at yourself. The tea has mostly splashed your clothes but there’s a fine sheen of wetness on your neck and jaw. Swiping a hand across the damp skin mostly just succeeds in spreading it around even more. Pursing your lips, you sigh and open up your bag—stained again, this time with tea—to rummage through it. “Pretty sure I have a handkerchief I can dry off with while we walk,” you mutter. Dabbing at the excess liquid might help a little bit, at least. Your fingers brush against something that feels like soft cotton, but… something doesn’t seem quite right.

Strange.

You pull out the handkerchief and it’s not a handkerchief at all. It’s Lady Beneviento’s bra.

For a moment, you just stare at the undergarment with a feeling of befuddlement. Why is this here in your bag? Where did it come from? And then you remember, oh, you remember now. You’d hidden that bra in your bag when Lady Beneviento checked on you in the laundry room. And then you’d promptly forgotten all about it when you went to wash everything else.

Everyone at your little table is quiet now, staring at you with varying levels of disbelief.

“…Quite the handkerchief you got there,” Lord Heisenberg says at last, with a raised brow.

“This isn’t mine, it’s Lady Beneviento’s,” you say without thinking. To the dollmaker herself, you quickly add, “I forgot to give this back to you earlier. It’s… it’s still a little damp, sorry.”

You offer her the bra and she bats your hand down. “Dolcezza. Put that away.”

Blushing furiously, you do as she says. Angie giggles shrilly, apparently back in control of herself again. Lord Heisenberg echoes the doll with a low rumble of laughter of his own while Elena is still frozen in her seat, hands clenched tight around her own teacup. Lady Beneviento tugs at your arm again, forcibly insistent, and through the side of her veil you can see a hint of red darkening what little skin she shows.

“You know,” Lord Heisenberg manages between chuckles, “I wasn’t sure what to think about those rumors at first. Figured maybe the villagers were imagining things that weren’t there. Wouldn’t be the first time for that, eh, Donna?” He waits a few moments but the dollmaker doesn’t respond. “But then even the super-sized bitch said something about it. Thought she was just bullshitting with me at the time. Just goes to show there’s a first for everything, I guess.”

“We’re leaving, Karl,” your employer finally says. “Don’t you have tasks to complete for Mother Miranda today?”

“Like I could forget.” The man stands from his chair with a groan. He removes his sunglasses and fixes Lady Beneviento with an even stare. With his eyes now visible, you can see how serious his expression has become. “…Just one last thing before I’m out of your hair, Donna. Got something very important to say.”

The dollmaker sighs and gestures for him to continue.

The corner of Lord Heisenberg’s mouth twitches. “I want you to know,” he says slowly, “when the time comes… I’m gonna be the one to walk you down the aisle. Don’t even think about asking anyone else—that’s my job.”

“Karl. Go away.”

“Heh. Well, I’ve said my piece.” The man replaces his sunglasses and tips his hat in a sarcastic little salute. “Enjoy your afternoon, ladies,” he says before sauntering away with his hammer slung over one shoulder again, whistling an aimless tune to himself.

You let out a deep breath while Angie blows a loud raspberry in the retreating Lord’s direction. “Well, that was interesting,” you say.

Elena slumps forward, her face buried in her hands. When she speaks, it’s the first time she’s done so in several minutes. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

“What makes you say something like that?”

“Are you kidding me?” your friend hisses. “You call me over and bring all these damn Lords here and—“ Angie makes an outraged sound which causes Elena to flinch and scramble to her feet so she can hurriedly bow. Lady Beneviento silences the doll with a wave of her hand and then clicks her tongue when Angie attempts to gnaw on her fingers with sharp little porcelain teeth. Your friend bites her lip, ashen-faced once more. “My lady,” Elena stammers. “Please, I-I meant no offense. I was just… surprised… by the appearance of yourself and Lord Heisenberg.”

Groveling, you think, doesn’t really suit Elena. It reminds you of yourself in those early days at the estate, but it also reminds you of how kindly Lady Beneviento has treated you throughout your time with her. You send your employer a pleading look. She regards you with a tilt of her veiled head and a gentle drumming of painted nails against Angie’s pouting form, but finally she nods.

“Miss Lupu, was it?” Lady Beneviento asks softly.

It’s the first time the Lord has addressed Elena directly. Your friend nervously swallows and straightens her back. “Yes, my lady,” she confirms, still meekly deferential.

The dollmaker hesitates but then bows her head. It is, unmistakably, a gesture of gratitude. Maybe even a gesture of respect. “My deepest thanks, to you and your father,” she whispers. “For taking care of my precious maid before she came to me.”

Elena’s jaw is slack. She nods, as if in a daze. 

Lady Beneviento turns to you. Her hand closes around your arm. “Now,” she says quietly. “Home for us.”

Chapter Text

In the middle of the night, you wake up screaming.

You’re not in the manor, not anywhere in Lady Beneviento’s estate. You’re back in your family home, the walls splattered with blood and soot, the roof on fire and raining red-hot ash. Broken furniture is strewn everywhere. Glass crunches beneath your shoes. There are two bloodied figures slumped against a wall. Your father and brother, eviscerated and mauled almost beyond recognition. Living shadows shuffle into view, dragging your sobbing mother by the hair. They’re monsters, beasts, ragged wolves on two legs with pitted, scarred faces and gaping jaws. Your mother’s bloodstained hand reaches for you. She calls your name just as a rusty blade plunges into her back.

You run.

You run, run, run as fast as you can, run out the door and you don’t stop, you don’t stop, even as the howls fade into the distance and your house fades away too. You run and the path twists like the roots of an ancient tree with crows perched atop its branches, and when you fall into its depths they open their beaks and sing to you, “You left them, you ran away but we give glory. In life and in death, we give glory, you sorry girl.”

Like a ghost in the air, you hear your mother whisper your name again. And again, and again but it’s not her voice anymore, it’s a different voice, one you recognize and—

You open your eyes.

The ceiling of your room greets you, nearly lightless if not for the silvery glow of the moon shining through the window. A shrouded form looms over you and you stiffen at the sight. Out of instinct you try to scramble away, but then there are hands on your shoulders that pin you down on the mattress. One of those hands releases you and hovers in midair for a hesitant moment before stroking your cheek. In the moonlight you can see pale skin and dark painted nails. The familiar sight calms you, just barely.

“Lady Beneviento.” The whispered name leaves your lips like a prayer. You hold her hand to your cheek and begin to cry. The mattress dips beneath the Lord as she leans over you, tenderly cupping both sides of your face now, her thumbs rubbing away the tears spilling forth from your eyes. 

“Sweet girl, my darling girl,” she breathes. “It was only a nightmare. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “The lycans,” you whimper.

Lady Beneviento shushes you. “They can’t get you here, dolcezza. I won’t let anything get you here.”

“The blood. My mother. I saw her. I saw her reach for me before I ran.” Another sob bubbles up from your chest. Lady Beneviento gathers you into her arms and you cry into her shoulder. You cry, oh, you cry. You wail until your throat aches and your voice is too weak to continue. And only then, when you feel wrung out and empty and gutted, do you finally fall silent.

The Lord holds you for a long time. She could have held you all night and you wouldn’t have complained. But she does let you go eventually, tucking you back into bed once your cries have faded into weak, hiccupy sniffles. Panic courses through you as she pulls away and you grab at her in desperation. Your fingers catch the hem of her shirt. “Please,” you beg, “please stay?”

The dollmaker is quiet but you think she’s considering your request. After a long moment, she nods. Relief floods through you but then you bite your lip as you glance down at the bedsheets twisted around your form. This isn’t going to work, is it? Your bed is narrow, a single. It’s perfectly comfortable for you alone, but it’s hardly wide enough to accommodate more than one person. Maybe you’ve misunderstood. Maybe she’s going to pull over the desk chair and sit by your bedside, holding your hand in hers until sleep takes you again. That would be nice too.

But no—you’re startled out of your thoughts by the gentle creaking of bedsprings. The mattress dips beneath Lady Beneviento’s weight again as she pulls the sheets back and sits at the edge of the bed. You watch, tense and suddenly unsure of what to do.

The Lord turns and looks at you. Her hands twist together and you wonder if she’s feeling as lost as you right now. “Dolcezza. Lay on your side please?” she says.

Okay, laying on your side. That’s an easy enough thing to do. But then you’re struck with uncertainty again. You’re not sure which side you should lay on. Surely it would be rude to show your back to her? With that in mind, you scramble back as close to the opposite edge of the bed as you can manage, resting on your right side and watching the dollmaker with wide eyes.

Lady Beneviento slides into your bed in a single smooth movement, her veiled head falling heavily upon the pillows resting against the headboard. She turns to lay on her own side and faces you. “You’re going to fall off the bed. Come here,” she sighs.

“I have plenty of room,” you squeak, and you think maybe she’s not in the mood for humoring any nonsense from you this time because an impatient noise rumbles from deep in her throat. She reaches out and wraps an arm around you. With a strength that’s a bit surprising, she pulls you close until you’re firmly pressed against her chest. You’re rigid and tense and unsure of what to do with your hands, but then you feel gentle fingers carding through your hair.

“…Sorry,” Lady Beneviento whispers. “I suppose I should have asked before touching you like that. Is this… comfortable for you?”

“Very comfortable,” you admit, and it’s true. The hand stroking through your hair is almost enough to lull you into a sleepy trance. If you were a cat, you’d probably be purring right now. Your own hands are held against your chest out of nervousness, but then you dare to shift your arms just enough to curl around Lady Beneviento in a careful embrace. For a few seconds you wait for a sign that you’ve overstepped some boundary, but instead you’re only greeted by a mellow hum as the Lord rests her chin atop the crown of your head. A tiny sense of gratification fills you. This is okay, this is encouraged. You’re allowed to hold her.

You feel so warm, so safe. The anxiety ebbs from your body and leaves only sleepiness behind. Surrounded by both the dark of night and Lady Beneviento’s veil, there doesn’t seem to be a point in keeping your eyes open. You allow them to flutter shut with a tired sigh. The smell of rosewood and cedar fills your nose. The lower section of the dollmaker’s veil tickles your face. Her heartbeat is a slow, steady rhythm against your ear.

It feels like the two of you have come to a quiet, mutual understanding of some kind. It’s enough that you are content to just lay there and forget about everything else in your life. In this very moment, the world outside your bed could have ceased to exist and you wouldn’t have cared nor noticed.

You’re teetering on the edge of sleep again when Lady Beneviento begins to speak. “After my parents died, I always wished someone would do this for me,” she says softly.

Even after all the weeks, months even, that you’ve lived here at the estate with her, it’s still been so rare for the Lord to talk about personal details of her life. Too exhausted to react otherwise, you say nothing in response and just quietly listen. After a few moments, she takes a deep breath and continues. “It was a long time ago. They… they jumped. I ran to the edge but it was too late. They were gone. Gone, gone, gone without a trace. I always wondered if I’d have had more closure if there had been something left to bury.” Her hand pauses midstroke in your hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be keeping you awake with such burdensome things from my past.”

You just shake your head in silent protest. With hesitation, you ask, “Does it ever get easier?”

“Missing them?” she asks, and you nod. A quiet sigh escapes her lips. “Even all these years later, I still miss my family every day,” she whispers. “I think a part of me died with them. A part that will never recover. For a long time I was just… alone. But now I have Angie and my dolls. I have Mother Miranda. I have the other Lords and I… I have you.” Lady Beneviento’s hand resumes its gentle motions.

It’s not a guarantee nor is it a promise. It’s hardly even a straight answer. But it gives you something to hold on to, something to hope for. “If anyone was to have me, I’m glad it’s you,” you mumble. Sleep is slowly sinking its claws back into you again and it’s suddenly too tiring to fight it any longer. You nuzzle a little closer. “Lady Beneviento. I’m afraid,” you whisper into her skin.

“To go back to sleep?” she asks, and you give a wordless nod. There’s a soft touch of a hand upon your cheek. The faintest hint of a floral scent hits your nose, filling your mind with a hazy peacefulness. You hear the dollmaker’s voice again but she almost sounds muted, like she’s talking from someplace far away. “Rest,” she murmurs. “You’ll have sweet dreams, lovely dreams, I promise you.”

A whisper of a kiss is pressed to your forehead and it’s the last thing you register before falling into unconsciousness. 

When the sun peeks through the window and the chirping birds outside begin to sing their songs, you finally stir awake. You’re warm and comfortable, wrapped up beneath the soft bedding, but the tip of your nose is cold so you burrow a little deeper into your pillow, which shifts beneath you and makes a soft humming noise.

How strange.

It takes a good thirty seconds before it registers in your sleepy brain that it’s probably odd for your pillow to be moving and sighing like this, and finally you force your tired eyes open. Your gaze meets pale skin and black cloth, and you realize with a gasp that you’re laying there snuggled into the crook of Lady Beneviento’s neck, her veil askew just enough for there to be bare skin pressed against your face. Her arms are loosely draped around you, solid and warm, but the hem of her shirt had lifted up at some point during the night so your own arms are snaked beneath the fabric, hands splayed against the naked skin of her back.

For a few seconds, you just lay there and breathe in her scent. You’re not really sure of what to do with yourself right now. It’s not the first time you’ve been in Lady Beneviento’s arms. Thinking back, you remember that day you had returned to the manor in a panic after first learning of the rumors swirling through the village. There was also that time during your clothing measurements when a cramp had knotted up your leg, and the intimidating visit from Lady Dimitrescu that followed shortly afterwards. Those previous occasions were all during times of incredible stress on your part, and your employer had… comforted you. Comforted you in a similar way to how she had comforted you last night.

Right now, in the hazy morning light, there is both leisure and peace that you hadn’t been afforded in those previous times. There’s nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one else peeking in at this tiny private scene of your life. You feel calm and well-rested, even after the nightmares from last night. Still soft with sleep, you trace a gentle pattern across Lady Beneviento’s back with your fingertips. The skin beneath your hands twitches and flexes when the Lord shifts slightly around you, and only then do you realize what you’re doing.

There’s a sudden pounding in your chest, harsh and heavy, your heart sounding like thunder to your own ears. It jolts you wide awake like a splash of icy water. Slowly, carefully, you pull your hands away and tug Lady Beneviento’s shirt back down to cover her stomach again. She makes a tired little grumbling sound and then her arms tighten around you, pulling you closer. Trembling like a leaf, you lie there and let your own arms fall back against the curve of her waist. The dollmaker sighs. She nuzzles into your hair, inhaling deeply, and even through the veil you can feel her warm breath fanning across your ear. You shiver into her neck.

For a single frightening moment, you find yourself craving more.

The realization steals the air from your lungs. It courses through your veins, through every inch of your being. And you’re afraid—you’re so, so afraid to put a name to how you feel at this very moment.

Perhaps fortunately, you don’t have to panic for much longer. Lady Beneviento is beginning to stir awake and it’s a blessed distraction. You hear a quiet inhalation and then she stiffens, still wrapped around you. Her hands tremble at your back, clenching and unclenching around the material of your shirt.

You decide to be the one to break the silence. “Hi.”

The Lord lets out a nervous breath. “Good morning,” she says. “Did you sleep well?”

“Better than I have in months,” you admit, and you’re startled when you realize it’s true. Despite everything that had happened, your second attempt at sleep was tranquil and deep. While nightmares weren’t a nightly occurrence and usually didn’t end up waking you up screaming like this one had, truly restful sleep still evaded you much of the time. But last night in Lady Beneviento’s arms had felt so right, so good. You wouldn’t mind sleeping like that again and the thought makes you blush, so you burrow a little deeper into her neck.

She relaxes a bit, her rigid form melting back into the bed, melting back into you. Her hand gently strokes your hair. “…Oh,” she whispers. “Me too.”

The two of you lay like this for a long while. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours—time seemed to lose all meaning when the only important thing in the world right now was how it felt to rest in your lady’s arms. But of course the two of you can’t stay like this forever. The cue to get up comes in the form of a loud, insistent knocking on your closed bedroom door. Angie’s annoyed voice screeches through the wood and it makes both of you wince. “It’s past ten! Are you two gonna laze around all day?”

“That sounds fine to me,” you retort, but you’re already sitting up and shoving the blankets away with a yawn. Lady Beneviento sits up as well and you can’t help but stare as she stretches, long and luxurious like a cat. Her sleepwear consists of a sleeveless shirt and a pair of loose pajama pants, both clashing spectacularly with the formality of her veil. It’s something you hadn’t been able to pay much attention to during all the panic from last night, but you notice now. Oh, you notice now. That sleeveless shirt shows off the taut muscles in her arms and shoulders and the sight makes that smoldering heat bloom through you again. You quickly look away with a blush when her head turns in your direction.

“Dolcezza.”

Perhaps she noticed your staring. Sheepish, you turn to face her again. Face still veiled, your employer’s expression is unreadable. But you think there’s something in her posture that suggests gentleness, a relaxed indulgence that instantly soothes your worries. With a shy duck of her head, she says, “If you ever have nightmares, I want you to know… you are welcome to come to me, always.”

Your heart pounds. All you can manage is a dumb nod as she pats your cheek before moving to join Angie in the hallway, closing your bedroom door behind her. Letting out a shuddering breath, you just flop backwards into bed again and burrow your face into a pillow as if that might help alleviate the heated flush across your cheeks.

The rest of your morning passes without much incident, although you feel like there’s a certain warmth with which Lady Beneviento looks at you when she thinks you aren’t paying attention. It all culminates in purposeful nudges of her shoulder against yours as the two of you stand side-by-side preparing breakfast, a squeezing of your hand when she offers a cup of tea, even a gentle tousling of your hair when you tell her a particularly corny joke in between bites of toast. The sound of her reluctant laughter makes you grin like an idiot and giggle right along with her.

Finally Angie has had enough. She swipes Lady Beneviento’s napkin off her lap and hurls it at your face as hard as she can. “Mother Miranda’s fucking sake! I am so sick of both of you!”

With a gasp, the Lord moves to grab the doll’s arm before she can throw anything else your way. “Angie—”

“Don’t ‘Angie’ me, Donna! And you!” A spindly wooden finger is pointed very menacingly in your direction. “Our order should be ready from the Duke by now. Why don’t you take a hike down to the village to pick it up, maybe pay Elena a visit and remind her of my undying love while you’re at it, yadda yadda yadda.”

It’s not an uncommon occurrence for Angie to throw things at you so you’re hardly fazed at all as you peel the napkin away and start clearing the table. “Well, Miss Angie, I can certainly tell I’m not wanted here today,” you grumble in mock indignation.

“Not wanted? Please. You two spend one night together and now I’m constantly being bombarded with Donna’s thoughts about how she wants nothing more than to—” The doll’s voice cuts out mid-sentence with Lady Beneviento almost certainly being the culprit. Your eyes dart back and forth between the suddenly silenced Angie and her maker, who clamps a pale, fidgety hand over the doll’s mouth.

“Um,” you venture, watching as Angie proceeds to flail her little fists into the dollmaker’s torso, “may I ask what she was about to—”

“Please don’t,” Lady Beneviento quickly says. When you frown and lower your eyes at this, you think maybe she feels a little guilty about her abrupt response because then she adds shyly, “But I really do have supplies I’ll be needing from the Duke very soon. If it’s not too much trouble for you, that is.”

“It’s not any trouble at all. In fact, the weather looks like it’ll be fantastic today. Would you like to come along with me?”

“...Not this time, dolcezza,” she sighs. It’s the same answer you’ve received the last few times you’ve asked her to join you into town. In fact, you don’t think she’s left her estate at all since the one trip that had ended with your meeting of Lord Heisenberg. 

Well. It’s not like you can blame her for feeling hesitant after the disaster that ended up being. 

Even though you do end up making the journey alone, the trip into the village is a pleasant one. Summer is in full force these days and it delights you to see the gardens and flowers in bloom. You've been hard at work cleaning up the vegetation surrounding the estate and it shows. There's not much you can do about the many graves dotting the path but at least the plants no longer look overgrown.

The Duke's shop is your first destination and you pick up Lady Beneviento's order without much fuss. Fabrics, paints, carving tools, nothing out of the ordinary today. What is out of the ordinary is that there's also a small parcel addressed to you that the merchant hands over as well.

Blinking, you weigh the paper-wrapped package in your hands. "Are you sure this isn't someone else's, Duke? I don't think I ordered anything for myself this time."

The merchant just hums and cheerfully counts out the lei in his pouch. "Very sure. Lord Heisenberg requested that item specifically for you."

"This is from Lord Heisenberg?" you squeak with alarm. You hold the package at arm’s length as if expecting it to explode without provocation. From what little you know of the Lord of the factory, that certainly doesn’t seem outside the realm of possibility.

The Duke is quick to ease your fears. “It’s nothing dangerous, I assure you. A businessman such as myself would never condone the exchange of goods that could harm such loyal customers as yourself or Lady Beneviento.”

“What’s inside?”

“Ah, our friend asked me not to disclose that to you. He said he wanted it to be a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises anymore. They usually take the form of giant ladies and lycans that want to eat me,” you complain. The Duke just laughs. You sigh and stow the package away in your bag with the other deliveries before bidding the man farewell, and he sends you off with a cheery wave.

A surprise from Lord Heisenberg. All you can do is hope it’s nothing that’ll cause you trouble later.

Even though you’re not certain of the seriousness of Angie’s suggestion earlier, you do decide to visit Elena today as well. You haven’t been able to see her nearly as much as you would have liked the last few weeks. Despite Lady Beneviento’s expression of gratitude toward your friend, you can’t quite shake the feeling that the Lord harbors some reluctance to letting you spend too much time with her. In return, Elena doesn’t exactly keep secret her wariness of the dollmaker as well.

You hope to be able to change both of their minds someday.

“No Lady Beneviento this time?” Elena asks as she opens her front door and ushers you inside. She nervously peers over your shoulder as if expecting the dollmaker to suddenly appear out of thin air behind you.

“Gosh, Elena. What am I, chopped liver?”

“I’m just a bit surprised your girlfriend let you come pay me a visit alone.”

You roll your eyes. “She’s my employer, not my girlfriend, remember?”

“Oh, of course. Because all good little maids carry their employer’s bras around in their bags with them. Tell me, what do you have in there today? A pair of her panties?” Elena deadpans.

"A delivery from the Duke I picked up for her. You know, as part of my job," you grumble, because misunderstandings be damned, you are a good maid who does her job well and that's something you're willing to argue for. Rummaging through your bag, you pull out the packaged items Lady Beneviento had requested as proof. The one package of yours slips through your fingers and Elena manages to catch it in midair before it hits the floor.

“I see this one’s addressed to you,” she remarks. “Feels like cloth. What did you order? A new bra so Lady Beneviento can carry one of yours around too?”

It takes nearly all your willpower not to rise to the bait. “I don’t know, apparently it’s from Lord Heisenberg.”

Elena has a similar reaction to yours, holding the little bundle at a generous distance. She eyes it distrustfully. “What? Why’s he ordering things for you?”

“You think I know? I’ve only really talked to him once.”

There’s a moment of quiet contemplation where Elena carefully squeezes the wrapped package, paper crinkling softly beneath her fingers. Mouth set in a thin line, she says, “I’m pretty sure it’s just clothing of some sort.”

You sigh. “Well, that certainly helps put my heart at ease.”

The corner of your friend’s mouth twitches. “…You know what? I bet it’s lingerie.”

“Elena, what the hell.”

“Wait, hear me out!” The other woman is cackling now, almost gasping for breath. “That day in town, Lord Heisenberg really seemed to get a kick out of how you and Lady Beneviento are together—“

“We’re not together!” you whine.

“—so I bet he bought you something to spice up your time at that boring old estate—“

"For the love of Mother Miranda, it's not lingerie!” you scream. “Look, I'll show you!” You snatch the package out of Elena’s hands and rip into its paper wrapping. Something black and silky falls out and you hold it up to get a better look. And then you stare and Elena stares too, because what you’re holding in your hands could barely be called clothing. A tiny little nightgown that wouldn’t even come close to reaching mid thigh, low cut at the chest and sheer to the extent of nearly being translucent. Completing the look is a few sections of frilly lace at the hem and neckline.

As if to add insult to injury, there’s even a note on the front of the garment secured in place with a safety pin. Written across the paper in an untidy scrawl are the words, “Wear this and give Donna a thrill.”

“What the hell,” you say again.

"I'm pretty sure that's lingerie."

“Elena, please. I’m begging you.” Face burning and barely able to hold back an agonized groan, you stuff the skimpy little thing back into its ripped paper packaging as fast as you can.

A hand pressed to her mouth barely stifles a fresh bout of laughter from your friend. “What were you expecting anyway from someone like Lord Heisenberg?” she chuckles.

“I don’t know!” you cry. “I really thought it would be dust rags or something like that.”

“Dust rags would probably cover more skin than that thing.”

You throw all the packages back into your bag, still burning from embarrassment. “Please. Can we just change the subject?”

Elena rolls her eyes. “Sure. It’s always Lady Beneviento this and Lady Beneviento that with you anyway. What else even goes on at that estate when you’re there?”

“Well, Miss Angie wanted you to know she sends her undying love.”

With a wince, the other woman makes a face. “…The creepy doll, huh? On second thought, you know what? I changed my mind. Let’s talk about your wonderful employer again.”

Normally you’d be able to ignore Elena’s jabs but this time you can’t help but bristle at her tone. “I don’t know why you have a problem with her, but she really is a kind person, Elena. I wish you’d give her more of a chance.”

Your friend hesitates. You watch as she shifts on her feet and crosses her arms as if hugging herself. Then she takes a deep breath and admits softly, “She frightens me, that's all.”

There’s no longer any laughter in Elena’s expression. In an instant her face has gone somber and very, very serious. The shift is jarring and it startles you. “Lady Beneviento has a very comforting presence once you get to know her,” you insist, playing with your hands. “In fact, just last night in bed—“

“Do you even hear yourself when you speak?” Elena hisses.

“—last night in bed she held me so close in her arms. It really was quite lovely,” you finish with triumph.

Your friend covers her face with her hands. Softly but with much emotion, she pleads with you, “Listen. I’m very happy for you, but still. I really don’t need to know about your sex life with Lady Beneviento.”

For a moment you just stare at her, aghast, as your confidence stutters to a halt. “Elena, no. It wasn’t anything like that.”

“Well, what was it then? You can’t just say stuff like that and not expect me to assume—”

“I had another nightmare last night,” you interject, and Elena instantly falls silent.

“Oh,” she whispers. She doesn’t say anything more but she doesn’t need to. Because of course Elena knows about your nightmares, knows all about those horrific memories that plague your mind when you close your eyes to sleep. When you’d stayed at her house there had been more than one time when you had woken up rattled with fear and ended up crawling into her bed. It was never anything either of you had considered strange or inappropriate. You’d grown up with Elena here in the village. Your best friend, your closest confidant, a sister to you in everything but blood.

And still, some tiny voice in the back of your head muses that sharing a bed with Elena had never made your heart race like it had with Lady Beneviento.

“I asked her to stay with me, and she did. She held me all through the night. She promised me I wouldn’t have to fear falling asleep this time.” You feel a tremulous smile twitching at the corners of your lips. “And… it was true. I had such nice dreams. I dreamt of my family before the attack. It was so vivid, so real. I spoke to them. It was almost like they were here again.”

Elena is quiet for a few seconds, as if pondering your words. Then she says, "Maybe she used her gift."

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Her gift from Mother Miranda.”

This gives you pause. Of course you’ve heard stories of Lady Beneviento's gift. Rumors of intruders being driven mad after passing through the Lord’s gate. Terrified whispers of seeing things that weren’t really there, of hearing voices even with no one else around. You try to weigh these tales against the way Lady Beneviento had treated you last night, but the two versions don’t seem to match up. “Can she use her gift for something like dreams?”

“She can probably use it any way she likes, good or bad,” Elena says. There’s a resolute edge to her voice that makes you think she might have noticed the hesitation on your face. Her next words surprise you, however. “That’s just my best guess, but still—it’s not like I don’t also have firsthand experience of what that woman can do, right?”

You frown at her. “What?”

“Well, you said she gave you happy dreams. Adorable, really. But I know for a fact she doesn’t treat everyone quite so kindly,” your friend grouses. “You know what she gave me? An interrogation.”

The frown on your face deepens, edging into worry. “Lady Beneviento interrogated you? When was this?”

“That time you brought her into town. And then, you know, decided to wave her bra around in front of everyone.”

“That’s not how it happened and you know it.”

Elena rolls her eyes. “Oh, details. My point is, Lady Beneviento really didn’t like it when you tried to hold my hand back then. She spoke to me. I think it was only to me, because you didn’t seem to notice at all. And I saw… things. Unpleasant things. Just for a second or two.”

“What did she say?”

Your friend pauses. She bites her lip and you get the feeling she’s choosing her words very carefully. “She asked me what my intentions were with you. What our relationship was. I… I don’t think she meant any harm. Not really. She just cares very much for you, and I think she got a bit jealous.”

You blink. “Jealous of what? Our friendship?”

The other woman fixes you with an incredulous look. She cradles her head in her hands again. “Are you serious right now? There’s no way you’re this clueless,” she groans.

“Elena, if you keep being mean to me I’m gonna kick you out of my best friend spot and put Lady Beneviento there instead.”

“And I’m sure your darling Lady Beneviento would love to fill all your spots.” Your friend smacks your arm in exasperation. With a long-suffering sigh, she adds, “Figure it out yourself. Shouldn’t be too hard, the two of you aren’t subtle at all. Maybe try wearing that nightgown around her. Or some dust rags if that’s too risqué for you.”

“Har har.” Rubbing your arm, you stare down at the floor as heat rises to your face. It’s an embarrassing thought, but you can’t help but imagine wearing that nightgown for Lady Beneviento. And in the back of your mind, you scold yourself for wondering if she’d like it.

You end up being intercepted on the way back to the manor. It starts with a nipping sensation on the back of your neck a few minutes after crossing the old suspension bridge. A curious insect or perhaps a stray tree branch, you think. You brush whatever it is away and continue walking. But then it happens again, harder this time, and you swat at your neck out of instinct. Something buzzes beneath your hand and you clamp your fingers around it. With a frown, you bring your fist around and slowly open your hand.

A fly sits in your palm, vibrating angrily at you. It stamps its tiny legs a few times before spreading its wings and taking off. You watch as it circles around you, all while emitting that low buzzing sound. And then you see another fly coming your way.

And another.

And another.

And by now you’re starting to feel a bit concerned because there’s a whole swarm of flies zooming through the air, some of them landing on your skin, your hair, even crawling beneath your clothes. The insects are unrelenting in their chase even as you let out a few curses and speed up your leisurely walk into a run. The swarm zips past you and hovers right in the middle of your path. Hundreds of flies seem to move in unison, flitting through the air, joining together into a solid mass that looks unmistakably human.

She approaches you with a few errant flies still trailing from the fluttering ends of her cloak. A young redheaded woman with a tattoo of a rose on her forehead, blood streaked across the deathly pale skin surrounding her painted lips. Barely a second has passed before she’s up in your face, looming over you. She’s tall, a good few inches taller than Lady Beneviento even, and she stares down at you with a playful expression that doesn’t quite disguise the hunger in her eyes. “A little lost maiden! What are you doing here all alone?” she giggles, batting her eyelashes. 

The redhead reaches out to grab at you and you make a clumsy dive beneath her outstretched arm, scrambling away. You can hear her laughing somewhere behind you but it’s almost drowned out by the drone of yet another cloud of flies. This second swarm coalesces into the form of a brunette, who darts forward with her hands flexed into mock claws. “Rah!” she growls.

You scream in response. The brunette seems to find this amusing, doubling over with laughter. You duck under her outstretched arms as well and begin to sprint. The manor isn’t too far away but the flies are faster than you. Almost in an instant they overtake you, blocking the path in their human forms once more. Heart pounding, you look around wildly for another option.

Out of the corner of your eye you see a carriage, stationary with its horse pawing at the ground. With a whimper, you make a mad dash to it, banging your fists against the door. The horse rears up on its legs and lets out a snort. You spare the animal a brief, panicked glance. There’s no driver in sight and this puzzles you. There’s no time to ponder this any further because the door suddenly opens and a gloved hand grabs you by the arm, yanking you inside. The door slides shut with a click as you collapse in a heap on the floor, trembling.

A pair of heels swim in front of your vision, nearly obscured by the hem of a long black dress. Still gasping for breath, you tilt your head up to look at your savior and are greeted with the sight of a beautiful blonde woman. The tattooed forehead and blood around her mouth are nearly identical to those of the other two still outside. Startled, you flinch back in fear.

The woman looks at you closely, lips slightly parted as though tasting the air, and then pats the seat across from her. “Sit with me?”

On wobbly legs and too frightened to even think about disobeying, you do as she says. You run your sweaty, shaking hands over the rich material of the seats. Crimson velvet, soft to the touch. An easy color to disguise bloodstains, a tiny part of your brain frets. The rest of the carriage is just as lavish, with golden framework and fine silk curtains drawn over the windows.

You’ve barely even had a chance to catch your breath when a pounding on the carriage frame makes the whole thing jolt. A scream is barely contained by both hands clapping over your mouth. “Bela, let us in!” a muffled voice whines from outside. The redhead, if you had to guess. “It’s not fair you get to keep the prey all to yourself!”

Prey? Is that what you are to them? You shiver and shrink back into the corner, eyeing the seated woman across from you warily. The blonde just smiles. Her golden eyes dart to the locking mechanism on the door. “What do you say? Should I let my sisters inside?” she asks mildly.

Hands still over your mouth, you shake your head.

She clicks her tongue, lips still quirked in a smile. “I didn’t think so. You needn’t worry, little mouse. This carriage is sealed very well. It was built to keep out anything, right down to the slightest breeze. Our mother is very protective, you see. She worries very much when the weather turns cold.”

You’re not sure where she’s going with all this, to be perfectly honest. Still, you don’t dare interrupt. The blonde sighs and runs a hand through her long hair. “She worries, but that’s only natural, isn’t it? To worry about those you love? You must be quite familiar with that sort of worry yourself. Such fragile things you humans are. I’m sure Donna frets terribly whenever you’re out of her sight.”

The admission startles you, as well as the casual familiarity in the other woman’s words. “Are you… friends with Lady Beneviento?” you find your voice to ask.

She blinks, briefly furrowing her brows. “Friends might be too strong a word. Acquaintances, perhaps. Sate my curiosity, mouse. Do you even know who I am?”

You nod, because of course the answer is yes. How many women in this village are renowned for their ability to turn into flies? Not to mention the redhead letting slip her sister’s name just moments earlier. “Bela Dimitrescu,” you say faintly.

The blonde’s eyes glitter with delight. “That I am, cute girl. And I think I know who you are. Mother gave us specific instructions to keep an eye out for Donna’s little maid today, although my sisters don’t seem to realize your identity quite yet.”

Still nervous, you twist your hands in your skirt. “You’re here on behalf of Lady Dimitrescu then?”

“That’s correct. Mother’s been awfully busy and couldn’t drop off the portrait herself, so I volunteered to bring it instead. Cassandra offered to drive and Daniela certainly wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to get out of the castle for a bit. Speaking of which…” Bela sharply raps her knuckles against the curtained window and raises her voice. “Cass, get us moving again!”

The brunette’s voice replies from outside. “Not until you share the meal!”

“This is the maid Mother told us to watch out for, you two,” Bela chides. “The poor thing is scared half to death here. Now, if Donna or Angie ask, we crossed paths and offered her a ride for the rest of the trip, and absolutely nothing untoward happened. Right?”

You hear muffled grumbling and the trotting of hooves as the carriage begins to move again. The blonde sends a slightly embarrassed smile your way when you catch her eye. “Maybe keep this incident just between the four of us, mouse?” she murmurs with a conspiratorial wink. Gloved fingers tap against what you assume to be the repaired portrait, draped in cloth and leaning carefully against one of the inside walls. From outside, the buzzing of flies still rings loud and clear. Swallowing nervously, you nod and sink down into your seat and do your best to keep your mouth shut the rest of the ride back.

“You look like a lycan chewed you up and then spit you back out,” is what Angie flatly greets you with when you stumble through the front door. Normally you’d have a smart retort ready on the tip of your tongue but right now, still wide-eyed and thrumming with residual fear, all you can offer is a slightly hysterical laugh. The doll cocks her head at this but then once she catches sight of the three Dimitrescu siblings trailing behind you, she quickly lets out a screech. “Oh, fuck no! Not you three!” she screams.

The redhead, whose name you learned was Daniela, squats to be at eye level with the doll. “Now that’s no way to treat a guest!”

The brunette, Cassandra, snickers and adds, “After we came all this way for a visit too.”

Bela, carefully holding the covered portrait under one arm, goes for a more diplomatic approach. “Mother sent us to deliver this back to Donna. Mind telling her we’re here?”

“She’s already on her way,” Angie grumbles. “Here, blondie, hang it back up on the wall right there. And you.“ The doll’s head turns your way. “Get cleaned up or something, you look like shit.”

Needing no further excuse, you quietly mumble an affirmation and trudge off to the bathroom for a moment, leaving the talking doll and trio of bickering sisters behind. Fumbling with the faucet, you fill the sink with water and splash several cold handfuls over your face. It shocks you into alertness just enough so you can take a few deep breaths to calm your racing heart. Chewing your lip, you stare down at your hands floating in the water. There’s a tiny smear of blood caked beneath the nails of your right hand. Your blood, you think, perhaps after smacking a few of the flies that had bitten you. Wetting the corner of a towel, you dab at the back of your neck and see a few matching spots of red, like tiny rusty pinpricks. The sight makes you feel a bit ill. You run the towel under more cold water until no traces of blood remain. A second towel is used to dab yourself dry again.

Creeping out of the bathroom, you can hear Angie and the sisters still talking in the foyer. You think Lady Beneviento might be present too because Angie says her name a few times, although if the dollmaker responds her voice is too low to reach your ears from this distance. Rather than rejoining the group quite yet, you tiptoe over to your bedroom instead and shut the door. 

With an exhausted groan you sink into the chair beside your desk, rubbing your eyes. As if your nightmare from last night wasn’t enough—now an encounter with Lady Dimitrescu’s daughters? Just your luck. Sighing, you pull your bag off your shoulder and let it fall to the floor. Something inside makes a crinkling sound like paper and you suddenly remember the nightgown. After a moment’s hesitation, you reach into your bag and pull it out. It’s still lacy and sheer and barely capable of covering anything, half-enclosed in its paper wrapping and pinned with that damn note from Lord Heisenberg. You consider shoving the whole thing back in your bag but then the memory of the bra incident flashes through your mind’s eye. Blanching, you leap to your feet and quickly hide the nightgown in one of your dresser drawers instead.

No, you do not want a repeat of the bra incident, thank you very much.

You only have maybe twenty seconds to be proud of your foresight before your bedroom door suddenly slams open and two clouds of flies zoom into your space. They quickly solidify into two forms and your heart sinks when you realize the blonde sister—the only one who hadn’t threatened you—is not among them. Daniela makes herself comfortable at the foot of your bed and smiles at you bashfully. “Hey there, little maid. Sorry about earlier!”

You risk a nervous glance toward the door but Cassandra is standing right in front of it, blocking your only exit. Very close to panicking now, you just nod and squeak out, “I, um, it’s fine. I’ll just come downstairs, you two don’t need to—”

“None of that now. We really just want to get to know you a little better, see what kind of woman finally managed to capture Donna’s attention, that sort of thing,” the brunette cuts you off with a laugh. “Bela already got to spend some time with you earlier so now it’s our turn. That’s fair, don’t you think?”

“And your s-sister is..?”

“Out in the gardens with Donna and Angie,” Daniela interjects cheerfully. “Mother’s been wanting to see the effects of certain flowers in her wines and Bela’s really the only one of us who has a green thumb—”

“—And that means we get you all to ourselves, little morsel!” Cassandra finishes smugly.

The color drains from your face. At least the gardens are close enough that you’re pretty sure Lady Beneviento would be able to hear if you screamed. Shaking on your feet, you swallow and do your best to curve your lips in a smile. “...M-make yourselves at home, I guess?”

You almost regret your attempt at hospitality when your words are immediately met with Daniela diving face-first into your bed with a shout. She takes a big sniff of your pillow and then cocoons herself between the layers of bedding. “Nice soft blankets you have here! But you know, your bed smells a lot like Donna,” she giggles, voice slightly muffled. “Did she sleep here last night? Oh, she did, didn’t she? Don’t leave us hanging here. Spill it! What’s she like in bed?”

“Um.” You’re momentarily distracted by the sight of the youngest Dimitrescu sibling flopping around like an oversized fish atop your sheets. If it was anyone else you probably would have felt outraged, but in this case it’s such an odd sight you don’t really know how to react at all. When the redhead resurfaces from your pillow to blink expectantly at you, the question finally registers in your brain. “Oh, she’s very… she’s gentle. And very comforting,” you say, unable to stop the heat rising to your face as you remember how wonderfully you had slept in the dollmaker’s arms.

Cassandra rolls her eyes but Daniela claps both hands over her cheeks and swoons. “Oh, how romantic!” she squeals.

Your blush deepens. Between both Elena’s and Daniela’s assumptions, maybe telling everyone about your night with Lady Beneviento isn't the smartest idea after all.

Either ignoring or just unaware of your inner turmoil, the youngest Dimitrescu sister is quick to switch her attention to… well, everything else in the room. You watch, slightly aghast, as she proceeds to poke through the papers in your desk, the dresses hanging in the wardrobe, even overturning the laundry basket of dirty clothes onto the floor. And afterwards when she bends down to rummage through your bag and pulls out a few of the wrapped parcels from the Duke, you thank Mother Miranda that you’d thought to remove Lord Heisenberg’s surprise gift.

…Well, on second thought, you might be getting ahead of yourself there. Because now the redhead is meandering over to your dresser and she’s opening the drawers and oh no, oh no, you squeeze your eyes shut and pray under your breath she doesn’t find—

“Cass, look what I found!” Daniela screams.

Damn it, why is fate out to get you today?

With an almost palpable dread you open your eyes again and are greeted with the sight of Daniela holding up that ridiculous nightgown with a gleeful look on her face, eyes darting over the pinned note while her smile grows wider and wider. “I bet Donna would love to see you in this!” she gushes.

“I bet she’d love to see you out of it,” Cassandra snickers, walking over for a closer look. She plucks the skimpy little thing from Daniela’s hands and goes to leave the bedroom but you plant yourself in front of the door, arms spread in an admittedly unimpressive show of defiance.

Shaking on your feet, you stare up at the looming brunette. Every instinct is telling you to back down, but still you manage to gather enough courage to squeak out, “Please don’t show that to Lady Beneviento.”

The woman smiles but the way her teeth are bared makes it look more threatening than anything else. “What a brave little maid you are!” she laughs. “You think a tiny thing like you can call the shots around here? Please.” She holds the nightgown high above your head. “Go on, jump. If you can reach it, you can have it back.”

Staring up at the sheer cloth fluttering in Cassandra’s hand makes you wilt in defeat. It’s too high—higher even than Lady Beneviento’s clothesline, and you know perfectly well how that always ends up. Pleadingly, you fix your eyes on the redheaded younger sister instead.

Daniela takes the bait. “Cass, stop being mean. Look at her, you’re going to make her cry.”

“Oh, come on. She’s gotta be made of tougher stuff than that if she lives here.” The brunette stares you down, unflinching. “Out of the way, morsel.”

Is death worse than the embarrassment of Lady Beneviento seeing that stupid piece of lingerie? You’re not sure, but still you don’t move from your spot in front of the door. The brunette heaves a great sigh and retreats further into the bedroom, and for a very brief moment you think you’ve won.

But then Cassandra moves to the window.

With a grunt, she pushes the frame open and turns back for just a moment to give you a cheeky little wave before dissolving into a cloud of flies that fills the room with a terrible buzzing. Nightgown still clenched in one mostly-corporeal hand, the swarm vanishes out the window with an echo of the woman’s raucous laughter. You watch, mouth hanging open, as Daniela blows you a kiss and then bursts into a swarm of her own and zooms out the window as well. You dash over and lean out as far as you can. The two masses of flies are lazily floating their way down to where Lady Beneviento and Angie are conversing with the oldest sister near a section of the garden.

You begin climbing out the window but then think better of it. This bedroom is on the second floor of the manor. Breaking your legs falling from that height? Definitely not something you’re willing to risk. Instead you take the normal route outside to join the others, hurrying your way down the stairs and through the front door as quickly as you can manage. By the time you make it there, Cassandra and Daniela have already resumed their human shapes. The former is right in front of Lady Beneviento, holding out that tiny nightgown for everyone to see.

“This was in her dresser!” the brunette laughs, waving around the lacy garment like a flag. “It was tucked away in the corner, a dirty little secret. And do you see the note right there? “Wear this and give Donna a thrill,” it says. Ha! Not such a shy maid after all, is she?”

Face burning, you lunge for the nightgown. Cassandra sidesteps you easily and you fall into Bela instead. The blonde chuckles and gently pushes you back, watching her sisters with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. There’s a hint of an indulgent smile playing on her painted lips and she meets your eye with a wink. “I think it would look good on you,” she says in a voice that’s just barely concealing laughter.

You'd thought maybe you could rely on the oldest sister to be on your side here, but apparently not. Groaning, you make another swipe for the nightgown and miss yet again when the brunette briefly dissolves into flies, causing you to dash right through her. Spitting out a stray insect that landed in your mouth somehow, a frustrated sound escapes your lips. “That’s not even mine, I swear!”

“But it was in your dresser, wasn’t it?” Daniela protests.

“I… w-well, that’s true, but—” You scramble around for an excuse. “Lady Beneviento wasn’t supposed to see it…”

“Ah,” Bela says with a frown. “So we’ve ruined your surprise for her?”

“There’s no surprise and I’m not going to be wearing it!” you seethe. You keep talking even though you should stop, you should stop before you say something that pushes too far. “Even if you are Lady Dimitrescu’s daughters, that doesn’t give you the right to just go through all my things and—“

“I don’t like your tone, runt,” Cassandra interrupts with a sneer. In an instant, your arms are pinned behind your back. Long tresses of red hair falling over your shoulder tell you Daniela is the culprit, the youngest sister giggling as she holds you in place. One long-fingered hand easily encircles both of your wrists while her other hand clamps over your neck, forcing your head up. You can’t look away as Cassandra darts closer, the flimsy nightgown hanging from one gloved hand while the other produces something silver and gleaming from the depths of her cloak.

A sickle, you realize faintly. Sharp and metallic and curved like the claw of a wicked beast. The tip of the weapon hooks into your shirt’s collar. You gasp out loud when a flick of the wrist prompts the blade to slice an easy stroke through the fabric. It’s a small tear—barely enough to even expose your collarbone—but still you flinch at how close that sickle is to your bare skin. Cassandra looms over you with a grin. “What’s the problem here? Are you too shy to wear this pretty little thing for Donna?” she mocks. Her left hand, still holding the nightgown, reaches out and seizes a handful of your ruined shirt as well. “That’s fine. I’ll be happy to help you out with it.”

That hand tugs at your collar until the fabric begins to fray and split. The brunette licks her lips with a leer. Reflected in her eyes, you can see your own terrified face. You can smell something like blood and rot from her, barely masked beneath perfume. And then you smell flowers.

And then you smell smoke.

Cassandra lets out a shriek. She jerks away from you like she’s been struck, and the sudden release of the arms around you suggests Daniela has done the same. You fall to the ground and it’s hot, burning hot to the touch. There’s glass digging into your palms, splintered wood and broken nails and scattered bits of rubble. Smoke billows into your face and brings tears to your eyes. You swipe a hand over your face once, twice, three times. And when you look again, you’re in your burning family home.

It’s like your nightmare but ten times worse, a hundred times worse. Your dream had been an echo of a memory, terrible yet fleeting. When it had gotten bad enough, you’d simply jolted awake. But what you’re experiencing right now is real, more potent and harsh than any nightmare you’ve ever harbored. The fire is real, the smoke is real, and there’s no simple escape for you because this time you’re not asleep. 

A few feet away Cassandra whines and the sound is harrowing and raw, like the bleat of a dying animal. There’s smoke and ash and ember in the air, but through the haze you can make out the brunette crouched on the ground. She’s facing you but her eyes are focused on something else, something you can’t see. Like old paint, her skin is flaking away in pieces. “Cold… it’s so cold,” she moans.

Cold? But it’s not cold at all, the room is burning and you’re burning with it, huddled against the farthest wall with flames creeping ever closer. Before your eyes the brunette’s form shifts and reforms itself into something much worse, something with matted hair and ragged, threadbare clothes, gangrenous flesh pulsing with dark spidery veins, milky eyes that regard you with a glare.

With a cry, you scramble away from the lycan and collide with something soft. A flash of golden hair flutters in your vision. A pale face etched with worry, frostbitten around the edges. You stare up at Bela Dimitrescu and the only thing you can bring yourself to do is whimper with your hands over your ears. You don’t understand what the eldest sister is doing here in your family home. She shouldn’t be here, right? This isn't how it happened. Or is it? It’s suddenly hard to remember. There’s fog clouding your brain, twisting your thoughts into knots, stretching, pulling, breaking. You feel like you’re not sure of anything anymore. But some part of your fractured mind argues that Bela so far has made no move to harm you, so you crawl on your hands and knees to hug her leg, the closest thing to sanctuary you can find.

Laboriously, the blonde begins to walk. Clinging to her leg still, you’re dragged along with her across the burning room. She reaches out and grabs the lycan that stands closest—or is it even a lycan, because now the howling form is that of a woman in a black dress, her face fractured like crystal, tinged blue-white and crumbling into a mass of half-dead flies with twitchy, spasming legs. The wolfish features fade into something a bit more human. Darting gold eyes and long tresses of dark brown hair, a bloodstained mouth bared in a grimace. A second lycan stumbles over and morphs into a terrified Daniela, who weeps and collapses into her eldest sister’s waiting arms.

“Donna. You’re scaring her,” Bela calls out into the empty room.

You think she must be referring to Daniela or even Cassandra, but it comes as a muted shock when you risk a glance upward and see the blonde’s eyes fixed on you instead. The bloodstained walls make a pulsing sound, like a heartbeat. Somewhere underneath all that, you swear you can hear Angie’s laughter.

“You’re scaring her,” Bela repeats firmly.

Right before your eyes, the world ripples. It’s as though space itself is distorting, molding and shifting as easily as water. Your next gulp of air no longer burns your lungs with the stench of smoke. The splintered floorboards beneath your feet fade into grass and dirt. The ceiling becomes an open sky dotted with wispy white clouds. A gentle breeze tousles your hair, now damp with a cold sweat.

You’re still holding on to Bela’s leg and you realize it when the other woman takes a step back. When you look up, you can now see Lady Beneviento stalking forward in quick, purposeful steps, Angie cackling from her arms. A hand nudges your shoulder and you hear the blonde's quietly whispered words. “Let go, little mouse.”

Still paralyzed with fear, you don’t let go.

Lady Beneviento notices. Of course she notices. Her arms tighten around Angie so violently that the doll shrieks and scratches long, jagged gouges in her maker’s hands before going limp. You hear the Lord speak, a wolf’s snarl in her voice, “You three get away from her, she’s mine, she’s mine—”

And when the dollmaker reaches for you, there’s a moment where you don’t see her at all. You see lycans and fire and your mother’s bloodied, outstretched hand. And in that residual haze of fear you flinch away from her.

In an instant, Lady Beneviento skids to a halt. She jerkily lowers her hand, clenched tight into a white-knuckled fist. And then, very slowly, she turns to face Lady Dimitrescu’s three daughters. The whispered words come from behind her veil, almost inaudible. “Get off my property.”

The Lord’s voice is so soft, so quiet. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say she almost sounds serene. But you can hear it, bubbling just below the calmly spoken words. There’s a coldness there that’s worse than anything you’ve ever heard before. You’ve heard Lady Beneviento express annoyance at Lord Heisenberg and anger at Lady Dimitrescu. You’ve heard her use a scolding tone with Angie. But this is what her fury sounds like, and it’s icy and dead like the bleakest of winters.

The peaceful months at her estate had lulled you into a sense of tranquility but now, for just a moment, it feels like an illusion has been shattered. Lord, a tiny voice in your head whispers in awe. And you think to yourself—this is why the dollmaker is one of Mother Miranda’s chosen. This is why the villagers fear Donna Beneviento.

You’re broken out of your thoughts by a familiar buzzing sound. The leg you’re clutching dissolves into flies and you watch in a daze as Bela reforms a comfortable distance away, arms still wrapped firmly around the shoulders of her sisters. The blonde bows her head. “Lady Beneviento, we will take our leave,” she says. Her voice is all formality and titles now, none of that casual lightheartedness from before. She doesn’t wait for a response before hurriedly leading the other two away in the direction that you remember the carriage still rests. Daniela trots along obediently with tense shoulders and a crestfallen face but Cassandra pauses and turns back for just a moment.

The brunette’s eyes meet yours and her expression holds an apology beneath its veneer of prideful reluctance. Still clutched in her gloved hand is the nightgown. She looks like she’s considering returning it to you, but then she turns away and hurries along.

At last, it’s just you and Lady Beneviento and Angie again.

On shaky legs, you rise to your feet. You look at the dollmaker and you try to smile but you can’t, you just can’t—

And then Lady Beneviento turns and runs away and leaves you standing there alone.

The rest of the day passes like a blur. You scarcely remember how you spend the remaining hours before night falls. Maybe you do a few chores, clean a few things, cook yourself something for dinner and eat right there in the kitchen while staring blankly down at your plate. You might have taken a bath and changed into pajamas and maybe that’s why you’re in your room right now, shuffling through the disarray Daniela and Cassandra left behind.

For a moment, you just stare at your bed. The sheets are rumpled and there’s a rusty stain on the pillow that the youngest sister had pressed her face into. You rub the fabric between two fingers and a bit of red flakes off, smearing onto your skin. The faintest scent of iron hits your nose. Blood.

Nausea makes your stomach turn. You fling the pillow away and strip off the rest of the bedding, leaving everything in a messy pile on the floor. There’s a clean set of sheets in the dresser and you pull them out and stare at the folded cotton cloth for way too long. Slowly, you put everything back and push the drawer back in. Your body feels wooden, like it’s barely fit to house your fretting mind.

You can’t sleep here tonight.

It takes nearly twenty minutes of numbly sitting atop the bare mattress with your knees drawn up to your chest before you gather the courage to go to Lady Beneviento’s bedroom. Everything is quiet, too quiet, and each errant creak of the floorboards beneath your feet makes you tense with anxiety. The elevator ride rattles your nerves and the hallway lights cast elongated shadows upon the walls that resemble something from a storybook, something monstrous and foreboding.

The manor seems much larger at night somehow, but finally you make it to Lady Beneviento’s door. Hesitant and nervous, you take a deep breath and knock against the wood. It echoes hollowly all around you. A lonely sound that somehow seems fitting. You press your ear up against the door. From inside the room, you think you can hear faint sniffling. “Lady Beneviento?” you murmur.

There’s a rustling sound you think might be bedsheets. “What do you want?” the Lord chokes out. Her voice is bitter, caustically biting, and it eats away at what little courage you’ve managed to scrounge up. Still, you force yourself to stand your ground, heart pounding as you stare at the closed door.

Wavering in your resolve, you suck more air into your lungs. “My lady, are you—"

She cuts you off mid sentence, repeating her question with more aggression than before. “Maid. What do you want?”

You swallow, fidgeting with your hands a bit. Briefly, you think about slinking back to your room and just remaking your bed after all. “You… you said I could come to you if I had nightmares,” you whisper.

Footsteps approach the door and you hold your breath. The doorknob slowly turns and Lady Beneviento reveals herself, veil in place but clad in sleepwear once more. She studies you for a moment, shoulders tense, and then says lowly, “I must have misspoken, because I’m clearly the last person you should come to for reprieve from nightmares.”

You open your mouth to protest but the words die in your throat. What are you supposed to say to something like that? Just this morning, you would have disagreed. You would have argued. You would have fought tooth and nail for Lady Beneviento to try seeing things from your eyes, where the only thing her presence did for your fears was alleviate them.

Before, that would have been your answer. But now you’re not sure if that answer still holds true, and so you don’t say anything at all.

The Lord takes a step forward. “Why are you still here?” she whispers.

You lick your lips. Perhaps she’s not interested in hearing anything you have to say right now, if even you did manage to find something to say. Feeling dejected, you stare down at your feet and mumble, “I’ll just go back to my room then.”

You start to turn away but then Lady Beneviento’s hands are on your shoulders, anchoring you in place where you stand. She shakes you like a child shaking a doll. “That’s not what I meant!” she snarls. “Why are you still here? Why do you stay with me? There’s nothing for you here, nothing to gain by staying at my side.”

Her grip is too tight. For a moment you worry she might bruise you again. You run your own hands up and down her bare arms and she seems to remember herself again, long fingers tensing briefly before going slack against your shoulders. Staring into the mesh of her veil, you voice the awful thought that festers in your brain. “…Lady Beneviento. Do you… do you want me to leave?”

“Yes,” she breathes, and it feels like a punch in the gut. Quickly she continues, and you can tell she’s trying to make her voice soothing in a way her words are not. “Don’t you see it? I’m a broken thing, a horrible thing. A shadow of a woman who already died a long, long time ago. What good does it do you to stay? If you were smart you’d leave. You’d go back to the village and live with your pretty little friend and you’d never come back here again.” She shakes her head, the veil swishing back and forth. “...But despite all that… I’m happy when you’re here. So happy I almost feel whole again. The thought of you staying with me forever… I want that so badly. But more than that, dolcezza, I want you safe. And I would let you go if that’s what it took.”

“And what if I wanted to stay?” you ask.

Lady Beneviento bows her head. Her hands fall from your shoulders and hang limp at her sides. From behind her veil, you barely hear the frustrated words. “Then you are a fool.”

She retreats back into the room but doesn’t close the door behind her. After a few seconds, you follow her inside. You take in your surroundings quietly. This is the first time you’ve ever been in Lady Beneviento’s bedroom. The decor is somewhat bare compared to the rest of the manor. Despite the room having plenty of space, only a few pieces of furniture are present. The wardrobe is large and one door is ajar, revealing rows of neatly hanging clothes in mostly muted shades of grays and blacks. In one corner is a vanity with a cloth thrown over its mirror, an unmoving Angie resting on its chair. A bed with matching nightstands on either side is the centerpiece of the room and looks plenty wide enough for two people, unlike your own.

The bed is unmade on one side, and that’s the side Lady Beneviento walks to. With stiff, almost robotic movements, she slides her legs beneath the sheets but remains in a sitting position with her back against the headboard. Swallowing nervously, you peel back the sheets on the opposite side and crawl in next to her. Rolling onto your side to more easily face her, you can see she’s shaking. Perhaps noticing your stare, the Lord’s veiled head slowly turns your way.

You open your arms to her.

In an instant, she’s wrapped around you in a tight embrace. Her hands are fisted in the back of your shirt like she’s afraid you might disappear if she doesn’t hold on. Your legs tangle with hers. Lady Beneviento exhales shakily. Your head rests against her sternum and you can hear the frantic thudding of her heartbeat.

A trembling hand trails up your back to tangle in your hair instead. You hear a faint sound and realize she’s crying.

“Stupid, stupid girl,” Lady Beneviento sobs. “When will you finally realize you ran from the claws of monsters right into the web of another?”

There’s such self-loathing in her voice. It brings tears to your own eyes as well as a twisting ache in your chest. Soothingly, you run your hands up and down her back. “You’ve protected me all this time. That has to count for something, don’t you think?”

“I can’t protect you from everything,” she weeps. “I can’t protect you from Karl, or Salvatore, or Alcina and her daughters. I can’t protect you from Mother Miranda. And I can’t protect you from me.” Her voice cracks on the last word and she cries and cries and cries, and you hold her in your arms like she held you this morning, like the two of you are the only living souls in a sea of shadows, like you’re afraid you and she both will sink if you ever let go. 

Chapter Text

After the disastrous visit from the Dimitrescu daughters, things between Lady Beneviento and yourself have… changed.

It’s not a change for the better either. The morning after that night you spend in her bed, it feels like you’ve been hurled into the past all the way back to those awkward first days of employment at the estate. Lady Beneviento has been unmistakably avoiding you, and those few times you manage to catch her in the hallways are stilted and uncomfortable in a way that you haven’t experienced in months.

You try not to take it personally. What happened with the hallucinations—or whatever they were—had evidently disturbed the dollmaker just as much as they disturbed you. It would be a lie to say the event didn’t bring back those feelings of awestruck fear toward Mother Miranda and her four Lords. Despite their intimidating presences, both Lady Dimitrescu and Lord Heisenberg had been rather benign in their brief meetings with you. And in Lady Beneviento’s case, you’d grown to think of her as… well, not harmless, but more or less safe, perhaps. A foolish thing, but maybe some part of you had been numbed to the dangers lurking in this village. Your guard had been lowered, so to speak.

Well. Your guard’s not so lowered now, but you refuse to completely raise it either. You try to tell yourself to treat what happened as a reminder. A reminder of the dangers in this village. A reminder that Lady Beneviento, kind as she has been to you, is still a Lord. And even with that in mind, you’re determined to make sure a setback like this doesn’t destroy what you’ve managed to accomplish over the months you’ve spent here.

With a hum, you pause in your task of dusting furniture and ponder over those accomplishments. For the most part, they’re small things that might have seemed insignificant if you were under anyone else’s employment. The first time you’d heard Lady Beneviento speak… that was the first barrier erased between you two. Each victory that came afterwards—eating meals at the same table, visiting the village together, being allowed into her room—you don’t want to lose those things.

You don’t think it would ever come to that, but it still worries you. Lady Beneviento hasn’t gone so far as to take meals separately from you or withhold her voice when you try to initiate conversation, but still there’s definitely a distance between you two now. A wall. Things are nowhere near as comfortable as they’d been before the incident. This is even reflected in Angie’s behavior toward you. The doll could never be as withdrawn as her maker but she’s still been quieter than normal. You wonder how much of that change is Lady Beneviento’s influence and how much is Angie herself. You ask as much to the doll as you complete your daily chores, but don’t receive much more than vague, distracted answers in response.

And it’s not only daytime that leaves you confused over your standing with the lady of the house. As the sun slowly sets and darkness overtakes the village, dusk brings an entirely different change in pattern between the two of you. Because from that emotional night onward, you find yourself sleeping at her side.

“Bad dreams again?” she says upon opening her door and seeing you hesitantly standing there in your nightclothes. It’s a needless question and you don’t even think she expects an answer, but still she asks it each time you come knocking. Both of you know perfectly well you didn’t even try sleeping on your own tonight. The dollmaker gestures for you to enter the room and you automatically make your way over to your side of the bed. Your side of the bed. It makes your chest tighten even thinking about it. How ridiculous. There is no your side of Lady Beneviento’s bed, it’s her bed and it’s generous of her to even let you into her personal space like this—

“Come here,” the Lord whispers, breaking you out of your anxious thoughts. You turn to see her stretching an arm toward you. The dollmaker’s tone is hesitant yet almost pleading. Insecurity drips from the quietly spoken words and you scold yourself for letting her see the conflict on your face.

It’s almost become a routine by now, you think. As soon as you’re comfortably settled beneath the sheets, Lady Beneviento is already pulling you closer, arms curling around your form to hold you taut against her chest. Letting out a soft sigh, you burrow your face into the crook of her neck.

It’s frightening how quickly you’ve become used to sleeping with the other woman. How quickly you’ve grown to crave the feeling of strong arms resting against your waist, of fingers running through your hair and scratching along your scalp. Some mornings you wake up and the pale skin of Lady Beneviento’s neck is the first sight to greet your sleepy eyes. Other times you’re snuggled into your pillow but she’s pressed up behind you instead, soft breasts flush against your back and an arm curled around your stomach, the dollmaker’s quiet breaths tickling your ear. Every time you squeeze closer, it sends a shiver of delight down your spine. It’s almost enough to let you forget about this contrast with which she now treats you during the days and nights.

Almost, but not quite.

You’re not sure what ends up being different about this particular night. Maybe it’s the way Lady Beneviento rolls over onto her back at some point, pulling you along until you’re snuggled up on top of her, legs on either side of her hips, straddling her. Maybe it’s the summer heat making itself known with a light sheen of sweat on the Lord’s neck, hints of which you can taste on your lips. Or maybe you’re just feeling pent-up and stressed. It might have even been a combination of all these things, but it results in you stirring awake in the middle of the night, feeling hot and tingly all over while subconsciously rolling your hips into the body beneath you, and there’s… oh.

There’s a wet, aching heat between your legs.

You can perhaps excuse your pounding heart and butterflies in your stomach as being symptoms of nervousness, but there’s no innocent explanation for this. With a shaky exhale, you draw back just enough to scan Lady Beneviento’s slumbering form. Still asleep, thank Mother Miranda for that. With any luck she’ll stay like that for a while longer. Planting your forearms into the mattress on either side of the Lord’s torso, you prop yourself up and make an attempt to slither out from her embrace. The arms locked around your waist remain stubbornly constrictive, but then the other woman’s thigh presses up between your legs and it makes you gasp out loud.

You snap your jaw shut but it’s too late—that accidental noise already has Lady Beneviento stirring. Those slender hands of hers begin to stroke up and down your spine in an absentminded pattern before curling into the fabric of your shirt. She pulls you close again, sleepy yet firm, and nuzzles into the side of your neck. “…Dolcezza? Is it morning already?”

A tiny squeak escapes your lips at the sensation of the Lord breathing warm against your skin. You make another feeble attempt at escaping and those arms tighten around you insistently. “Um. Still a bit too early, my lady. Go back to sleep?”

She makes a sad little sound. “Don’t leave...” Even when half-asleep, Lady Beneviento still clings to you with an urgency that’s almost frightening. “Don’t leave,” she repeats in a drowsy whisper. “Stay with me, please?”

“I’ll be back, I just need to use the bathroom,” you say.

She makes another soft sound of protest but does eventually loosen her grip around you. Still, one hand remains clenched tight into the hem of your shirt. “You’ll come back?” she pleads.

Feeling almost panicked, you grab your pillow and press it into the dollmaker’s arms. She finally releases you in full, but it’s with a pouting reluctance that you might have found endearing had your mind not been so frazzled in this moment. “I’ll be right back, I promise,” you soothe, watching as she snuggles into the pillow. Holding your breath, you inch away and slide your way out of bed. For a few tense seconds you wait for her to raise another objection. She’s silent.

Exhaling in relief, you slip your feet into a pair of slippers and tiptoe out the door. Ignoring the excuse you’d made to escape, you end up passing right by the bathroom and walking to the elevator instead. The metallic groan of the doors sliding open makes you tense and you just hope Lady Beneviento can't hear it from her room. The ride up to the first floor feels far too slow for your liking. Has it always been this slow? Have the hallways always been so long, has your own bedroom up on the second floor always been so far away?

Your heart throbs in your chest, so tight and heavy. It's suddenly hard to draw enough air into your lungs as you stumble through the elevator doors again. A lightheaded sort of giddiness settles over you as you force one foot in front of the other, over and over again, through the manor. Maybe you're dying. That could be it. All of this could just be a mishmash of symptoms screaming that there's something wrong with you because you are ailing and sick and you are going to die.

But when you finally make it to your room and collapse in a heap on the bed, it's all so perfectly clear. No, you’re not dying. You’re not ill in any way. There’s nothing wrong with you… well, maybe that’s not quite true. Because there is something wrong, and it has everything to do with these… thoughts you have about your employer. These urges that slip into your mind as soon as you slip into her arms at night. The way your brain whispers of temptations and longing, the way you’ve grown to desire more than only sleep in Lady Beneviento’s bed. It’s a feeling that’s been building over weeks and weeks. Something that’s been bubbling and burning and twisting beneath the surface for a long time—far longer than this amount of time you’ve been welcome in the dollmaker’s room. A feeling that you’ve done your best to stamp down because it’s frightening to acknowledge.

Pressing your thighs together, you acknowledge it now. There’s no way you could ignore something like this. Letting out a shaky breath, you slide one tense hand down your torso. Your eyes squeeze shut as you let that hand rest on your stomach, fingers trembling against the waistband of your pajama pants.

It’s been a good long while since you’ve taken care of yourself in such a way. The realization fills you with a guilty anticipation. For a few moments, you think of the face in the portrait hanging in the foyer. Lady Beneviento’s face. You only ever had that one glimpse gifted to you by Lady Dimitrescu. Even after its return to the manor, the repaired portrait remains covered by cloth and you haven’t been able to muster enough courage to steal another look. Licking your lips, you try now to recall the painted woman’s features.

Dark hair. You’ve seen glimpses of Lady Beneviento’s hair peeking out from beneath the veil. It’s tied up in her portrait but you think she must let it down for bedtime. Just once, you’d dared to rub a loose lock of her hair between your fingertips. The tresses had felt pleasantly soft to the touch. A sense of longing had struck you then, a longing to run your hands through the dollmaker’s hair like she sometimes does with yours. Your breath hitches at the very thought of it.

Biting back a whimper, you let one hand slide between your legs while the other palms at your breasts. The portrait had been damaged during that single time you’d seen it uncovered, but enough had been intact to offer a good portrayal of your employer’s face. A pretty face with such lovely features. A nose you’d love to kiss the tip of, lips you would ache to see smiling, dark eyes whose gaze you would melt under if you could only see them unobstructed. But it isn’t—

You pause for a moment, letting your eyes drift open to stare blankly at the ceiling. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips again. What you saw in the portrait was beautiful, but it isn’t… it isn’t real. It’s not Lady Beneviento. At least, it’s not the Lady Beneviento you know. 

Letting out a shaky breath, you instead think of things that are more familiar. Her voice, so low and almost raspy in tone. What would that voice sound like whispering in your ear as she touched you? Her hands, oh, her hands. Larger than yours, and so much more nimble. Your own hands feel like a poor substitute but it’s enough, for now it’s enough. With a soft whine, you grab a fistful of your own shirt and bring it up to your nose. Just barely there is a hint of the lady’s scent. Fragrant wood shavings, a smell that never felt so comforting before your employment here. How you wish you could surround yourself with her right now, have her hold you in this very moment. The hand between your legs moves faster and you let your eyes flutter shut with a quiet moan.

And it’s not Lady Beneviento or my lady or mistress you whisper when you finally bring yourself over the edge, no. Squirming atop the bed with sweat shining on your skin, the name falling from your lips is Donna. 

For a few short moments after your climax, you feel sated. Relaxed, even. But all too soon, the gravity of what you’ve done comes crashing down upon you. You’re suddenly aware of the way your pajamas cling to your body, damp and hot. The way sweat has gathered at the bends of your elbows, at the backs of your knees. The slickness that shines on your fingers when you shakily bring your hand out from between your legs. You can only bear to look at that hand for mere seconds before wiping it against the hem of your shirt in a frenzy. 

Oh no, oh no. Tears sting your eyes and you rub them away violently. A storm churns in your stomach and you slap a hand over your mouth to stave off the sudden burst of nausea. How could you think of Lady Beneviento in such a way? Is this really how you repay everything she’s done for you—by inserting her into your fantasies, by touching yourself to the thought of her? There’s a crushing pressure all around you, a vise around your being, squeezing, squeezing. That festering guilt burrows deeper and you force yourself to draw air into your lungs. Breathe in, and breathe out. In, out. In, out. 

What are you supposed to do now?

The thought crosses your mind to spend the rest of the night in your own bed. You haven’t slept here in a while except for the occasional nap, but perhaps it would be for the best. With multiple rooms separating the two of you, perhaps you might find it easier to resist any further temptation. But then you remember—you can’t stay here. You promised Lady Beneviento you’d come back to her.

Maybe you shouldn’t have promised such a thing. Not when you knew perfectly well what you were going upstairs to do.

With a groan, you force yourself into an upright position. Your legs shake as you sit at the edge of the bed and nudge the slippers back onto your feet. The feeling of sweat-damp clothes still plastered to your skin makes you cringe. Well, first you have to do something about that before you even consider returning to Lady Beneviento. A bath sounds appealing right now but you worry about her noticing if you return to bed with damp hair. So instead, you grab a new set of clothes and trudge over to the bathroom. Stripping bare, you do your best to just sponge yourself clean with a washcloth. You catch your eye in the mirror and quickly look away. Guilty, guilty, what a guilty look you wear right now.

Clean and in a fresh set of pajamas, there are no more excuses for postponing the trip back downstairs. As you pass by the occasional doll displayed in the hallways, you can’t help but avert your eyes in shame. While you’ve never seen them move, you wonder if any of them are like Angie. Can they see you slinking back to their maker’s room like a dog with its tail between its legs? Could they hear you through the walls, the way you’d cried out Lady Beneviento’s name in such an obscene way? Just the mere thought of it sends your heartbeat into a frenzy. The way her name had felt on your lips…

No, no, no! You shake your head violently. Why are things so complicated now? Wouldn’t it be so much easier if these desires could just be shaken out of your brain like spare buttons in a jar? Your thoughts are so muddled that you barely notice anything else in the short trip back downstairs. Far sooner than you’re mentally prepared for, you find yourself at Lady Beneviento’s door again. Pausing in hopes to steel your nerves a bit, you take a deep breath and reach for the doorknob. You open the door as slowly as you can, wincing when despite your best efforts there’s still a low creak that sings from the hinges. In the near darkness you can just barely make out the Lord’s sleeping form, and you hesitantly approach the bed on your tiptoes. For a moment, you allow yourself to look at her. She’s facing away from you, still wrapped around the pillow you’d shoved her way. A feeling of longing mixed with jealousy tugs at your heart as you gaze at your rightful spot in the woman’s arms—the spot instead occupied by that pillow.

You’re jealous. Of a pillow. Mother Miranda’s sake, what is wrong with you?

You think about pulling the pillow out of Lady Beneviento’s grasp and burrowing into that space left behind, but the risk of accidentally waking the dollmaker makes you hesitate. Instead, you nestle yourself beneath the sheets and roll onto your side to stare at her back. The thought of reaching out to embrace her is equal parts tempting as it is terrifying. There may have been a few exceptions here and there, but for the most part Lady Beneviento has usually been the one to initiate contact between the two of you. To even think of touching her now, after what you just did in your room… 

Shame and greed wage a war in your mind, and in the end it’s greed that emerges victorious. Shifting closer, you gently snake your arms around the other woman’s waist and curl up against her back. Her veil tickles your nose and you don’t even care—you press your face into the soft fabric and breathe in as deeply as you can. She makes a tiny sighing sound in response.

Slowly, like poison, exhaustion begins to sink its claws into you. The last few days have been so arduous, so trying. Just thinking about it all is nearly enough to bring you to frustrated tears. But if you close your eyes and listen, you can almost forget everything else and just focus on the sound of Lady Beneviento’s quiet breathing. Maybe if you try hard enough, you might even forget these wants that have taken hold of you, that demand you to take more, crave more.

You’re almost drifting off when the dollmaker suddenly speaks. Her voice is muffled, slurred with sleep, but you hear every whispered word perfectly.

“I love you,” she says.

And you break.

The following morning, it’s you who does the avoiding this time around. Lady Beneviento has been distant enough that you’re not sure how much she might have noticed, but Angie certainly does. “So,” the doll begins, sitting atop the dining room table and fixing you with an unimpressed stare. “What crawled up your ass and died this morning?”

You nearly drop your piece of toast. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Well, you’re acting kinda weird and mopey today. And you spent an awfully long time in the bathroom last night… assuming that’s where you actually went.”

Setting your jaw, you stare at the doll. Her face isn’t quite expressive enough to reveal what she’s thinking, but you almost think there’s a meaningful glint in her eye like she knows more than what she’s letting on. Perhaps unwisely, you rise to the bait. “That is exactly where I went last night, Miss Angie. Something from dinner didn’t agree with my stomach, it seemed.”

Angie sighs very dramatically. “Yeah, sure that’s where you went. Mother Miranda’s sake, you two are gross. I think I’ll find myself someplace else to sleep if you’re gonna be all over Donna every night like that.”

The bluntness of the doll’s words makes you squeak and go stiff with alarm. Suddenly worried, you glance around the room but the two of you are still alone with Lady Beneviento nowhere in sight, thank goodness for that. Heat rises to your face, which you’re sure must resemble a tomato by now. Your hand is shaking so badly that the toast is raining crumbs on the floor, so you set your breakfast back on its plate. “…Miss Angie,” you mumble, biting your lip. “I’m not entirely sure what to do about all… this.”

“Well, I’d suggest grabbing the broom because those crumbs are gonna attract ants if you don’t sweep ‘em up soon.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

With a swipe of her arm, Angie smacks the rest of your food onto the floor. “I can’t help you with your weird issues with Donna,” she says smartly. “And don’t think I haven’t been trying with her either. Fuck’s sake, you’re gonna have to fix this on your own. But in the meantime, clean up this mess, yeah?”

With a forlorn glare at the remnants of your breakfast, you scurry off to find the broom. Since Angie is being purposely unhelpful with all this, it seems your list of confidants has just narrowed itself down to one. Making up some sort of excuse to the doll, you end up taking an unplanned trip down to the village later to pay Elena a visit. The entire walk is spent in silent agony as you run through your frazzled thoughts, over and over again in your head. You’re full to bursting with dread by the time you make it to the front step, and after opening the door your friend takes one look at your troubled face and then promptly heaves a great sigh. A sharply prodding finger to the chest makes you wince. “Okay, what happened this time?”

You try to smile but to your alarm you feel tears beginning to stream down your cheeks instead. The sobs burst up from your chest despite your best efforts at containing them, leaving you breathless and shaky and flushed. Swearing under her breath, Elena drags you inside the house and then into the kitchen. She pushes you into the nearest chair with a scowling look that makes you shrink back until you realize that look probably isn’t intended for you.

This suspicion is confirmed soon after the other woman puts the water kettle on the stove to boil and then begins to pace around the room furiously. “Was it her?” she grinds out through clenched teeth.

“Wh-what?” you squeak between hiccuping sobs.

“Her!” Elena snaps again, with emphasis. “Your girlfriend, your employer, your bed buddy. Whatever you want to call it. She did something to you, didn’t she?”

“That’s not what happened,” you say, but your voice is weak and devoid of conviction.

With a growl, Elena slams a teacup in front of you so hard it cracks right down the middle. Cursing again, she sweeps it into the trash bin and pulls out a replacement cup still with much more ferocity than necessary. “Won’t you ever stop defending her?” she pleads. “Don’t even try to lie! I can tell she did something to upset you.”

“It wasn’t…” But you hesitate, because it’s not like you can deny that something did happen. In fact, a lot of things have happened since the last time you visited with Elena. This is the first time you’ve seen her since the mishap with Lady Dimitrescu’s daughters. The day after the hallucinations, you’d quickly resolved to keep the incident a secret from your friend. Such a decision fills you with guilt but it also feels strangely necessary. The matter of Lady Beneviento’s powers is something between yourself and the Lord only.

No, you’re not about to tell Elena what happened that terrible day. But maybe you can talk to her about something else. Something that’s not so life-threatening but still weighs heavily on your mind.

“…Fine. There is something,” you admit.

Elena grumbles something under her breath at this admission. You think it sounds an awful lot like, “Finally.” You watch as she sprinkles tea into two cups of steaming water. “Let’s take this to the living room, shall we?” she says bracingly. Not trusting yourself to speak, you just nod and trail behind her as she carries both teacups to the couch. By now your tears are mostly under control although the thought of explaining your feelings to Elena fills you with a new kind of anxiety. Oh, you can just tell she’s not going to approve of any of this. 

Still abuzz with nerves, you take a seat on the couch next to Elena and accept the teacup she hands over. She’s quiet and you’re quiet, and the only sounds breaking this awful silence are faint footsteps coming from upstairs where Elena’s father is probably working. Your friend’s face is set in a resolute frown and you can tell you’re going to have to be the one to speak first. A shaky breath is drawn into your lungs. “…I just want to say a few things first,” you begin haltingly. “Like, I think what I’m about to tell you is a perfectly normal and healthy thing for people our age. So I hope you can try to be understanding because, well, this is really stressful and my stomach’s tied in knots just thinking about it.”

Your friend blinks. “Okay, great. I’m listening?”

Staring down into the teacup clenched between your trembling hands, you take a deep breath and continue on. “I think maybe I’ve been in denial for a long time about it. And, well, maybe it was inevitable this is how things would end up. But everything is confusing now and I wish things would go back to normal, but I also don’t want things to only be normal. And I don’t know if that makes me greedy or if it’s okay to even feel this way but—”

“Can you stop rambling and just get to the point?” Elena begs.

“I’m trying! I’m trying, okay, it’s just that I-I… I just—I think I’m attracted to Lady Beneviento, okay?” you finish in a rush. The words feel like a curse, an incantation, a magic spell that will change everything if you dare to utter them out loud. But you do, to Elena, and you watch as she chokes and sputters into her cup.

“…That’s it?” she deadpans once she’s finally caught her breath.

You blink in response. “What?”

“That’s it? Really? Oh, for the love of… Pa!” she hollers, bolting to her feet and stomping back to the kitchen. “Pa, where’s the whiskey?”

“The hell you need whiskey for this time of day, girl?” you hear Leonardo grumble from the upper floor.

“I need it to deal with my idiot of a best friend,” Elena says matter-of-factly, and you stare with an open mouth as she reappears with a half-empty bottle of booze in her hand.

“I’m not an idiot,” you grouse as she tips a little alcohol into her tea.

“So says you.” Elena offers the bottle and you begrudgingly accept just a few drops into your own cup. “But here you are acting like this is some huge revelation instead of something the rest of us have known for ages. Therefore, you are in fact a bit of an idiot. So says me.”

“I bare my heart to you and this is how you react. Some friend you are.”

Elena rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. Baring your heart? More like finally opening your eyes.”

“And here I thought you wanted me to tell you if I ever got in trouble over there,” you complain, cracking a shaky smile. You feel a bit of indignation right now, but there’s also relief—wholehearted and blessed relief. Elena doesn’t sound upset so much as she sounds exasperated, and you take it as a good sign that she’s still willing to tease you over the topic at hand. Emboldened, you continue on. “Well, it finally happened. I’m in trouble. Big trouble. And you’re being awfully unsympathetic about it.”

Your friend throws her hands up in the air. “Hey, I was worried about… I don’t know! Legitimate trouble!” she exclaims. “Like her chopping you into little pieces and sticking them in her dolls—”

“Elena!”

“—or I worried maybe she might be a cannibal, like the Dimitrescus.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s not interested in eating me,” you say with a frown.

Elena chuckles dryly. “Maybe not in the way you’re thinking of.”

Such a thought sends the blood rushing to your cheeks. Letting out a squeak, you hide your face in your hands. Elena lets you wallow in your suffering for a good minute or two, but then she speaks up again. “…How serious is it?” she finally asks.

You peek out from behind your fingers. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” she sighs. “Is this just a purely physical thing or is there more to it than that? Because if all you want is for her to fuck you, I think Lady Beneviento would be happy to—”

“Elena!” you hiss again.

“Don’t you dare try to deny it!” your friend shoots back, vicious as you’ve ever heard her. “I saw the way she looked at you that time we were all in town. Like she couldn’t wait to drag you home and throw you on the bed.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks again. “Y-you couldn’t even see her face then.”

“And you have? Has she even shown herself to you?”

For a split second, you think of the portrait. Another private scene that Elena probably doesn’t need to know about. You sigh and slowly lower your gaze to your lap. “…I haven’t seen her face.”

When you raise your eyes again, Elena’s expression seems softer than before. “Doesn’t that bother you?” she asks quietly.

It does, but you don’t want to admit that. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I…” You stumble with your words, suddenly aware of the way your heart is thudding so hard against your ribs. Breathing feels difficult at this very moment, like the very air has been sucked from your lungs. “It must be important for her to hide her face, and I’m fine with that. I have to be fine with that. And… and I don’t need to see Lady Beneviento’s face to know I feel very strongly for her.”

“Yes, yes, your perfectly normal and healthy attraction,” Elena sighs. “You didn’t answer my question, by the way. Is it a physical thing or, you know, do you want all the other stuff too?”

“Oh, I want the stuff. I want all the stuff.”

Elena makes an agonized sound and looks longingly at the whiskey bottle again, but you nudge it just out of her reach. “God, then why don’t you just go for it instead of coming here and complaining to me about your love life all the time?”

“What? I can’t… I mean, she’s a Lord. Why would she ever want someone like me?” you squawk. When your friend shoots you a disbelieving look, you double down on the excuse. “She’s a Lord.”

“And you’re her dumb little maid and she absolutely adores you.” 

“I’m not dumb.”

“Well, I beg to differ.” Elena plays with her empty cup for a moment. “Look,” she adds at last, “I don’t pretend to know anything about what goes on over at Lady Beneviento’s estate. But you want my advice? You might have to be the one to take the initiative. You know, reach out a bit… if you really do want to move things along.”

Grumbling to yourself, you swirl around what’s left of your tea. Take the initiative? How are you supposed to do something like that with Lady Beneviento avoiding you as she is now? But you might not have any other option. It’s clear that something must be done, lest you risk things staying awkward and uncomfortable between the two of you. How can you reach out in a way that won’t be rejected? The gears in your brain start turning. It must show on your face because Elena rolls her eyes and mumbles, “Oh, thank Mother Miranda.”

You ignore her—you're busy coming up with a plan.

That evening after a mostly conversationless dinner, you grab Lady Beneviento’s wrist when she goes to move her empty plate. Your boldness surprises her, enough so that she simply freezes in place instead of batting your hand away. Nervousness churns in your stomach but you force it down because things can’t stay this way between yourself and the Lord, they just can’t. You miss talking with her, you miss her gentle warmth and presence, you miss feeling welcome and wanted. You miss her.

“Dolcezza,” she mumbles, head bowed.

You take a deep breath. “Lady Beneviento,” you begin. “Can you teach me how to crochet?”

Crochet, you find, is delightfully simpler than you’d expected.

She teaches you on the couch rather than at the dining room table like the button sewing lesson had been. The two of you sit side-by-side, shoulders and thighs barely touching. It’s the closest Lady Beneviento has allowed you to be in a while, at least during the daytime. She holds your hands in hers, guiding the movement of the yarn and crochet hook stitch by stitch, until you feel comfortable continuing on your own. It’s a strangely meditative activity and you don’t even mind the repetition involved. It gives you a chance to let your mind wander, to let your gaze occasionally flicker away from the yarn and over to your employer instead. 

She’s… nervous. You can see it in her subtle body language, particularly in the way her hands twist in her skirt. Still, she hadn’t turned you away when you asked for a lesson. Maybe the request had just been too innocuous to refuse, but you hope it was for a different reason that she agreed. You want so badly to reconnect with her, to ease things back into what you’ve grown to consider normal. Is it really so awful that you hope she feels the same?

And yet, these idle thoughts in your brain are not without guilt. It’s inevitable that your mind wanders back to other topics. Things could never be normal again, not with the way you feel about the other woman. Your conversation with Elena had helped to shed light on the gravity of these feelings, though you’re no closer to knowing how to deal with it all.

During a break from chores, you allow yourself to just sit and think for a moment. So. You’re attracted to Lady Beneviento. You’re physically attracted to her—but your treacherous body has already made that clear, hasn’t it? And you’ve already acted on those desires, even if only in the privacy of your own bedroom. The other aspect of your attraction gives you more pause. The romantic aspect, the emotional one. It somehow feels more dangerous than just admitting to lusting for your employer.

You let out a sigh and try to put it all out of your mind. What’s the point in stressing yourself out over something like this right now? There are countless other things for you to worry about here at the estate. A never-ending list of things to do, things to fix, things to deal with.

Case in point, for the last ten minutes, someone has been continuously calling Lady Beneviento’s phone.

You hear it in the distance as you dust a few furniture pieces elsewhere, but your mind is focused on other things and the persistent ringing soon blends in with the rest of the background noise. In the back of your mind, you simply reason that Lady Beneviento or maybe Angie will take the call if it’s important. But eventually your work brings you closer to the phone and you find that the ringing can no longer be ignored.

You bite your lip in hesitation. Answering your lady’s calls has never been a responsibility you’ve been tasked with. Not counting today, you’ve only heard the phone ring a relatively small number of times during your entire employment. Calls are an infrequent occurrence here and it doesn’t surprise you that Lady Beneviento would avoid this kind of communication. Who would she even call? Lady Dimitrescu? Your impression of the countess is that she and the dollmaker might have a fairly civil relationship, but even then you can’t imagine your employer gabbing away on the phone with her.

So who could be calling so desperately right now?

The phone sits silent for a minute or two while you ponder this, but then it rings again, jarringly insistent. This time you twist the dust rag between your hands as anxiety begins to creep in. What if there actually is someone important on the other end? One of the other Lords, perhaps, with a crucial message for Lady Beneviento? Or worse yet—Mother Miranda?

And so, the next time the phone rings you throw caution into the wind and pick up. Winding the cord around your fingers, you stammer, “H-hello, this is House Beneviento.”

On the other end, you think you can hear a sloshing sound like water. Then a voice, slow and strangely garbled, begins to speak. “…You-you don’t sound like Donna?”

“I am Lady Beneviento’s maid. My name is—“ you begin, but a sudden explosion of sound from the receiver makes you stop dead. It sounds an awful lot like whoever’s on the phone is vomiting. You hold the phone away from your ear until the unpleasant noises cease, then gingerly try again. “…Um, hello? Are you all right?”

“You said you’re the maid?” the caller asks, ignoring your question. They continue on, apparently not concerned about receiving an answer from you. “I have a message for Donna. The Duke brought me some new films so tonight will be movie night. Donna will come, right?”

“A… movie night?” you repeat slowly. To anyone listening in, it would be obvious from the way you’re sounding out the word that you don’t really know what it is that Lady Beneviento is being invited to. You’ve never heard of a movie before, but the context of this conversation suggests that movies must have something to do with film. You know what film and a camera are. Is Lady Beneviento a photographer?

The unknown caller doesn’t offer much in the way of clarification. “I invited Karl and Alcina and her daughters, but no one accepted. And Mother Miranda said she was too busy. But… Donna will be here, won’t she?”

Oh, this isn’t good. It’s way beyond the scope of your duties to be making these kinds of decisions in place of your employer. And did the caller just refer to Lord Heisenberg and Lady Dimitrescu and even Mother Miranda in such a familiar way? Are they someone high in importance here—the final Lord perhaps, the only one you’ve yet to meet? Panic begins to set in. This was such a bad idea. You curse that stubborn sense of duty that had possessed you to answer the phone in the first place. “Uh, is this m-movie night an important thing?” you ask in desperation.

The caller’s voice mirrors your own urgency. “It’s very important, extremely important, yes!”

“Then I’ll make sure Lady Beneviento is there tonight,” you say at once. You decide to risk it and make a guess. “Movie night is at the reservoir, is that right?”

“Yes, and… you can come too, Donna’s maid. The more the m-merrier.”

The invitation startles you. If this event is really some kind of important Lord meeting, then you don’t really have any business being there too, right? But on the other hand… it would give you an excuse to go somewhere with Lady Beneviento, an excuse to keep close with her and maybe mend some of the distance between the two of you. Biting your lip, you swallow nervously and begin, “W-well, I suppose I can also—“

“Hey!” Angie’s voice suddenly screeches behind you. Startled, you yelp and fumble the phone, nearly dropping it. There’s a pitter-patter of wooden feet followed by the slower click of heeled footsteps coming from down the hallway. Angie rounds the corner first, followed closely by Lady Beneviento, who stops a good distance away and regards you with a cautious stare. The doll has no such concerns and proceeds to scurry right over to tug at your skirt. “Who are you talking to?” she demands. “Is it Elena? Can you invite her over for tea?”

“No, I think it m-might be—“ you begin, but Angie’s already climbing up your legs and grabbing for the phone. You try to hold it out of reach but mostly end up tangling the cord around yourself. The doll is nearly standing on your shoulders with her wooden fingers twisted in your hair before Lady Beneviento comes to your rescue. She plucks Angie up but not before the doll manages to finally snatch the phone from your hand.

“Elenaaaa! When will I ever get to see you again?” Angie screams into the device, making you wince. The phone’s just barely too far away for you to make out what the person on the other end responds with, but you can see how the doll’s mood goes from elation to annoyance in an instant. “Wha—no, I wasn’t talking to you, ugly! Put Elena back on!”

The doll keeps jabbering away for some time, peppering her words with random insults. Unsure of what to do, you just stand there helplessly and try to make yourself as unnoticeable as possible. With a sigh, Lady Beneviento finally grabs the phone from Angie’s hands and holds it to her ear instead. The tangled cord wraps tighter around you, pulling you right next to the Lord with a squeak, although she doesn’t seem to notice as she speaks into the phone in a tired tone. “Hello, Salvatore,” she says.

So it is Lord Moreau on the other line. You really don’t want to eavesdrop on this conversation but it’s not like you can escape right now, wrapped up in the phone cord as you are. Lady Beneviento listens to the other Lord speak for a long time, occasionally breaking in with short responses of her own. You exchange a glance with Angie, similarly hanging limp from the dollmaker’s arm. She rolls her eyes and raises a wooden hand to mime a talking motion as Lord Moreau drones on, coaxing a tiny smile from your lips.

That smile quickly fades when Lady Beneviento makes an annoyed sound from deep in her throat, the veil swishing back and forth as she shakes her head. “What do you mean, she already accepted? I wasn’t planning on… Salvatore, you can’t just—“ The dollmaker abruptly breaks off and rubs her forehead while a cacophony of retching noises erupts from the phone. “Okay, okay. Angie and I will be there tonight. And… what? My maid? She’s…”

Lady Beneviento trails off, listening intently as Lord Moreau continues his babbling. Her posture is stiff, tense. The displeasure emanating from her is obvious, and it makes you cringe knowing you are partially to blame for it. “…Fine, we’ll be there. The three of us, yes. You too, Salvatore, goodbye.” With a heavy sigh, your employer goes to hang up and only now seems to notice how you’re still standing there tangled in the phone cord with a sheepish look on your face. She pulls you free from the twisted cord in a single quick movement and slams the phone back onto its base.

She looks down at the silent phone for a few seconds and then fixes you with a level stare. “Well, you’ve gotten yourself into another mess, I see.”

It’s the first meaningful conversation Lady Beneviento has initiated with you in days and the context makes you wince. Is it really so bad that you spoke with Lord Moreau? Perhaps noticing the look on your face, she quickly adds, “I’m not angry, but I wish you hadn’t answered the phone.”

You wish you hadn’t answered the phone as well, but you keep that thought to yourself. “I was worried it might be something important.”

“Movie nights with Salvatore are hardly life-or-death situations, no matter how important he makes them out to be.”

“…I don’t know what a movie is,” you mumble, and you can see how the admission makes Lady Beneviento pause.

“Well,” she says slowly, “I suppose you’ll see what they are tonight.” She stares at the phone again. “…I would rather keep you home where it’s safe, you know. But Salvatore will expect you there with me later and he’ll no doubt go to Mother Miranda if that expectation is not met. Still, the reservoir is not a pleasant place. I’d hoped to spare you from ever having to go there.”

“I will be fine anywhere, my lady, as long as I am there with you,” you say.

The dollmaker pats you on the shoulder. A hesitant action, nowhere near as confidently executed as it might have been days prior. “Sweet girl,” Lady Beneviento mutters. After another gentle squeeze of her hand, she adds, “Salvatore will not be aggressive with me and Angie there, but he is still very dangerous. Be careful with your words and go along with his delusions, so long as they do not invite harm to you. Otherwise, stay close to me while we’re there.”

They’re words of warning, but the thought of visiting the reservoir feels like a worthy cost if it means you might be able to spend more time with your lady. It feels like progress.

And maybe that’s all you can ask for right now.

It’s evening when the three of you head to the reservoir. Summer has coaxed the daylight to stretch far into the later hours so it’s not dark yet when you pass through the village. There’s still quite a bit of activity going on in town right now, so you prepare yourself for the stares as you travel with Lady Beneviento and Angie through the crowds. And there certainly is a bit of attention thrown your way—but it’s not the sort of attention you were initially expecting. The glances directed toward your group are not quite friendly, but they aren’t in any way frightened or antagonistic. The usual sort of cautious respect is sent Lady Beneviento’s way, but the way the villagers look at you walking by the Lord’s side is almost knowing. Like they’re privy to some joke whose punchline you haven't heard yet.

Elena’s words ring through your head, about how your hidden feelings maybe haven’t been as carefully concealed as you’d hoped. Such a thought makes your face redden whenever you see yet another group of villagers look between Lady Beneviento and yourself and then whisper quietly amongst themselves.

By the time the dollmaker finishes a quick stop at the Duke’s shop to purchase a selection of cheeses for Lord Moreau, you’re feeling quite self-conscious from all the stares. It’s almost a relief to pass through the gate into a less populated path. As the reservoir slowly comes into view, Lady Beneviento comes to a stop and you barely look up in time to keep yourself from bumping into her. The dollmaker’s veiled head turns from side to side, as if determining the best route. “I think we should take the docks,” she murmurs, more to Angie than to you. “The path underground was a mess last time, wasn’t it?”

“There’s a path underground?” you ask, surprised.

Lady Beneviento inclines her head and gestures for you to begin following her once more. “It’s not the most pleasant of areas,” she admits. “Not that the rest of all this is terribly pleasant either. Just stay close to me and make sure you don’t fall into the water.”

You nod and scoot a little closer. Feeling daring, you even take Lady Beneviento’s arm between your own. She stiffens a bit but doesn’t push you away, and a tiny part of you sighs in relief.

The reservoir is a ramshackle array of structures built on and around the large body of water. A maze of wooden docks and piers connect everything together in a way that seems sturdy, albeit messy. The water is murky but you think you can see something lurking underneath as you walk along the pathway. Whatever it is, it seems to be rising to the surface, growing larger and larger until—

Something huge and fishlike breaks through the surface of the water with a tremendous splash. You shriek when a small wave crashes over the wooden platform, splattering muddy water all over you from head to toe. Lady Beneviento hisses something in Italian and pulls you into the shelter of one of the old buildings, giving Angie a sharp swat on the head when the doll starts cackling at your misfortune. The two of them somehow managed to avoid all the water, which seems terribly unfair in your opinion. Trying to lighten the mood, you halfheartedly joke, “Maybe we should’ve taken that underground path instead?”

“We can keep that in mind for next time,” Lady Beneviento sighs. She digs through the bag she’d brought along and then freezes, before cursing softly under her breath.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. You’re trying not to fidget too much but it’s difficult. The outfit you chose today is uncomfortably plastered to your body now, so you try to keep a slight distance from the Lord so you don’t brush up against her by mistake. You peer into her bag but all you see inside are folded articles of cloth and the wrapped cheeses from the Duke. “Wouldn’t happen to have brought something I could dry off with, did you?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” she murmurs, pulling out a small towel and holding it out for you to take. With a thankful sigh, you do your best to dab yourself dry again. You’re still damp but it’s a bit better than before. You hand the towel back to her but then you notice the hesitant way she’s still looking down into the bag.

“Lady Beneviento?” you say.

She glances your way and then looks down guiltily. “This is my fault. I should have told you to bring a spare change of clothes.”

You offer an awkward laugh. “Well, you couldn’t have known this was going to happen—”

“But I did know this was going to happen,” the Lord interrupts with a growl. She sounds angry, but it’s clearly directed toward herself. “More often than not I’ll get splashed when I’m here, so I always bring along a fresh set of clothes. And of course I forgot to tell you to do the same.” Frazzled, she paces back and forth for a moment, heels squeaking on the damp floorboards.

You peek down at yourself, splattered and damp with water, and then turn back to Lady Beneviento with determination. Awkward as it may be, there is clearly only one solution here. “…Would it be okay then if I wore your clothes?” When she mimics your action by looking down at herself, you quickly add, “I-I meant the ones in the bag!”

“But where will you get changed?” she presses, looking reluctant.

You glance around at the little shack you’re standing in. The door is missing, but the room itself is clearly unoccupied while the walls are solid enough to shelter you from any prying eyes. “This is fine. Maybe you two can just stand there and, um, keep watch?”

“Just be quick about it,” Lady Beneviento mutters, shoving her bag into your arms and quickly turning away to stand in front of the doorway. Angie leans to the side and twists her head around like she wants to keep watching you, but the dollmaker shoos her away. “Go and tell Salvatore we’ll be there in just a few minutes,” she instructs quietly. You can hear Angie blowing a raspberry in her maker’s direction but the sound of the doll’s wooden footsteps quickly disappear into the distance.

You take a deep breath and slowly let it out, calming your nerves as best you can. This is probably as much privacy as you’re going to get here, so you don’t waste any more time. The damp skirt doesn’t give you much trouble—you shimmy your legs out and just drop it onto a dry patch of floor for now. Moving onto your shirt, you try to pull it over your head. Still heavy with water, it stubbornly sticks to your skin and leaves you standing there struggling in place. You swear under your breath.

“Is everything okay?” Lady Beneviento asks. Flustered, you whip around in alarm but she’s still standing there with her back to you. With a grunt, you struggle a bit more and manage to pull the shirt over your head, where it bunches around your arms and refuses to relinquish you any further.

Well. This isn’t working out as nicely as you’d hoped.

You wiggle around a bit but it’s clear you’re stuck. Mother Miranda’s sake, why can’t you even accomplish this small task with your dignity intact? “…I think I might need some help,” you finally admit in a tiny voice.

Upon hearing your plea, Lady Beneviento turns her head to face you and freezes—then hurriedly snaps back into facing the opposite direction again. From such a close distance, you can see how a hint of red is creeping up the small bit of her neck that’s visible. “Wh-what do you need me to do?” she stammers.

“Here, just… just help me pull this off the rest of the way?” You flex your arms, still tangled in the wet sleeves. Still standing stiffly with her back to you, Lady Beneviento’s hands are clenched and trembling at her sides. You can see the way she draws a deep breath before peeking over her shoulder at you again. This time her gaze lingers, a tiny tilt of her head indicating how she’s looking you up and down. You remember your naked legs with a wince. Why didn’t you at least put on the clean skirt before moving on to stripping off your shirt?

The quiet squeak of heels on wet flooring jerks you back to attention. Like a person tending to a skittish horse, Lady Beneviento’s approach is slow, hesitant. Offering an awkward smile, you try to steady your heart rate which has suddenly skyrocketed. Standing here like this, unable to move your arms… you feel very vulnerable in front of the Lord. When she reaches for you, the image appears in your head uninvited—of hands touching you, undressing you. Of those hands being replaced by a warm mouth. You shudder and bite your lip at such a thought. The dollmaker’s movements are gentle yet firm. It probably takes just mere seconds for her to peel the shirt off your arms, but in your mind the moment feels much longer. She reaches out again and smooths her hand down your neck, across your collarbone, and lets it rest warm and heavy on your left shoulder. The strap of your bra had gotten twisted right there and she adjusts it with a quick flex of her fingers. And the realization hits you all of a sudden—how bare you are, clad in nothing but your bra and panties in front of her.

A rush of self-consciousness floods through you and makes itself known with a fiery blush blooming across your cheeks. Oh, you can’t see Lady Beneviento’s face but you can just feel how intently she’s looking at you right now. It makes goosebumps appear on your skin despite the balmy warmth of this summer night.

Does she like what she sees?

“Lady Beneviento—“ you breathe, but you’re interrupted by the bundle of dry clothes being pushed into your arms.

“Get dressed,” is all she says to you before turning away, hands shaky and fisted at her sides again.

Shame floods through you. Thinking of something like that, at a time like this? Could you not go a single day without doing something to make Lady Beneviento uncomfortable? Abashed, you pull on the borrowed clothes as quickly as you can. The skirt is far too long but at least it stays put on your waist, you note with relief. The sleeves of the shirt extend nearly to your fingers so you carefully roll them up before buttoning everything up. It’s dry and cozy and warm. A little too warm, perhaps, for a summer night. Still, it’s a big improvement over the damp things you were wearing just a moment ago.

“I’m decent now,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. Maybe if you don’t acknowledge what had just happened, Lady Beneviento won’t acknowledge it either. The dollmaker peeks over her shoulder at you again and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. You spread your arms. “How do I look?”

“Cute,” she murmurs, then gives herself a little shake. “Come, Salvatore and Angie are waiting.”

The rest of the journey occurs without much incident. Really, you were almost there when that fish thing splashed the water all over you. Lady Beneviento ushers you through a door with a comforting hand against your back—and in the next room you see Lord Moreau for the first time.

You’ve seen his photo before in the old church, a framed likeness that sits beside those of the other three Lords. Lord Moreau’s portrait was never one that drew your interest—rather, his grotesque appearance was much better at evoking a sense of revulsion than awe and worship. Still, he is one of Mother Miranda’s chosen four, so you bow your head low in respect.

He points a pale, webbed hand in your direction. “You brought me a gift?”

Confused, your eyes dart over to what’s clutched in your hand. You’d brought your own bag along for the visit, a pair of unfinished mittens nestled inside along with your crochet hook and a ball of yarn. Even though Lady Beneviento had bought those nice cheeses from the Duke, you had neglected to bring a gift of your own. Maybe if you can get these mittens done you could present them to the other Lord? His hands do look clammy and wet, not surprising given the damp conditions here. You go to say something in greeting but he gestures again, more insistently this time. “Mother hasn’t brought me any new subjects in a long time…”

Unsure, you take a step backwards. “I, uh…”

“New subjects…” Lord Moreau croaks.

You retreat further until your back hits something solid and warm. A hand squeezes your shoulder. Black cloth fills your vision as Lady Beneviento firmly pulls you behind her. “My maid is not to come under any harm, Salvatore,” she growls.

Sputtering apologies, the man immediately backs down and you wonder if it’s out of surprise at the dollmaker’s harsh tone or if he’s simply at the bottom of the pecking order among the Lords. Either way, you’re not complaining if it guarantees your continued survival for this visit. More kindly this time, Lady Beneviento converses with Lord Moreau and presents him with the wrapped cheeses. Not wanting to be in the way, you wander deeper into the room. Near the back wall you can see Angie fiddling with a strange rectangular box that has a glowing screen.

“Nice clothes,” the doll snickers.

You’re too curious about the glowing box to rise to the bait. “What is this machine?”

“Have you never seen a television before?”

“I don’t know what a television is,” you admit.

“You play movies on them, duh!”

Still just as lost, you give a helpless shrug. “…I don’t know what movies are either,” you remind the doll sheepishly.

Angie screeches at you, flailing her arms. “Okay, okay, fine! It’s starting anyway so sit your ass down and you’ll see soon enough.” At these words, you hear lumbering footsteps coming from behind. Lord Moreau excitedly sits on the floor and begins noisily munching on a wedge of cheese. Quieter heeled footsteps also approach and you turn to see Lady Beneviento spreading out a folded blanket before carefully taking a seat atop it.

The dollmaker tilts her head at you and pats the spot on the blanket next to her, and you—you think again of Elena telling you to take initiative, to be the one to reach out first. And you figure this is as good a time as any so you step right past the blanket and plop down into the other woman’s lap instead. She draws a sharp breath and stiffens beneath you, arms curling around your waist to hold you steady. Heat rises to your face but you’re determined to act like nothing out of the ordinary is happening right now. Forcing your body to relax, you lean back into her chest and pull out your crochet hook and the half-finished pair of mittens. The ball of yarn tumbles out of your bag but Lady Beneviento plucks it up before it rolls onto the damp floorboards. Perhaps just as an excuse to keep her hands occupied, she hesitantly holds that ball of yarn between trembling fingers. With a slow exhale to calm your racing heart, you nervously begin to stitch.

This position feels overwhelmingly intimate, sitting here in Lady Beneviento’s lap. Sleeping in the same bed is hard enough to excuse as being platonic, but still you can attempt to explain it away with the knowledge that both you and the dollmaker sleep more soundly that way. But there’s no such reason for you to be so close to her right now. It feels indulgent in a sinful way, a blatant display of your greed chipping past the boundaries of decorum. And you know Lady Beneviento wouldn’t dare push back and chastise your actions, not with another Lord present as witness.

…But on the other hand, she doesn’t seem too eager to shove you off her lap anyway. Now that the initial shock has worn off, you think her presence feels a bit more relaxed. Maybe even welcoming, as you note the way she leans forward to rest her chin on your shoulder before letting out a soft sigh.

Angie rolls her eyes at the two of you and determinedly focuses her attention on the movie instead. But Lord Moreau also notices, and he’s much less subtle with his observations. A piece of cheese falls from his open mouth. But then a cacophony of noise blasts from the television and he turns his attention back that way.

For all the butterflies in your stomach, the movie night ends up going as smoothly as you could have hoped for. Lord Moreau is far too absorbed in the film and cheese to pay much attention to anything else around him, thank Mother Miranda for that. You can hardly blame him—the idea of a box that can somehow play images and sound? Who could have thought such a wondrous thing even existed? Entranced, you find yourself slacking with your crochet for minutes at a time because a particularly captivating scene is playing out on the screen.

One such scene draws your ire. “Why don’t they just kiss already? It’s obvious they’re meant to be together,” you insist in a low whisper, pointing at the screen aghast as the romantic leads exchange their tearful goodbyes. When the fictional pair parts ways, you snatch up your project and furiously begin sewing the thumbs onto each mitten. “Ugh, how can they be so oblivious to each other’s feelings?”

“Oh, gee. Imagine that,” Angie grumbles.

Lady Beneviento steadies your hand when you begin to gesture a little too wildly with the crochet hook. “The movie isn’t over yet,” she tells you gently. “It takes time for these things to resolve themselves.”

“But they’re in love!” you whine to no one in particular. “Those longing looks… the moonlit walks… the serenades! They even—they even wore matching outfits! Why don’t they see they’re meant to be together?”

“You and Donna are wearing matching outfits,” Lord Moreau pipes up suddenly.

Startled, you tear your eyes away from the screen. “Oh, um. Yes.”

He shovels more cheese into his mouth. “Then… that must mean you two are together as well?”

Lady Beneviento stiffens beneath you. Similarly flustered, you go to protest but then you remember her warning. Be careful with your words and go along with his delusions, so long as they do not invite harm to you, she’d said.

Well, you certainly don’t want to risk triggering Lord Moreau’s temper. But at the same time, you don’t want to go shooting your mouth off with something so blatantly untrue. Maybe you can get away with something vague and noncommittal? Several seconds have already passed without response on your end, so you finally offer a nervous smile and squeak out, “That’s, um… we did come here together, yes?”

A few crumbs of cheese spill from between the man’s uneven, crooked teeth. He makes a strange sound, apparently unsatisfied with your answer. “Then you’re together?”

“We’re sitting, w-watching the movie together?” you stammer.

Lord Moreau’s eyes flicker back to the television for a moment. The young woman on the screen sings a song of yearning. Soulful, heartfelt, bittersweet. Longing with all her heart for a life with her other half. You could sympathize with her if she were real, you think.

With a tilt of his misshapen head, Lord Moreau asks, “Are you in love?”

Behind you, the dollmaker draws a harsh breath. Her hand shakes around the little ball of yarn in her grasp. You cover her hand with yours but she doesn’t relax. Not this time.

You don’t want to lie. Not about this. And so you bow your head and whisper, “I love Lady Beneviento very much.”

Angie makes a startled little noise from her corner but Lord Moreau’s face breaks into a hopeful, pleased smile. It’s equal parts touching as it is sad, this shambling wretch of a man suddenly looking buoyant at the thought of his fellow Lord having a special person. There’s a glimpse of something human there, you think. But Lady Beneviento is silent.

And this worries you a great deal.

As your group exchanges goodbyes with Lord Moreau, you present to him the completed mittens. He accepts them with a contagious sort of delight that would have brought a smile to your own face had you not felt so exhausted at the time.

The three of you walk in relative silence back through the reservoir and then the village, now empty so late at night. You walk past the altar and through Lady Beneviento’s gate, across the suspension bridge, and finally squeeze into the old elevator. The sight of the path leading to the manor is a welcome sight when the iron door creaks open again. You can’t quite hide the sigh of relief that whispers past your lips. The borrowed skirt at your waist is several inches too long and you’ve been doing your best to hold the fabric up off the ground for the last few hours, so you’re really looking forward to changing back into your own clothes. When you move to exit the elevator, however, a hand on your arm makes you pause.

“Angie, go on ahead without us for now,” Lady Beneviento murmurs, her grip tightening slightly and pulling you back. The doll looks back and forth between you and her maker, jaw chattering as though reluctant. When she stays put, the Lord’s voice grows more stern. “Angie, now.”

Angie shoots you one more worried look before slowly tiptoeing away. Only when the doll’s footsteps have faded into the distance does Lady Beneviento turn to face you, finally releasing her hold on your arm. She stares you down for a very long moment. “…Why did you lie to Salvatore?” she asks at last.

Your heart skips a beat. How foolish of you to think she wouldn’t bring up the things you’d said back there. “It wasn’t my intention to lie,” you insist. “I tried, Lady Beneviento! You were there, you saw how I tried my best. But when he kept asking, I thought… well, y-you told me yourself to go along with Lord Moreau’s delusions, didn’t you?” That’s it, that’s your argument. You were just following orders.

Oh, but calling your words delusions still sends a pang through your chest.

“I told you to be careful with your words, to avoid saying anything that might invite harm to yourself.” Lady Beneviento’s tone is sulking, derisive. For a moment it sounds more like Angie’s voice than her own. “I don’t recall saying anything about weaving fanciful stories of a fairytale romance between you and I.”

Your hands begin to tremble and you bunch them into your skirt to hold them still. “I was only trying to keep Lord Moreau happy.”

“And so you told him you love me,” she hisses, bitter. She grabs your arm again and shakes you. “Silly little maid. Is this all a joke to you?”

You pull your arm free and shove the dollmaker, hard, in the shoulder. She stumbles back and stands there staring at you in shock. Your eyes are burning but you refuse to let her see you cry. Not now, and not for this. “Why are you getting mad at me for following instructions?” you scream. It’s the first time you’ve raised your voice in such a way to Lady Beneviento and you can see how it stuns her into silence. “You don’t get to be mad at me for this, not when you’ve shut me out all these days. Not when you’re happy to let me in your bed but then barely say a word to me otherwise.” Your voice wavers, throat squeezing almost painfully. This isn’t anything like how you’d expected your confession would go, but you force yourself to continue anyway. “It wasn’t a lie, Lady Beneviento. I promise, nothing of what I said back there was a lie. I do love you. And I… I know that you also—”

“Don’t you dare put words in my mouth!” Lady Beneviento cuts you off with a snarl. “I’ve loved people before. My parents. My sister. I loved them all. Once, I loved Mother Miranda too. And we can see how far that love has gotten me.”

Beseechingly, she gestures toward her face—shrouded as always, an expressionless slate. Not for the first time, you wonder what could be so terrible underneath that she forces herself to hide away. What could be so awful there that she covers every inch of her face, when even Lord Moreau looks out into the world with his deformities laid bare? The black cloth offers you no answers but you pleadingly stare into the mesh where you know Lady Beneviento’s eyes are anyway. A low exhale of breath makes the veil flutter softly. The tension fades from the dollmaker’s shoulders and exhaustion takes its place, bone-deep and weary and raw. She extends an arm, an offering. And you can’t help yourself—you take a step forward, and then another and another, until you’re close enough for her to slump forward into your embrace.

You lean your head against hers, tangling your hands in the back of her veil. The smell of her perfume fills your nose. “I’ve missed you, my lady,” you breathe as your eyes flutter shut. “Oh, I’ve missed you so much.”

The Lord’s own hands come to rest at your waist. They clench and then relax, as if she’s not sure whether to push you away or pull you closer. A sigh escapes her lips. She sounds tired, so tired. Her voice is somber, a defeated thing. “Sweet girl, are your choices really so limited that you’d choose to love a monster like me?”

“You are no monster, Lady Beneviento.” The words spill from your mouth in a rush. You’ve made this same argument once before, a long time ago. “There are monsters here in the village, but not you. Never you.” You shake your head, a little smile playing at your lips. “All four of you Lords have been much more human than the stories would have led me to believe… for the most part. Perhaps I’ll admit Lord Moreau’s appearance is still something I’d have to get used to.”

The dollmaker hisses in frustration. “You assume much, little maid. Salvatore’s appearance is far from the worst thing about him. Mother Miranda’s gift twisted him into what you see today and while he might look the part more than the rest of us, I assure you that we four are all the same on the inside. Monsters.” Her hand slides up to press against your breast, painted nails scratching a trail along clothed flesh. “Do you know what Alcina would do if you weren’t under my protection? Do you know what happens to poor little maidens who fall into her domain? She would give you a knife and demand you cut out your heart with your own two hands and offer it to her. I’ve seen her do it before.”

The harsh bite in the Lord’s voice makes you shudder. You go to touch the hand on your chest and she interlaces her fingers with yours. Her other hand comes up and strokes through your hair.

“Karl would pick you apart piece by piece,” she continues. A single finger taps against your temple in rhythm with her words. “Piece by piece,” she repeats softly. “He’d rend you asunder and then stitch the parts back together to his liking. Put wires into your nerves, into your brain. Springs and screws and gears like a giant clock. Oh, how he loves to see what makes a human tick.”

The hand in your hair now cups your cheek. Despite everything, you lean into the touch. 

“And you, my lady?” you ask.

The dollmaker lets out a bitter sound. “Why even ask me something like that?” she mumbles. “You already know what I would do, dolcezza. I would steal you away and keep you by my side.”

“You’ve already succeeded in that,” you say with a quiet laugh. “And if I may be honest, Lady Beneviento, my employment with you is hardly an unpleasant thing. I'd much rather be with you than any of the others. At the very least, it’s kept me from being made into a bottle of Lady Dimitrescu's prized wine, has it not?"

You smile but you don’t think your small attempt at humor does much to lighten the Lord’s mood. You hear her take a shuddering breath. “…Alcina would swallow your heart,” she whispers. Her voice sounds stricken. “She would eat of your flesh and suck the blood from your veins. But me? Sweet girl, I would devour you in a different way.”

Oh. The air leaves your lungs in a gasp. Your mind scrambles for excuses but it’s futile—there’s only one way you can take those softly spoken words. The admission shakes you to the core and you’re shocked by the way it makes you thrum with want. “I only hope I’d be sweet enough for your taste, my lady,” you breathe.

“You are more than sweet enough,” Lady Beneviento growls. She takes a step forward, pressing into you as your back collides with the elevator wall. Your legs wobble and would have given out completely had the Lord not grabbed you by the hips and anchored you in place. A soft gasp escapes your lips as you steady your arms around the other woman’s neck. You faintly realize she’s still speaking, the words spilling forth in a rush, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear before she can get them all out. “Whenever you cook, I cherish each bite of every meal. I’m certain I would cherish each bite of you as well. Dolcezza, dolcezza—how could you not be sweet as my name for you? Do you know how long I’ve been aching for a taste?”

“I want that too,” you whimper. You want—you want so much right now. Swallowing, you raise a shaky hand toward her. Your fingers brush the front of the Lord’s shirt before curling around the draping black cloth of her veil. Hardly daring to breathe, you pull the shroud away inch by inch. Lady Beneviento’s neck is revealed first, and then the curve of her jaw. Her mouth, lips set in a trembling line. You’ve seen this much before, a single accidental glimpse on a windy day in the village. But you need more, you need to see the rest of her—

It all happens too fast for you to react. One moment you’re preparing to pull the rest of the veil away and the next moment Lady Beneviento is stumbling away from you, hands pushing yours away to yank the cloth back over her face, white-knuckled and shaking. The breath leaves your lungs in a gasp as your heart stutters to a stop. It feels like the world has just been pulled out from under your feet. Desperate, you reach out to the dollmaker again. She cowers away until she’s almost pressed into the corner of the elevator, hands fisted in the fabric of her veil, trembling. Your mind races, running over all your actions until now. Lady Beneviento had seemed to reciprocate your feelings, but did you push too far, too fast? Did you do something wrong? You extend a hand again and the effect is immediate. The Lord shakes her head almost violently, a low whine sounding from behind the black cloth covering her face.

“No, no,” she moans, as choked and raspy as broken glass. She sounds wretched, panicked, on the verge of tears. “I can’t. You’ll leave. You’ll leave if you saw what I really look like. I can’t lose you, not now.”

“Lady Beneviento.” The words leave your lips in the softest of gasps. You don’t trust yourself to speak louder than that, nor do you trust yourself to draw closer to the Lord. Not when she looks terrified of you, of the very possibility you might try to reveal her face again. You lower your hands, feeling so dreadfully helpless.

The dollmaker slowly raises her head. She speaks with a finality that’s undermined by the shakiness of her tone, the fragility with which she looks at you. “Things can still go back to the way they were before. That’s what you wanted, right? Please, dolcezza, I’m begging you.” She chokes back a sob. “Forget everything I said just now. That’s all I ask of you. Please.”

Stinging tears well up in your eyes, hot, burning. You squeeze your eyes shut and swipe a hand over your face when those tears spill down your cheeks. “I’ll wait for you, my lady,” you choke out. The words tumble from your lips like water bursting from a dam. There’s no point in holding them in any longer, not when it’s far more important that Lady Beneviento knows your feelings at this very moment. “I don’t care what you look like underneath your veil. I don’t care how monstrous you think you are. But I’ll wait. I’ll wait until you are ready, I promise.”

She reaches out to stroke your cheek, damp with tears. “You will be waiting a long time, sweet girl,” she says softly. “Monster, monster. A wolf can only hide in sheepskin for so long before she grows hungry. And I will do anything to keep you safe here in my flock.”

Chapter Text

“Dolcezza, what are you doing?” Seated at the dining room table, Lady Beneviento twists her neck to stare at you. Her hands twitch around the embroidery she’s been working on for the last hour or so. They’re trembling so bad that she finally has to set her project down. You’re standing right behind her and while your own hands are similarly occupied, it’s not needlework that currently holds your attention.

“I’m massaging your shoulders,” you say.

“And why are you massaging my shoulders?”

“You seemed tense, my lady.”

“If I’m tense, it’s because you are touching me,” Lady Beneviento grumbles in a matter-of-fact way. A sigh escapes her lips, although the sound becomes something more like a low whine when your hands knead into a tight knot. Her own hands twist into the fabric of her skirt, white-knuckled and shaking. Your fingers are beginning to ache but you push past the discomfort, pressing more of your weight into the rubbing motion of your hands.

A grin is playing at your lips, though you hide it behind an expression of feigned innocence when the Lord turns her head to crossly glare at you again. Something heated and thrillful pulses through your veins when your eyes meet her concealed gaze. Filled with something like a reckless daring, your hands creep beneath the back of Lady Beneviento’s veil and linger there against her nape. A shiver runs through her body.

As gently as possible, you run your nails across the back of the other woman’s neck. She makes a tiny noise that’s almost akin to a squeak. Perhaps such thinking is dangerous, but you can’t help but feel giddy about this tiny power you hold over the Lord right now. You know such a feeling is only there because Lady Beneviento allows it, but that doesn’t diminish those emotions in the slightest. If anything, it makes you hunger even more—with the knowledge that she’s indulging you in a way.

Things haven’t quite gone back to normal between the two of you yet, though it would be a lie to say they haven’t improved in their own way. It starts that first night after your attempted confession. Even though Lady Beneviento begged you to forget her own divulged feelings and is adamant about holding you at arm’s length, there’s no way you could ignore what happened then. The way she’d held you against the elevator wall, her hands on your hips, pressed flush to you in a way that had made you weak at the knees and burning from the inside out… just knowing how she wants you the same way you want her is wonderful and frightening and leaves you buzzing with anticipation.

And yet, that anticipation is kept under tight rein. Despite everything, despite all your wants and desires—it doesn’t feel quite right to dive headfirst into anything. There’s still the issue of Lady Beneviento’s veil. Her most steadfast barrier, the ever-present boundary she refuses to grant you passage through. And you respect that, even though you yearn so badly to see her face unobstructed. Lady Beneviento had reacted so strongly that first and only time you tried to remove the veil. The way she shrank back from you as if in fear… an arrow through the heart would have hurt less than the pain you felt at being the source of her anguish in that terrible moment.

No, you can’t be impatient with this. You told Lady Beneviento that you would wait for her, and that’s a promise you’re prepared to see through to the end. But in the meantime… you do try and think of harmless ways to show your affection. Because if it’s self-loathing that encages her, then perhaps it might be possible to chip through that prison even if the only weapons at your disposal are appreciative words and fleeting touches.

And weapons they certainly are, even if their effectiveness occasionally leave something to be desired.

“You look very nice today, Lady Beneviento,” you pipe up one morning over breakfast.

The dollmaker stares at you for a moment before slowly setting her cup of tea back down. In a voice that’s gently scolding, she responds, “Thank you, but I am fairly certain that I look the same as I always do.”

“You do, and the way you look is very nice,” you counter, and there’s a quiet thud as Angie groans and slaps a hand over her forehead.

Another day when the two of you work side-by-side in the garden, you decide to break the silence with a meaningful, “My lady, your nails are painted the perfect shade to complement your skin.”

“My nails are painted the same shade as they always are, silly girl. What’s more, I’m quite certain you can’t even see my hands right now,” Lady Beneviento retorts, holding up her hands. Just as she says, they’re covered in heavy gardening gloves right now. Unflattering, perhaps, but there is still hope for this situation to be salvaged.

“I don’t need to see your hands in person when their beautiful forms are ever present in my mind’s eye,” you blurt out in desperation. Okay, so maybe speaking through romantic prose isn’t your strong suit. That comment might have been a bit of an overkill if the red creeping up the side of Lady Beneviento’s neck is any indication. She might have been embarrassed or flattered or angry, but there’s no way to know for sure—because Angie promptly douses you with the hose for that one.

The icy water proves to be quite the distraction from the current goal of worming through Lady Beneviento’s defenses. Drenched from head to toe, you fix the doll with the most withering glare you can manage—which probably isn’t too intimidating with you looking so waterlogged. Plucking at your sopping shirt, you grumble, “Thank you, Miss Angie. I probably deserved that, didn’t I?”

The doll blows a raspberry in your direction. There’s a temptation to send a few more complaints her way but a quiet sound catches your attention instead. Muffled laughter. Lady Beneviento’s shoulders are shaking, one gloved hand pressed over where her mouth would be beneath the veil. She tries to hold back when she notices your gawking but it only results in an adorable squeak edging past her lips.

Annoyance forgotten, you find yourself scrambling back to her side with a silly grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I-I love the sound of your laugh,” you spill out in a rush. The words keep coming—it’s out of your control, you don’t even mean to be blathering on like this but you can’t help it. It’s more genuine than the compliments from before, more natural and relaxed and it fills you with a lighthearted giddiness. “No, don’t hide it! Your laugh is so pretty, I could listen to your voice all day, my lady, really!”

“Flatterer,” Lady Beneviento mutters. There’s a bit of sternness there, though devoid of its desired vigor. Despite the dollmaker’s best attempts, there’s still a hint of laughter in her voice. More shyly, she adds, “I quite enjoy listening to your voice as well, sweet girl.”

…Is she flirting with you? Is this progress? You’re about to voice a delighted reply but those hopes are dashed when Angie lets out a screech and sprays both you and Lady Beneviento with the hose this time. “I’ve heard enough from you two!” the doll shrieks. 

It’s a disappointing turn of events that cuts into the gardening time in favor of rushing back inside in search of dry clothes, but you still count the event as a step in the right direction. After all, it’s in small ways like this that you can most easily demonstrate your attempts at inching closer. In both a physical and emotional sense too, although the former comes with its own challenges. With your feelings and desires having been laid bare, you expected there to be some distance erected between yourself and Lady Beneviento during those times spend in close quarters. And she certainly tries the first few days, you note with some displeasure—though her efforts always end in vain because you are nothing if not stubborn. Bedtime tonight is a good example. It’s easy enough to squirm past the Lord’s halfhearted attempts to push you away and instead settle there beside her reclining form, your head resting against her chest as you squint at the book she holds in one hand.

“…Dolcezza, what are you doing?” she asks again. She’s been asking that a lot lately, if only because you’ve been making a point to stick to her side like glue whenever the opportunity presents itself.

“Reading with you,” you say simply.

Lady Beneviento clicks her tongue. “Is that so? Have you suddenly developed a fascination with mountainous plants?”

Well, she’s got you there. This book is a far cry from the sort of reading that usually suits your taste, but it’s not like literature is what’s really on your mind right now anyway. You’re much more interested in the soft rhythm of the dollmaker’s heartbeat, so steady and comforting. Her scent and warmth envelope you when you snuggle closer and it makes your eyes feel heavy. But then the sound of the book snapping shut cuts through the otherwise quiet room. Confused, you glance up and see Lady Beneviento staring back at you.

With a frown, you mumble, “I was reading that.”

“Of course you were,” she sighs. “And I suppose your interest in botany explains why your hands were beginning to wander?”

Blinking, you try to find your hands. It had happened almost without any thought on your part, a curling of your arms around the Lord’s torso with your fingers trailing an aimless pattern up and down her ribs. Heat rises to your face. “Sorry, I didn’t… was it bothering you?”

Lady Beneviento hesitates. “No,” she says at last. “But you should know better, sweet girl, than to tempt me.”

The flush deepens as a shaky smile captures your lips. “A-and are you tempted, my lady?” you stammer. Oh, now that was smooth. You’re not used to being so bold and it shows in the nervousness of your flirtations. But boldness strikes you as the best option for chipping past Lady Beneviento’s walls, and so you persevere even through the embarrassment.

She stares at you again in response. You can’t see her face but you imagine the look she wears is probably unimpressed. Finally she reaches over and turns off the lamp, bathing the room in darkness. “Good night,” she huffs.

“Good night,” you parrot back, a chipper contrast to your employer’s feigned annoyance. Lady Beneviento just sighs as you wiggle around into a more comfortable spot. You settle into your usual position, face pressed into the crook of her neck with your arms around her. After a moment’s hesitation, her own arms gently drape across your back.

There’s still one more piece to your efforts in making your affections known. A new change in routine, a habit newly created. “…I love you,” you whisper. You’ve taken to saying it at least once a day, if not more. And while you’ve never received a reciprocal response, as the days go on it seems Lady Beneviento’s protests aren’t as vehement as they might have been earlier. The sheets rustle as the dollmaker adjusts her arms curled around you.

Slightly muffled, she grumbles into the pillow. A tired sound, though devoid of any true venom. “Silly girl, go to sleep.”

With a soft smile to yourself, you nuzzle closer and let your eyes flutter shut with a sigh. There was no resounding victory for you today, but still—you aren’t ready to give up. Progress is being made, albeit so slowly it sometimes feels like you’ll soon burst out of your skin from anticipation. In that cramped old elevator, Lady Beneviento had been clear in her warning that you’d be waiting a long time for her. And, well… that’s fine. You’re content with waiting if that’s what it takes.

That’s what you keep telling yourself, but still… a greedy part of you hopes it won’t take too long.

Perhaps the Black God is looking out for your existence after all, because a long time ends up being no more than a week or two later.

Things are more or less comfortable between Lady Beneviento and yourself again, which is a blessed relief after that awful period following the incident with the hallucinations. You’re still trailing after her with silly compliments and she’s still waving you away with increasingly muted protestations and Angie is growing more and more exasperated with the two of you each day.

One morning has you waking up in a particularly good mood. After the first few hours of the day are spent completing the usual chores, you eventually find yourself in the kitchen with Angie, the two of you poring over one of Lady Beneviento’s cookbooks to bake a big batch of cookies. By the time you’ve pulled the last tray from the oven, the kitchen is full of a lovely almond scent and you’re just as dusted with sugar as all the cookies you’ve rolled out.

“Well, now we’ve got amaretti for days,” Angie groans. She’s perched on the edge of the kitchen table, legs swinging back and forth as she watches each new tray emerge with its contents triumphantly golden brown and smelling heavenly.

You click your tongue. “Why Miss Angie, you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Well, you know. Good luck eating all these before they go stale. At least send some to Elena and tell her they’re from me, will you?” The doll juggles a lone cookie between her hands. She looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps and then gestures dramatically as Lady Beneviento pokes her veiled head into the kitchen. “Donna, look at this shit ton of cookies we have now! Isn’t this way too much for just the three of us?”

The Lord doesn’t look too upset by the mountains of sweets that have taken over most of her kitchen space. “Amaretti? They smell wonderful,” she murmurs, sounding pleased. Her hand hovers over the baking tray but you’re already jumping to seize the opportunity that has just presented itself. You almost burn your fingers on the freshly baked cookie as you scoop it up and hold it in front of Lady Beneviento’s veil. Ignoring the heat, you offer that cookie with a silly, expectant smile on your face.

A small sigh rustles the fabric of Lady Beneviento’s veil. She takes your wrist and brings it under the heavy fabric. The cookie disappears from your hold and it’s all you can do not to reach forward a few inches further, to slide your fingers along the dollmaker’s lips—

“Delicious,” she says, breaking you out of those errant thoughts. The breath leaves your lungs in a sigh as you watch her release your wrist and step back. With a glance at the cookbook still open on the table, the Lord adds, “Perhaps I might join you in baking next time?”

The next words to escape your lips spill forth with all the grace of water bursting from a dam. You’re almost embarrassed by your eagerness, really. “Oh! Well, um, yesterday I bought some fresh plums at the market. I have a really good recipe for plum dumplings in my mother’s book, would you like to make some with me? Right now?”

“Like we need any more sweets in this place,” Angie grumbles.

“Hush, Angie,” Lady Beneviento scolds. Shoulders slumping in a way that curbs your excitement, she continues, “Today might be a little too busy for me to help with that. I have some sewing to finish in the workshop and Mother Miranda said she’d be calling to set up a meeting with the other Lords.” She sounds a bit let down by this, though maybe that’s just wishful thinking on your part.

“Oh, uh, that’s fine.” You can’t quite hide the disappointment in your own voice as you watch the other woman edging back toward the doorway. Trying not to sound too desperate or needy, you quickly add, “Then will I see you at dinnertime at least?”

In midstep, Lady Beneviento pauses and tilts her head. She stands there for a few moments and quietly studies you, fingernails drumming against the doorframe as if considering something. In response to your questioning look, she draws a deep breath. “Would you…” The words trail off as she hesitates. A moment later, she shakes her head and tries again. “Would you like to join me in the workshop today?”

“In the workshop?” you squeak, surprised. Even after all this time, you’ve still never been invited in there yet. It’s a boundary you’ve never tried to challenge, even though there had always been a pang in your chest whenever Lady Beneviento disappeared through those doors with no way for you to follow. “My lady, are you sure?”

She nods and you nearly trip over yourself in the haste to whip off your sugar-dusted apron. This is better than anything you could have hoped for—better even than the initial hope of baking with her this morning. You’re trying to hide your excitement, though probably without much success. Over the sound of the faucet as you scrub your hands clean, you add, “Miss Angie, will you be okay here by yourself?”

Angie fixes you with a glare. “If that’s your way of inviting me to hang out with you two, forget it! I can think of a whole load of things I’d rather be doing than watching both of you moon over each other.”

Hands still dripping into the sink, you glare right back. “I do not moon.”

“You do!” the doll insists.

Rather unhelpfully, Lady Beneviento also nods and pipes up, “You do.”

Betrayed, you stare at her in disbelief. She just shrugs and holds her hands out, though you can’t quite miss the quiet huff of laughter that comes from behind her veil. You can hear the tease in her voice, can almost imagine dark eyes crinkling in a smile and a flush rising to lovely pale cheeks—

A cookie collides with your forehead and explodes into a spray of sugary dust. “There, you’re doing it again!” Angie screams, hand raised to launch another projectile your way.

You dodge that second cookie and then there are hands pulling you through the doorway and into the connected hall. Angie is still grumbling from the kitchen but a bigger distraction is Lady Beneviento’s continued laughter as she brushes crumbs from your hair. Her hand lingers at your face, those long fingers tracing along your cheek. There’s a flutter in your chest, joyous and warm.

“So, the workshop?” you say, breathless.

She nods and takes your hand in hers. Somewhere between elation and nervousness, you allow her to lead you through the halls and to the heavy wooden doors that you’ve never had reason to pass through before. Lady Beneviento releases your hand to push those doors open and you feel the loss immediately. Your fingers itch with the longing to touch her again but you bite your lip and bunch your hands into your skirt, forcing your attention to the room before you instead.

It’s a large room, more spacious than you had imagined. The floors and walls look rustic but the hanging lights lend a surprisingly warm glow to everything. The large workbench in the center of the room is the most obvious feature. It’s laden with a few doll parts in various stages of completion, some barely more than roughly carved wood while others are smooth and polished to an almost satiny finish. Other pieces of furniture line the perimeter of the room. There’s a desk with paints and a typewriter, a table with a sewing machine, and even a radio playing softly atop an old dresser. Just past that radio is a door near the back of the room with a frosted glass pane. Another door? Where does it lead? You don’t wonder for very long because something else has caught your eye, something set up right against the wall next to that table with the paints—

“Oh, a piano!” you say, surprised.

Lady Beneviento tilts her head. “Do you know how to play?” she asks. There’s something in her voice like eagerness right now. Without even waiting for an answer, she hurries to the radio and switches it off, then pulls the piano bench out to hastily dust off its seat. Finally seeming to remember herself, the Lord glances back in your direction and shrinks back awkwardly.

You don’t even notice her embarrassment, too distracted by your own excitement as you join her next to the piano and reach out a hand to hover over the keys. “I’m just okay. Probably just barely good enough to play for any of the festivals in town, honestly.”

The other woman doesn’t look dissuaded in the slightest. On the contrary, her eagerness is even more evident than before. “Will you play for me?” she asks.

The request sends a nervous little jolt to your heart. Your eyes flicker to the dollmaker for a moment, and then back to the line of white and black keys. Still, you can’t help but hesitate. How high would Lady Beneviento’s expectations be? Surely higher than you’re able to perform. “…I’m serious when I say I’m only decent at best, my lady.”

“It would delight me to hear you play while I work,” she insists. Then, as if worried her words were too demanding, she quickly adds, “Only if you’re comfortable with it, of course!”

“I’m comfortable!” you blurt out, way more confidently than you actually feel. The bench nearly tips as you dash over to fall into its cushion. Lady Beneviento steadies you with a hand against your back. She stands there for a few seconds and maybe she notices the self-conscious look on your face right now, because then she quickly lets go and wanders over to the sewing machine instead. Heart pounding, you let out a slow breath.

Okay, piano. You remember how to do this, right?

For those first few seconds, the feel of the ivory keys is almost foreign. How long has it been since you’ve touched a piano? Not since before the beginning of your employment here at Lady Beneviento’s estate all those months ago. The piano at your family home had been a battered thing nowhere near as nice as the model in front of you right now, but still you had spent countless hours seated there with your hands coaxing forth whatever little melodies struck your fancy at the time. Often your brother would join in with his violin or your parents would sing in accompaniment, your mother’s soft alto pairing so nicely with your father’s baritone.

A blink. Those memories aren’t as painful now as they might have been months ago. Of course you still miss your family, you miss them with an ache that burns your eyes, that wrings your heart of all its sorrow. But you… you can think back to them and smile, whereas your past self couldn’t have done the same so easily. Hadn’t Lady Beneviento mentioned going through something similar?

It’s true you might not have a family anymore, but… you have her. And she has you, doesn’t she? 

Pushing away those residual nerves, you begin to play. Most of your concentration is focused on the movements of your hands, but just out of the corner of your eye you can see—Lady Beneviento paused in her sewing and staring at you as though entranced, fingers idly drumming against the wooden table in a rhythm that matches your playing. It makes your heart swell with a silly sort of pride to see her watching you in such a way. She ducks back down to her sewing again when she sees how her ogling has been noticed, but it only takes a few seconds before she shyly peeks up again. You just grin at her, putting a little extra pep into the dance of your fingertips and fancying up the notes as best you can. Your brother would have rolled his eyes and accused you of showing off if he could see you now. Not an incorrect assumption, but you don’t know anyone who would neglect to give their best showing to one of the Lords. At least, that’s what you try and tell yourself. The fact that Lady Beneviento is your audience is only a coincidence, right?

Yeah, you’re probably not fooling anyone here.

You feel more at peace in this moment than you have in a long time. Things continue this way for several minutes but suddenly a quiet gasp cuts through the piano’s melody. Startled, your fingers slip on the keys with a clashing of dissonant notes that echo through the room in a way that makes you flinch. Heart pounding, you whip around and then freeze.

At first it just looks like Lady Beneviento is so absorbed in her project that she’s nearly bent over the table. But when you look a little closer, you can see how the fabric of her veil is caught in the sewing machine, a neat little line of stitches binding the black fabric to the blouse she’d been working on. She tries to straighten her back and the sewing machine wobbles as the cloth shrouding her face pulls taut. A mumbled curse comes from her direction as she slouches back down in her chair to stabilize the sewing machine between nervously twitching hands.

Music all but forgotten, you jump up from the bench and rush to the dollmaker’s side. Outstretched hands hovering in midair, you skid to a halt right in front of her, not sure of how to proceed from here. Does she need help or can she fix this problem herself? Is it okay for you to touch her? Taking a chance, you inch forward a bit more.

Perhaps that’s a mistake on your part.

Not unlike a startled cat, Lady Beneviento goes rigid. She edges backwards as far as her veil allows, the chair tilting back onto its rear two legs with a creak of old wood. It tilts back too far, in fact. Suddenly realizing what’s about to happen, you go to cry out a warning but it’s too late—

The chair falls. Lady Beneviento falls too, the hem of her skirt catching beneath her foot and causing her to stumble. And then even you fall with a startled shout as you dive forward in an attempt to catch the other woman—an attempt that you think is commendable even though it ultimately ends in failure. The dollmaker’s veil is pulled from her head in one swift movement, still a tangled mess beneath the needle of that old sewing machine. And you see, in that split second before both of you make an untidy landing on the floor, a glimpse of pale skin and dark hair and a wide, panicked eye—

Lady Beneviento lands flat on her back with a groan. You’re not far behind, a gasp escaping your lips when you fall into her. It’s a similar experience to that one time in town when you’d accidentally shoved your face right in the middle of her chest. Black fabric is all you see when you draw back an inch or so, and there’s probably an imprint of metal buttons marking a pattern down your cheek from the contact. Blinking away a hint of lightheadedness, you try to rise back into a more upright position.

Hands collide with your chest, shoving you away with a suddenness and force that knock the air from your lungs. Flailing backwards, you land on your backside with a startled grunt. Lady Beneviento moans and curls into herself. She hides the right side of her face behind her hands but the side that remains visible is twisted with fear. “Don’t look, don’t look at me,” she gasps.

Worry pulses through you in rhythm with a wildly racing heartbeat. Ignoring the other woman’s protests, you scramble forward on your hands and knees to approach her again. “Are you hurt? Lady Beneviento?”

The Lord’s left eye—the only one you can see—rolls in its socket before finally fixing its gaze on you. That eye narrows as your approach becomes imminent. Like a cornered beast, her lips draw back into a snarl that’s betrayed by the quivering of her bottom lip. “Go away!” she screams.

She lashes out an arm but you’re ready this time. Lunging forward, you have just enough momentum to break through the desperate shove. Lady Beneviento lands on her back again and her hands catch you around the waist out of instinct. She notices her mistake immediately, turning her head to hide the right side of her face. But it’s too late, you’ve already seen—

Heart pounding, you grab the other woman’s face and hold it there. Every inch of her visage now exposed, you can’t help but stare with the breath caught in your throat. It’s not quite the same face as the one in the portrait hanging in the foyer. Lady Beneviento’s skin is paler than in her painted depiction, an ashen pallor that teeters on the edge of ghostliness. Her left eye is ringed with dark circles, purplish and stark like a bruise. That eye roams over your face, forlorn and haunted, as if scanning for a hint of rejection.

The reason for her worry is obvious now. As your eyes take in the sight of the dollmaker finally unveiled, it’s impossible not to notice what she so desperately tried to hide. There’s something on the right side of her face, something decidedly not human. It bursts from where Lady Beneviento’s eye would be, a festering mass that pulses beneath the skin there, stretched along the curve of one cheek and even creeping across the bridge of her nose. A twitching movement catches your eye and you see tendrils like the vines of a small plant, twisting, writhing. Shock makes you draw back, but then curiosity brings you in again.

Almost like you’re afraid you might break her, your thumbs caress along the sides of the other woman’s face so gently. One side is smooth, unmarred, while the other is twisted and scarred like a foreign landscape. The mutation there is a revelation, but more than that you are transfixed by the dark gray of Lady Beneviento’s eye, the fullness of those lips, the handsome curve of her jaw…

“My lady, you’re beautiful,” you breathe.

It’s not a lie. You’re almost startled to realize you mean every word of that declaration, plainly and wholeheartedly. Lady Beneviento’s throat flexes as she swallows a breath. Like she’s trying to puzzle out what you just said, her brow furrows deeply. Her lips quiver like she’s trying not to cry. And then she says, “Your plants are on fire.”

You blink. “What?”

That single dark eye wavers and then darts around the room nervously. “…Isn’t that how the saying goes? Liar, liar…”

“Pants on fire,” you finish with a little chuckle.

“That’s silly,” the Lord protests. “What if the liar isn’t wearing pants? You’re not wearing pants, are you?”

You spare a downward glance toward your skirt-clad thighs. “I’m not. But then again, I’m not a liar either way.”

Lady Beneviento scoffs at this, a quietly disbelieving sound. She shifts like she’s trying to sit up and the reality of your position hits you then—a sudden awareness of how you’re flushed and winded from adrenaline and nearly lying on top of the other woman on the floor, legs straddling her hips and with your face so very close to hers. She notices too, if the red darkening her cheeks is any indication. Heat rising to your face as well, you scramble off of her and extend a hand. She allows you to pull her to a seated position and then winces, gingerly touching her side with a grimace.

This draws a frown from you, the intimacy of the previous position quickly forgotten as concern takes root instead. “Are you hurt?” you ask again, fidgeting with your hands. It’s not clear what course of action would be appropriate here. You want to touch her, to comfort her—for all her emotional woes as well as the physical ones—but Lady Beneviento still looks frightened and unsure, liable to flee if you don’t tread this situation very carefully. Her eye darts to yours and then quickly looks away. It’s strangely endearing to be able to see her hesitance in an unobstructed way. You’ve long since learned to recognize aspects of the Lord’s body language, but to see those emotions visible on her face in such a plain way? It sates something inside you, some craving that’s long been hungering for such a sight.

But still, there are more important things to focus on right now. The way Lady Beneviento is poking at her ribs is a bit concerning. “I still have some of that healing plant stuff from before. It’s in my room but I can go grab it if you’d like?” you offer at once.

“…It’s just a bruise. But there’s more ointment in my lab,” Lady Beneviento mumbles. She says it with a distracted wave toward the door in the corner, jaw clenched and with tense shoulders. There’s something in her voice that sounds small and lost, a quality that matches a hint of confusion seeping through an otherwise blank expression.

You glance over at that door and then shrug. “In that case, could we move over to that room? It would certainly be easier than making a trip upstairs.”

The Lord nods, still looking puzzled by something. She rises to her feet and then shuffles over to that door with the glass pane, feet dragging as though suddenly exhausted. Following closely behind, you’re struck by how soft her hair looks in the warm light. It’s just like how it was in her portrait, tied back in a high bun with a few loose strands framing her face…

Stop getting distracted, damn it!

You give yourself a little shake and force your eyes forward again. The laboratory is another room you’ve never been inside and you give the surroundings a curious scan. It’s much more similar to the rest of the manor than the workshop had been, with the usual painted walls and dark wood flooring giving a sense of familiarity despite the somewhat sterile atmosphere. Your eyes are drawn to all the plant samples and papers strewn about and littering the table. It’s a revelation—while Lady Beneviento often spent time in her gardens and greenhouse, you still hadn’t been able to truly appreciate the extent of her work with plants until right now. 

She walks to one of the cabinets and pulls out a familiar jar of ointment but makes no move to unscrew the lid or do anything further with it. When you look at her in question, you can see a tremble in her lips. Her hands shake around the little glass jar. And then finally she whips around and blurts out, “Doesn’t it bother you?”

There’s no elaboration to those desperately spoken words, but it’s not needed. There’s only one thing Lady Beneviento could be referring to with such a question. She stares at you openly now, no longer attempting to hide her face—though not without an expression that emanates an obvious discomfort. Maybe she figures it’s too late to hide now that you’ve already seen her without the veil.

“Lady Beneviento—” you begin, but she cuts you off with a violent shake of her head.

“I’m sorry,” she forces out.

Your heart sinks to somewhere in your stomach. “For what?”

Lady Beneviento takes a deep breath and sets her jaw. Her eye squeezes shut like it’s painful to even utter the words that follow next. “I’m sorry I look like this. I’m sorry I’m not the woman in the portrait. You told me once that she was beautiful, but… but that woman isn’t me. Not anymore.”

You reach out to her but she edges back. “I don’t want the woman in the portrait,” you say. “She might be beautiful but she’s not real, is she? You’re the one who’s real, my lady. You’re real and that makes you much prettier in my eyes.”

“Liar,” the dollmaker mumbles.

She sounds defeated. Maybe it isn’t the time for this conversation right now, not when she looks so tired and agitated and is still pressing a hand against the side of her ribs with an occasional wince. Reluctantly, you switch tactics. With a meaningful tilt of your head, you hold out your hand for the jar still clenched in the other woman’s trembling fist. “May I?” you ask.

She seems both relieved by the change in topic but also reluctant toward your request. Her fingers curl tighter around the glass. Shoulders hunched, she gulps and stammers, “Sweet girl, I-I am capable of managing this myself.”

“My lady, please. I want to help.”

“I’m used to treating my own injuries,” she insists.

With difficulty, you try again to pry the jar from her grasp. “Please,” you repeat, almost begging. Maybe it’s the memory of Lady Beneviento administering this very same ointment to your injuries months ago, but it feels so, so important that you be allowed to do this for her right now. She averts her gaze, lips set in a stiff frown, but she does finally relent as the standstill drags on. The glass is almost hot as you take it into your hands, warmed by the dollmaker’s touch. Still fidgety and shy, Lady Beneviento takes a seat at one of the chairs beside the large table. Standing right in front of her, it’s there that you discover the obvious obstacle to the method of treatment you have in mind.

There’s a tremor in your voice that threatens to be known, but you push through with as much calm as you can muster. That is to say, not very much. Warmth rises to your cheeks as you find your eyes straying downward for the briefest of moments. Then with a meaningful nod, you stammer, “Lady Beneviento, c-can you… take your shirt off for me?”

The other woman is still and quiet for a few seconds and you wonder if that question was a step too far. If that were the case—if she decided she was not comfortable with you treating her in such a manner after all, then of course you would back down without question. But it seems there’s no need for worry because now Lady Beneviento’s hands are slowly moving to the collar of her shirt and you suddenly can’t look away when those nimble fingers start undoing the buttons one by one. The pale length of her neck comes into view, followed by a sharply defined collarbone. A glimpse of breasts covered by a black bra catches your lingering eyes for perhaps a moment too long before you gulp and force your gaze away, face burning.

Barely a minute passes before you cave and peek again. By now, Lady Beneviento has finished with the buttons and is gingerly pulling her arms from each sleeve. Stiffly, almost robotically, the discarded shirt is folded and then set on the table. You barely even notice because it’s impossible to focus on anything else when there’s a generous display of bare skin in front of you right now. After all the nights spent in her bed, the shape of the dollmaker’s body is already familiar to you by touch but not yet by sight. You seize this opportunity to remedy that now, greedily drinking in the sight of her as you sink to your knees and uncap the glass jar with suddenly sweaty hands. A strong scent of peppermint hits your nose and almost makes you sneeze, coaxing a hesitant twitch from Lady Beneviento’s lips. Smiling back despite your nervousness, you allow your eyes to flutter down to their assignment.

With no shirt to conceal it, the bruise on the Lord’s side is visible now. A fist-sized mark against her ribs, the injury is only a faint red right now but you know it’ll soon darken into bluish purples that are sure to stand out starkly against such pale skin. With any luck, this herbal concoction will hopefully help ease the healing process.

You draw in a shaky breath and let it out slowly. An adoring subject might look up at their queen in the same way you’re kneeling before Lady Beneviento right now. Devoted, reverent. Nervous and jittery as you are right now, you almost fumble the glass jar as you scoop a generous amount of salve onto your fingertips. Lady Beneviento crosses her arms, almost hugging herself in an attempt to hold them out of the way as you press your fingers to her side. Her skin is pleasant to the touch. Warm, smooth, soft. You want to run your hands up and down her sides, over her stomach, across her back. There’s a temptation to undo her bra, to grab at her hips, to hook your fingers into the waistband of her skirt and—

Your face burns. No, no, this is hardly the right time to be thinking about things like that. Not when you were so adamant that Lady Beneviento allows you to treat her injury yourself. Being careful not to press too hard against her skin, you massage the healing ointment over the bruise as gently as possible. The salve is cool and slightly numbing on your fingertips, a startling contrast to the warmth of the dollmaker’s skin.

The thunderous pounding of your heart is nearly the only thing you can hear right now as you continue your ministrations. In the distance you think maybe the phone might be ringing or maybe there is some clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen from Angie, but those sounds are nothing but insignificant background noise that barely register in your mind. Why would you care about anything else when you can touch Lady Beneviento’s bare skin like this, when you can see the way she shivers from your tender caresses?

It’s a sensual moment but it’s also more than that. Almost matching the pleasure of bare skin is a feeling of love—so pure and deep that your heart aches from its potency. For a brief moment it all feels like a flashback to childhood—your mother tending to whatever scrapes or bruises you’d come home with after playing outside all day, a doting smile dimpling her face and her voice so comforting and soft. “There there, love, it’s all better now, isn’t it?” she’d croon, pressing gentle kisses to all your hurts. You’d always taken comfort in that, even as the years went by and you long outgrew the belief that those kisses truly had magical healing powers.

But then you snap back to the present and you look at Lady Beneviento, sitting straight as a board and looking so wary, so insecure. You wonder how long she’s been alone. How long she’s had to tend to her own injuries with no one but her dolls for company. Your heart squeezes and thrums in your chest and you just can’t help yourself—you shuffle forward on your knees and your fingers sink into soft thighs as you lean in and press your lips to her bruised side. There’s a dizzying moment where you can taste the peppermint on her skin and it’s addicting, the feeling of her so inviting and supple and warm beneath your mouth—

In an instant there are hands on either side of your face, jerking your head up so you’re forced to meet Lady Beneviento’s stare. Her lips are set in a trembling frown and she looks stricken. Her breaths have quickened to a staccato gasp, but she still manages to draw in enough air to whisper, “What are you doing?”

Oh. Oh, what are you doing?

Shame floods through you and for a moment you just think about bolting outside and offering yourself to the lycans. You start to rise to your feet but then those hands tighten their grasp upon your face and there’s just enough pressure there to keep you kneeling. The Lord leans forward and you have to bite back a gasp when you see how she’s staring into you now with such a dark, half-lidded gaze, how her lips are parted and her tongue darts out to wet them nervously. Oh, you want to kiss her—you want this more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your life—you dare to inch upward and there’s a molten heat that coils through your belly when she leans in to meet you, closer, closer…

And then, because nothing during your entire employment at the Beneviento estate has ever gone according to plan, fate decides to intervene. There’s a ripple in the air like a subtle change in the wind. The faintest cawing of crows in the distance. Black feathers fluttering down like petals of a strange flower. And Mother Miranda, of all people, appears in the back of the room and stops dead at the sight of you.

Lady Beneviento’s back is to the other woman and you think maybe she is too focused on you to have even noticed anything amiss because she makes a distressed little whimper when you jerk backwards away from her. But then Mother Miranda clears her throat in a meaningful way and the dollmaker whips around with a gasp, and you are suddenly very aware that the priestess of the entire village is standing ten feet away watching you kneel between the legs of one of her four Lords who happens to be almost naked from the waist up.

What follows is probably the most uncomfortable silence you have ever experienced, stretching on and on for what surely feels like an eternity. Feeling oddly peaceful, you take this moment to think back on your entire life and everything that has led you to this point where it seems almost inevitable that your existence will soon be reduced to a pile of ash adorning the wooden floorboards. Perhaps if Mother Miranda is feeling especially gracious today, she’ll allow Lady Beneviento to scatter your ashes in the garden or over the edge of the waterfall rather than ordering your remains to be swept away into a dustpan.

The priestess doesn’t react angrily. In fact, she barely reacts at all. She just stands there silently for about half a minute and then turns on her heel to walk right past the two of you and out the door to the workshop, closing it behind her. Then a moment later, a quiet knock upon that same door.

Lady Beneviento jerks out of her stupor and scrambles to her feet, looking around wildly. “Oh no, this isn’t—I-I was expecting her to call, not show up in person. My veil, where is it? And my shirt, help me please?” She’s thrown the discarded shirt back on with her arms already through the sleeves, but her hands are shaking and she’s already managed to skip the first button so the garment hangs crooked off her tense frame as she fumbles with the fastenings. Rising to your feet as well, you gently push the Lord’s hands away and redo the buttons yourself. She makes a soft sound and taps her fingers against your shoulders like she’s not sure what to do with herself without anything to occupy her hands. “My veil?” she repeats faintly.

“It’s still stuck in the sewing machine, isn’t it?” you offer, abuzz with a similar nervous energy. “Do you have another you could wear instead?”

Lady Beneviento exhales sharply. “There isn’t any time for that. I can’t keep her waiting out there.” She shifts a bit as you adjust her collar and smooth down the front of her shirt as best you can. Despite everything, you can’t help the way your eyes dart to the tendons in her neck flexing with the movement. Another tap against the shoulder brings your gaze back up. “Do I look, ah, presentable?”

You answer as truthfully as you can, with a forced brevity that you hope will help ease her nerves. “Slightly disheveled, my lady, but very charmingly so.”

She manages a hysterical little laugh. “Sprezzatura. That will have to be good enough.” She pats your cheek with a trembling smile. “Go to the kitchen and bring us some tea?”

It’s a gentle dismissal but a dismissal nonetheless—a reminder that she is still your employer and you are still her maid. You bow your head and hurry out the other door in the direction of the kitchen, all too eager to be away from Mother Miranda’s piercing gaze. Angie is hard at work when you arrive in the doorway, a mess of tea tins scattered all over the countertop and the kettle already on the stove to boil. Her head turns backwards like an owl, something that you have long gotten used to, and she offers her best glower even with such limited facial movements.

“Can’t you go a single day without screwing up somehow?” the doll grinds out.

You lay out a silver serving tray with Lady Beneviento’s nicest tea set. “What kind of tea does Mother Miranda like?”

Angie flings a small tin of loose tea in your direction. “She likes this stuff, it’s some fancy black tea shit the Duke imports from far away. And don’t change the subject!”

“What subject is that?”

The doll shoots you an unimpressed look. “Can’t you go a single day without screwing up somehow?” she repeats slowly, monotonously, as if speaking to a child.

You set your jaw and distract yourself by arranging a stack of fresh baked amaretti cookies onto a little china plate as the two of you wait for the water to boil. “I… I don’t think this was my fault this time. What else was I supposed to do back there? Lady Beneviento was injured and I was… I was just trying to help.”

Angie’s eyes roll in their sockets. “Help. Of course.”

Spooning dried tea into the cups is not nearly enough to distract from the doll’s sarcastic words. When the kettle finally start to boil, its shrill whistle is a much better diversion instead. Pouring hot water into the teapot, you hope it’s not too noticeable how shaky your hands are right now. The idea of going back to that room is terrifying in a way. But you have to do it, don’t you?

Okay, just take a deep breath. You can do this. It’ll be fine.

It’ll be fine.

Nothing will go wrong.

…Well, maybe that’s just more wishful thinking on your part. Because when it comes to interacting with important members of the village, it’s not like your track record has been anything but disastrous, right?

It’s hard to believe how peaceful the day had been just a few hours ago. The cheerful time spent baking cookies is such a far cry from the nerve-wracking anxiety you feel right now as you balance the serving tray in one hand while fumbling the door open with the other. Mother Miranda and Lady Beneviento looked like they might have been in conversation before your arrival but they fall silent as you make your way back into the room. 

Drawing in a deep breath, you set the tray down on the table and grab the teapot, being sure to serve Mother Miranda first. The priestess’s face gives no hint to what she’s thinking right now as she accepts the filled cup, but Lady Beneviento looks so tense and nervous in comparison. From her body language alone it would have been obvious, although it’s even more clear with her visage bared for you to see. Being able to read the dollmaker’s expression is enlightening in a way. You can’t help but be distracted by the nervous set of her jaw and the way her eye darts this way and that before lowering to the table, wide and almost alarmed—

“The tea,” Lady Beneviento says suddenly, startling you out of your gawking.

The tea? Oh, you glance down at the table as well and realize you’re still pouring into Lady Beneviento’s cup, far beyond the vessel’s capacity. There’s a steaming puddle in the middle of the serving tray now, though thankfully the liquid hasn’t reached the plate of cookies yet. Mortified, the teapot almost slips from your grasp in your haste to drop it onto the table. You regret its absence immediately, folding your hands behind your back for lack of knowing what to do with them now. “If you don’t need anything else, L-Lady Beneviento, I will leave you two to your visit?” you squeak, already edging back to the door. The dollmaker nods and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.

But then Mother Miranda speaks up. “I feel I haven’t had the chance to properly meet your maid, Donna. Surely you don’t intend to send her away so soon?”

Lady Beneviento’s face is already ghostly pale, but at the priestess’s words it seems like what little color she has drains away in an instant. The chair nearly tips over as she bolts to her feet and reaches for you, chest heaving like she’s gasping for breath. “Mother Miranda, please—“

She stares pleadingly at the blonde woman, but the other stares back until Lady Beneviento cowers and averts her gaze. “Just a short chat,” Mother Miranda continues softly. There’s a soothing tone to her voice that’s edged with something more dangerous. It makes the goosebumps prickle up on your skin like a dousing of cold water. Her eyes shifting over to you, the priestess adds, “Would you really deprive me the opportunity to meet her? I’ve heard such interesting stories from the other three…”

Lady Beneviento bites her lip and swallows. “Of course, it’s—forgive my rudeness, I just didn’t prepare for a visit. I thought… I thought you said you would call.”

“And I did call. In fact, I called several times to no answer,” Mother Miranda says flatly.

Splotches of red darken the dollmaker’s cheeks. “We were… I mean, I was… occupied. I never heard the phone ring.”

“Occupied. Yes, I see that now.” The priestess stares the two of you down, unimpressed. Raising the teacup to her mouth beneath the golden cage of that imposing mask, she takes a long sip, eyes still flitting between you and your employer. You’re anxious to know if the tea has been brewed to her liking but it’s probably an awful idea to stare back so you force your eyes elsewhere. The waterlogged serving tray is a good distraction even though the sight of it makes you flush with embarrassment.

A tiny pin dropping to the floor would have been audible for how awkward this ensuing silence is. Perhaps neither you nor Lady Beneviento can find the courage to break the stillness, but it doesn’t really matter because Mother Miranda does it for you with a quiet clink of china settling back on the table and a soft clearing of her throat. “Any potential?” she asks at last.

Potential? You’re not quite sure what she means by that but would it even be a good idea to ask for clarification? You’re about to voice your confusion when Lady Beneviento forcibly talks over you. “No potential whatsoever!” she yelps. “Really, Mother Miranda, there is absolutely nothing special about this girl. She’s… she’s quite useless, I don’t even know why I keep her around.”

Taken aback, you stare across the table at the dollmaker. Nothing special? Useless? Hurt, you desperately try to catch her eye. She meets your gaze for the briefest of moments before gulping and looking away, a dull flush still coloring her cheeks.

Unbothered, Mother Miranda reaches out and takes your hand while you jolt back to attention and hurriedly offer your name. The shine of those golden claws is almost enough to distract from the trepidation thrumming through your veins, although a tiny shock of fear breaks through when one claw slices a shallow cut across the meaty part of your palm. Lady Beneviento looks like she wants nothing more than to get between whatever’s happening right now, but a glare from Mother Miranda freezes her in place where she stands. A drop of blood glistens on that single golden claw and you watch, frightened yet unable to look away, as the priestess brings the claw beneath her mask to meet parted lips.

“Potential… none,” she states, sounding almost disappointed.

It’s the second time in a span of minutes that you’ve been told such a thing and the judgement makes you droop like a wilted plant. Coming from an aloof figure such as Mother Miranda, the dismissive words don’t cut nearly as deep as they had when Lady Beneviento expressed a similar sentiment. Still, it’s a significant blow to your self-esteem knowing that two of the most powerful women in the village think so little of your capabilities.

“You lack potential, child, but that does not mean you are entirely without use,” the priestess scolds when she sees the dejected look on your face. Feeling desperate, you search her tone for some further explanation of that cryptic explanation. Mother Miranda’s voice is not quite friendly but it’s also not unkind. To Lady Beneviento, she adds, “I’ve noticed a significant improvement in your work since this girl’s arrival. Not to mention, the way the villagers regard you has taken quite a different turn over these past months.”

The dollmaker wrings her hands. “Different in a… a good way, I hope?”

Mother Miranda’s lips twitch, barely noticeable beneath the mask. “I suppose that’s up to you to decide. Alcina is certainly proud of your progress, although she’s privately mentioned how a few of her own maids have expressed curiosity over how attentive and doting the mysterious Lady Beneviento seems to be—”

“It’s true!” you blurt out. And it is true, but really your main goal is to make the Lord sound as good as possible in front of Mother Miranda right now. Still, you’re not sure you’ve been successful when you catch sight of the way Lady Beneviento’s face instantly takes on a very interesting expression. She slaps a hand over her face, cheeks stained through with red again.

You’re pretty sure your own face holds a similar expression right now. Wilting, you chance a single step back in the direction of the door. Mother Miranda catches your eye and you bow your head low. Perhaps the plea is obvious on your face because the priestess sighs and makes a shooing motion with one clawed hand.

Well, you’re not about to ignore such an obvious lifeline that’s been thrown your way. With another hasty bow, you waste no time in fleeing through the door and back into the connected hallway. With nothing else to do, you slowly make your way back to the kitchen. Angie is still there and she watches owlishly as you head straight to the cabinet beneath the sink and begin rummaging around in its depths.

There’s a box of medical supplies stowed in that space there and you dig it out even though the cut across your palm isn’t bleeding anymore. A cotton ball soaked with alcohol is used to disinfect the wound and you hiss at the sting. It’s unpleasant yet also grounding in a way, and that’s certainly something you need when your mind is frazzled and racing like it is right now.

Angie watches quietly as you stare down at your hand. When you finally begin to speak, there’s a hint of betrayal that lingers in your voice despite the effort to conceal it. “…Lady Beneviento called me useless. Why… why would she embarrass me like that?”

The doll shrugs. “Donna’s just trying to protect you, so stop overthinking things. You don’t want to be useful. Not in the way Mother Miranda’s looking for.”

It’s a simple explanation and yet you still struggle to understand. It simply goes against what the church has always taught you to believe. “But why not? To be able to serve her, to serve the Black God? It would be an honor. Who wouldn’t jump at such an opportunity?”

Angie just hums to herself. “That’s what Donna once thought as well.”

You frown to yourself, pondering those cryptic words. A conversation for another time, perhaps. A heavy sigh escapes your lips. Why are you even upset by how much of a fiasco it has been to meet Mother Miranda? Those first meetings with the other three Lords were just as disastrous, so maybe it’s only fitting that your first interactions with the priestess would fall under a similar outcome. Pursing your lips, your eyes fall on all the almond cookies still scattered atop the kitchen counters and table. Angie was right earlier, it’s way too many for just the three of you to eat.

An idea forms in your head. Maybe it would be smarter to just stay put in the kitchen until Mother Miranda leaves, but on the other hand—there’s a better use for those cookies you’ve just thought of. Angie makes a startled noise when you speed past her to rummage through one of the cabinets, emerging triumphantly with a basket woven from willow branches clutched in one hand. Lady Beneviento had made that basket herself one rainy evening when the two of you had been stuck inside, and you had spent more time than you’d like to admit staring at the precise movements of her fingers back then.

It’s a pretty thing but you think Lady Beneviento would be happy to part with it if doing so might help you to inch into Mother Miranda’s good graces. Maybe someday she could even teach you how to make one yourself. A clean cloth napkin goes into the basket, followed by a pile of cookies. After a moment’s deliberation, you also throw in some fruit jams and the tin of black tea you’d served earlier.

Angie can’t help but laugh at your efforts. “Bribery, really?”

“Do you have any better ideas?” you shoot back.

“Nope. Go break a leg out there,” she snickers.

Rolling your eyes, you grumble and stomp your way out into the halls again. The bravado quickly fades away the further you venture from the kitchen. All too soon you’re right in front of the door to the laboratory space again.

Idling outside that door, you find yourself frozen and tense. You’re not sure if you’ve made a good impression on Mother Miranda throughout the span of her visit. In fact—you’re pretty sure that things have gone poorly. What a stroke of bad luck that the priestess’s arrival had come right at such an awkward moment between Lady Beneviento and yourself. Not to mention the less-than-stellar way you’d conducted yourself afterwards. It’s probably a terrible idea to barge back into the room without invitation, but anxiety is filling you with a foolhardy adrenaline right now. Mother Miranda can punish you if she deems it appropriate, but it’s important—so, so incredibly important—that she knows the scene she walked into earlier wasn’t Lady Beneviento’s fault.

With that in mind, you take a deep breath and push the door open.

At the very least, it doesn’t look like you’ve interrupted anything important. Both of the other women have risen from their chairs and you wonder if that means Mother Miranda is preparing to leave. Lady Beneviento’s face holds a neutral expression but it quickly grows anxious at the sight of you. Before nervousness whittles down whatever courage you’ve managed to gather, you dart forward to approach the pair.

“Mother Miranda, f-for the trip back h-home…” Head bowed low, you offer the basket with outstretched hands. You’re shaking so badly it’s all you can do not to drop it on the floor right now. “More amaretti almond cookies, freshly baked this morning. As well as some h-homemade strawberry jam and also the black tea from earlier!”

Feeling incredibly foolish, you wait with your gaze still focused on the floor, arms outstretched with the basket cradled between fidgety hands. There’s a temptation to look up, to see what kind of expression Mother Miranda wears behind her mask—but no, you don’t dare.

The weight held in your hands lightens and then disappears completely. Chancing a peek upwards, the sight of your gift basket balanced between golden claws is a victorious thing. Mother Miranda doesn’t thank you, but such an action would be beneath her standing anyway. For the priestess to be presented with something from such an unimportant resident such as yourself—you’re just glad she saw fit to accept the offering you’d thrown together. A quick glance at the table sees the teacups there are empty and the plate of cookies is bare save for a scattering of crumbs. The sight emboldens your resolve, if only slightly. 

“Mother Miranda,” you squeak, rising from your bow and then trailing off with a wince at the obvious tremor in your voice. Within its rib cage, your heart is a shuddering wreck right now. Surely its beat must be loud enough for the other occupants of the room to hear? You hope your fear isn’t too obvious, though perhaps that would be wishing for too much. Even if a skyrocketing pulse was too subtle, there’s no way anyone could miss the sweat beading on your forehead or the nervous bouncing of your leg as you stand there under the priestess’s scrutinizing look.

A hand touches your shoulder. Startled, you look back and see that Lady Beneviento has crossed the room to stand there at your side. Her face is drawn with trepidation, though no less determined for it.

Maybe you can try to be brave too.

Deep breaths. In, and out. Lady Beneviento’s presence is a calming aura, despite her own worried expression. The sight of her unveiled face is an incentive of its own—a reminder of what the priestess had witnessed between the two of you, a reminder of what you’re trying so hard to protect. And ever present in the back of your mind is how finally, finally, you’re still so giddy that you get to see your lady. Anything at all, anything that exists within your power to keep her safe… you would face any such challenge even if it means confronting the most powerful figure of the village herself.

With that in mind, the way forward is suddenly clear though no less intimidating. “Mother Miranda,” you try again, stronger this time. “I wish to apologize for what you saw when you arrived. That, I mean… what Lady Beneviento and I were doing back there w-wasn’t what it seemed.” The memory of how the Lord had looked then, so bare and exposed… it darkens your cheeks and reignites a coiling heat in your stomach that you try your best to ignore. What would be the simplest way to explain the reason for Lady Beneviento’s state of undress at that moment? You settle for something vague, something concise. “What you saw then was just a—a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding,” Mother Miranda repeats softly. An impassive expression, a voice that betrays nothing. Those two words do little to ease the tension in the room right now. Were you being too unclear? Did she want a better explanation than that?

On the verge of panic, you’re about to spew forth an embarrassingly detailed account of how the dollmaker and yourself spent the entire morning when a tense hand presses over your mouth. Lady Beneviento’s hand. You turn your head to look at her but the expression on the Lord’s face is unreadable. “Mother Miranda,” she says.

The priestess holds her gaze for a long moment. You wonder if there’s a conversation there, one without words that you have no way of participating in. Either way, the blonde woman finally nods in a dismissive way. “Tomorrow at noon for the meeting, Donna,” she says before turning away.

Lady Beneviento lets out a breath, barely audible. Her hand relaxes and slips from your mouth. Watching the priestess glide away, the prayer falls past your lips as if by habit. “In life and in death, we give glory, M-Mother Miranda,” you call out softly.

The priestess glances back at the two of you for a few moments. Her eyes flicker first to you before settling upon Lady Beneviento. “Tomorrow at noon,” she repeats at last. “And try not to be too… occupied this time.”

Mother Miranda leaves just as quickly as she’d arrived, a flurry of feathers preceding a faint cawing of crows as she vanishes with that little basket of cookies in tow. At last, the room is empty again save for yourself and Lady Beneviento. A sigh of relief slips past your lips. Why must every time you meet someone of importance in the village leave you terrified for your life like this? Daring to relax just a bit, you turn toward your employer and offer a tiny smile.

There’s something off about the look on the Lord’s face. It sombers the mood so suddenly that things almost feel heavier than when Mother Miranda was still here staring you down with that heavy, calculating gaze. The smile wavers and then slips from your face entirely as you reach for the other woman’s hand. But now she’s pulling away so your fingers close around empty air and it makes you gasp because why—why would she run away when it’s just you and her alone right now—

“You said it was a misunderstanding.”

The quietly spoken words make your heart clench within your chest in an unpleasant way. “Wh-what?”

Lady Beneviento speaks again, barely above a whisper. “You told her what she saw was a misunderstanding.” There is a quiver in her voice, something close to breaking. “Is that what it was? A misunderstanding? Just another innocent mix-up, like everything else?”

You gulp and twist your hands together. “That’s not… I-I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?” Frantic and edged with fear, Lady Beneviento’s voice cracks and wavers like she can barely stand to say those words. “If Mother Miranda hadn’t come, if she hadn’t interrupted… what would you have done then?”

“I…” Your heart pounds, loud, so loud. “…I don’t know.”

That’s the truth, isn’t it? You don’t know what would have happened between yourself and the Lord before Mother Miranda’s arrival. Would the two of you have progressed further? How far would things have gone?

Warmth spreads through you. Oh, there’s no point in deluding yourself about this. In that moment in the laboratory room, you knew perfectly well how far things would have gone. You wanted it then, wanted her kiss more than anything in the world. No, not just that. You didn’t only want her kiss, you wanted her everything. Everything she could possibly offer. You would take and take and take, and still it would not be enough. The hunger is almost frightening. Like a bottomless pit, a starving wolf, a void where there is nothing, nothing but want—this longing that has sparked and spread over the course of your employment here like greedy flames licking at kindling stacked atop a pyre. It’s something overwhelming and all-encompassing and you would gladly burn on this pyre and then fall to your knees over and over in front of your lady if it meant she might sate that craving in you.

But then Lady Beneviento wilts further, shrinks back into herself when too many seconds have passed with no further comment on your part. “…I see,” she whispers with a sad smile. Those pained words make you jolt back to attention like a splash of icy water. She stares down at her feet, refusing to meet your eyes. Her lips are quivering like she’s on the verge of breaking down, like she’s trying to put on a brave face in spite of your perceived rejection. The air leaves your lungs in a gasp as you scramble forward to grab at the front of her shirt.

You stare up at her, hands fisted in the dark fabric, pulling her down to you. Lady Beneviento’s face, bared for you to see, hovers just above yours. That single dark eye wavers and shines with unshed tears. You reach out to cup her face between your hands. She flinches when you touch the mutated patch of skin on her right cheek, her eye squeezing shut and lips trembling into a grimace. A single tear runs down her cheek and you wipe it away in reverence.

And then you kiss her.

The first touch of your lips on hers is shy and a little clumsy. You’re inexperienced with this sort of contact and certainly a secluded person like Lady Beneviento is newer to this than even you are, but despite all that—what’s happening right now is everything like how you ever hoped your first kiss with her would be. The dollmaker’s lips are warm and soft, slightly parted from surprise. They fit perfectly against your own lips as she hesitantly returns the kiss. Her shyness isn’t a detriment—far from it, in fact. She seems to gain more confidence as the seconds pass in this new position, a development shared by yourself as you tilt your head to a more comfortable angle.

The room is almost silent except for the soft sounds of your mouth on hers. Lady Beneviento’s hands run up and down your back, nails scratching across clothed skin in a delicious way. A low noise rumbles from her chest as you reluctantly break the kiss to gasp for breath. She stares at you with such heat in that one eye, a lovely flush across her face and warm beneath your fingertips. An insistent tugging from the hands splayed across your back prompts you to dive back in. The kisses are deeper this time. The shyness from before has morphed into something else now, something much more carnal in nature. A tentative brush of the other woman’s tongue across your bottom lip coaxes your mouth open for her. A soft moan is muffled by her lips as she licks into your mouth, warm, wet, an entirely new sensation that ignites an aching heat between your legs. She tastes like black tea and almonds, like bitterness mixed with sugar, like flowers misted with morning dew. Despite a mutual inexperience on both sides, this newfound intimacy stokes your hunger like a ravenous flame. Burning, you are burning right now.

So distracted by the dollmaker’s attentions, you’re scarcely aware of your other surroundings anymore. A surprised gasp escapes your lips as your back collides with something solid. In a daze, you realize that Lady Beneviento has pushed you up against the wall. It’s hardly a setback—if anything, the feel of sturdy wood at your back is a welcome sensation because it gives you something to brace against as the other woman presses into you even further. You whimper in protest when she suddenly pulls back, only for that whimper to turn into a quiet moan as her attention shifts to your neck instead.

“Lady Beneviento, should we—“ Your voice hitches into a sharp whine as the dollmaker nibbles a gentle path along your throat. That heated desire is burning you from the inside out as you clutch at her back, hips stuttering and grinding into hers as she maps out those few inches of bare skin with her mouth. “My lady,” you gasp, “perhaps we can m-move to the bedroom instead?”

The Lord doesn’t immediately react to the question, preoccupied as she is with her current task. When she does finally respond, it’s with a reluctant parting from your neck, drawing back just enough to meet your eyes and give a quick, wordless nod. She extends a hand and you take it, bringing that hand to your mouth just long enough to press a kiss to her palm. There’s a sharp intake of breath at that, but then her fingers wrap around your wrist and gently tug. You allow her to lead you out of the room, through the hallways, and even past Angie still lingering in the kitchen who shoots the two of you a glance and then grumbles an emphatic, “Oh, finally.”

There’s no time to register any embarrassment from the doll’s words because only a moment later, Lady Beneviento pushes open the bedroom door and pulls you inside. The door has barely closed before she’s tugging you over to the bed, breathless and urgent. At a gentle push to the shoulder, you let yourself fall backwards onto the mattress and nestle into the pillows there. Lady Beneviento soon follows, hovering over you with her arms braced on either side of your body, propping herself up. She leans into your touch when you reach out to cradle her face between both hands. Your hands inch further to tangle in her hair. She shivers at the sensation and oh, the look in her eye as she stares down at you in that moment is ravenous.

The desire coursing through you right now is unlike any you’ve ever felt before. Groaning as your fingers curl into her hair, Lady Beneviento dips down for another kiss. You meet her lips with a matching enthusiasm.

Finally indeed.

Chapter Text

It starts with kisses and touches and a throbbing warmth in your core that has you panting and groaning into Lady Beneviento’s mouth.

Some small part of you is still in a daze, scarcely able to believe that this is actually happening. That finally after all this time you can touch the other woman as much as you’d like. That it’s not just allowed but breathlessly encouraged that you tangle your fingers through silky dark hair and then duck down to run your tongue along the sweat-damp skin of the Lord’s neck. That the sweet sounds spilling from her lips are because of you, of what you’re doing to her right now.

When the dollmaker pulls back, beautifully flushed and breathing hard, you can’t help but whine at the loss. She grabs your hands when you reach for her, fingers intertwining and gently caressing your own. Such a tender action, it calms you for the moment. Still, it doesn’t stop the whimper that trembles past your lips. “Lady Beneviento, please…”

The softest of kisses is your reward, the touch lingering and yet almost shy with its gentleness. Lady Beneviento’s hands squeeze yours one more time, before they move to your shirt instead. Her fingers trail across the soft cotton, skimming along the hem of the garment in an almost teasing way. The first touch of her hand against the bare skin of your stomach has you shivering. That hand slides up your torso, dragging the fabric along with it, agonizingly slow. Another kiss is pressed to your mouth. “Dolcezza,” Lady Beneviento mumbles against your lips. She curls her fingers into your shirt and tugs. “Can I..?”

“Please,” you beg again. No doubt a result of how hot and flushed you are right now, your clothes feel almost unbearably stifling. Biting her lip, the dollmaker wastes no time in stripping your shirt away. Your bra receives the same treatment, both pieces of clothing carelessly tossed aside once they’re free from your form. Going still, Lady Beneviento lets her gaze roam over every inch of newly revealed skin. That single, beautiful eye is so dark and so hungry as she drinks in the sight of you. Her throat flexes as she swallows a shuddering breath.

Moments later, you find yourself crying out. Her hands—oh, you have always admired Lady Beneviento’s hands but nothing could have prepared you for how those hands are touching you right now, trembling yet determined as they cup your breasts. You’re even less prepared for what happens next, when callused fingertips begin to rub and tease your nipples into hard, stiff peaks. Shivering, you run your hands through Lady Beneviento’s hair again. At some point her bun had come loose and those soft, dark locks frame her face in such a lovely way. Your heart pounds at the sight. A gentle tug brings her down for another kiss. Muffled against her lips, you whisper, “I’ve imagined this before.”

She hums into your mouth. “Imagined what, sweet girl?”

“Holding you. And kissing you, my lady.” There are other things you’ve imagined as well, but voicing them out loud feels obscene. The words continue to spill forth regardless. “I’ve thought of you t-touching me all over,” you breathe, watching as color rises to the Lord’s cheeks.

A low sigh escapes her lips, warm across your own. “I’ve imagined this too,” she says.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but those words still make you freeze. “You have?”

“Of course.” Lady Beneviento sits up and fixes you with a frown. Her hands have gone still on your breasts and you make your displeasure known with a meaningful flicker of your gaze downward. The corner of the dollmaker’s mouth twitches. She gives your chest a little squeeze and then slides her arms around your waist instead. “I’ve thought of you and nothing but you for far too long,” she softly continues. Her expression scrunches up in embarrassment. “Angie has been quite upset with me because of it. For weeks she’s been telling me to make a move, if only to spare her from having to listen to my lovesick pining, as she puts it.”

“Elena said something similar,” you say with a low chuckle. Then you sigh and burrow into the lady’s neck. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I don’t want to talk about Elena right now.”

“And I don’t want to talk about Angie.” Lady Beneviento pulls you close so you’re straddling her lap, and then she moves her hands to the buttons of her own shirt. It feels so long ago that she’d performed this very same action so you could treat her injury, even though no more than an hour or two could have actually passed since then. The reminder of that injury gives you pause when the dollmaker’s torso is revealed to you once more. The bruise is there, still gleaming from remnants of the healing ointment. There’s a jolt of arousal when Lady Beneviento tosses her shirt away, though it’s also tempered by concern.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, fingers hovering over the mark. You think better of touching the bruise directly and instead slide your hand along Lady Beneviento’s stomach. The skin there is soft and smooth beneath your touch, but you can also feel the way her muscles grow tense. She trembles a bit at the contact and at first you worry the reaction is out of pain, but then you notice the way her hips are grinding into yours, needy, desperate.

“It’s fine,” the Lord manages, now reaching around to hurriedly unhook her bra. She lets it fall away and the sight of her breasts steals the air from your lungs. Your hands begin to rise and then pause midway, hesitant despite yourself. Lips twitching, Lady Beneviento takes your hands in her own and brings them to her chest. There are equal parts patience and nervousness in her voice as she whispers, “You can touch me.”

Well, you’re not about to let such a lovely invitation go to waste, are you?

“What else did you imagine?” Lady Beneviento then murmurs. Her hands have moved to the waistband of your skirt, fidgeting with the buttons there. “You said you’ve thought of me touching you. Did you dream of my mouth, dolcezza? My hands? Was I on my back in your fantasies, or were you the one pinned beneath me?”

All of those things would do nicely, but one in particular stands out. “I-I always wanted—” As if by reflex, your eyes dart to the fingers slowly undoing each button of your skirt. Something like guilt bubbles up, though without the same amount of sway it might have held in a different situation. Perhaps on a normal day you might have blushed at being caught fantasizing. But this is not a normal day, and the look on Lady Beneviento’s face—knowing and maybe even a little smug—leaves no room for shame in the words that follow next. Still, the smile spreading across your lips holds a hint of sheepishness. “I may have dreamed about your hands, my lady.”

She chuckles at this and oh, she’s definitely smug. “I knew it.”

“You did?”

“Darling girl, you are many things but subtle is not one of them.” Lady Beneviento nuzzles into your neck. She peels away your skirt, your underwear soon following suit. Warm and heavy, her hand rests on the inside of your bare thigh. Suddenly there’s a shyness in her expression, something small and fragile and not quite hidden beneath the haze of lust. “…I-I’ve never done this before,” she admits.

Biting your lip, you grab her wrist and guide her hand to your most intimate of spots. Softly, slowly, giving her plenty of time to back out if she shows any sign of discomfort. Contrasting the fervent heat of Lady Beneviento’s earlier kisses and caresses, the touch of her hand between your legs is very gentle. Her fingers stroke back and forth, and then push inside with a slowness that’s almost maddening. It feels good, so much better than your own hands. Panting, you clutch at the dollmaker’s shoulders. Her other hand, the one that’s not buried knuckle-deep inside you, cups your cheek. It grounds you in a way, holds you together even when it feels like every other bit of her is pulling you apart at the seams. She holds you close and then kisses you deeply, lovingly, as you begin to break.

“Donna,” you say. And then again, louder, “D-Donna.”

“I’m here,” she whispers. “I’ve got you, my love.”

At first when you stir awake, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Lady Beneviento’s arms are draped across your waist as you lay there snuggled into her side beneath the sheets. Her breath tickles the side of your neck. It’s just like any other day. Except… it’s not an ordinary day, is it? You and Lady Beneviento… the two of you had…

As sleepiness slowly gives way to alertness, a few things become startlingly clear. It’s with a sharp intake of breath that you realize the body you’re resting against is completely bare, and you’re just as naked yourself. Between your thighs is a tenderness that suddenly makes itself known. As you bite your lip and recall how your state of undress came to be, that tender feeling coils into something red-hot and hungry instead.

Heat floods through you as you remember how it had happened. Lady Beneviento’s hands on you. Her mouth. She had taken you, claimed you, made you hers in every way possible right here in this bed.

…But you had taken her as well, hadn’t you? Redness darkens your cheeks at the memory. After bringing you to climax, Lady Beneviento had shyly allowed you to touch her in return. And—how wonderful that experience had been. How lovely it was to hear her moan into the sheets as you had kissed your way down her body. How beautiful she had looked, flushed and panting, when you had parted her legs and tasted her for the first time.

Blushing again, you allow yourself to look at the other woman. This is the first time you’ve ever seen the lady’s sleeping face. She looks softer this way. More relaxed. It’s such a simple thing, but still you can’t help but stare. Her face is slack, lips slightly parted. A few wayward strands of hair have fallen across her mouth and they flutter from each soft exhalation. You reach out and brush those errant strands behind her ear, letting your fingers linger at the scarring on her right cheek. How could you ever be satisfied waking up to a veil after seeing her bare face like this instead?

You can’t help yourself—swooping down, you press a tiny kiss to the corner of Lady Beneviento’s mouth. Eye fluttering open at the contact, she blinks up at you. Her gaze sharpens into alertness, and then softens at the sight of you. That single dark eye darts down, lingering at your bare shoulders—as if only just now noticing your mutual nakedness. Bashful, she reddens and hides a tiny smile. Then she wraps an arm around you and pulls you close to kiss your cheek. Her hair, loose and hanging free around her face, feels ticklish. With a sigh, you recline back into the pillows as she peppers you with lingering kisses.

Arousal is beginning to thrum through your veins in time with a rapidly quickening heartbeat. It’s only through sheer willpower that you manage to keep your hands to yourself. “Shouldn’t we—it’s not—I don’t want to make you late for your meeting, my lady,” you manage in between shuddering whimpers.

Lady Beneviento pauses, blinking down at you again. Then she giggles. “Dolcezza, it’s still only the middle of the afternoon. My meeting is tomorrow.”

“This isn’t, um… this isn’t the morning after, then?”

“I suppose we could call it the afternoon after, my love.”

“Oh.” You glance around the bedroom. With no windows adorning the walls, it had always been difficult gauging the time of day if not for the tiny clock on Lady Beneviento’s nightstand. Sure enough, that clock tells you it’s either early in the afternoon or very early in the morning—and you certainly hadn’t slept long enough for it to be the latter. With a great exhale, you flop back into the pillows again. “It’s just… I mean, wow.”

The Lord stares down at you fondly. “‘Wow?’” she echoes.

“Well—yes. I believe, my lady, that you have ravished me so thoroughly that I couldn’t even remember what day it is. So… wow.”

Lady Beneviento flushes a deep red. “Naughty little maid of mine,” she sighs. “I would make love to you again right now, but I must admit I’m a little… worn out… from earlier.”

She sounds genuinely disappointed at this, and it’s adorable. You’re about to respond when—

“Congrats on the sex!” Angie screams, slamming the bedroom door open with a loud crash. She throws a few handfuls of ripped paper into the air, a makeshift showering of confetti. “Rise and shine, lovebirds.”

“Are those my reports for Mother Miranda?” Lady Beneviento says, aghast.

“Not anymore.”

“Angie!” the dollmaker scolds. She scrambles for her clothes, but they’re strewn all over the room, you note with a blush. Finally, she just wraps a bedsheet around herself and busies herself with sweeping up the torn scraps of her reports. Unrepentant, Angie sends you a thumbs up. Flushing a little deeper, you burrow into the blankets as well.

It’s reassuring in a way, you think, watching the dollmaker piece those papers back together. Angie clearly approves of how things have developed these past few hours. And the doll’s blessing is an important thing. After all, she’s Lady Beneviento’s oldest and most precious friend, isn’t she?

…Still, you hope she doesn’t make it a habit to burst into the bedroom without knocking.

“Can I go with you to the village today?” you ask the next morning over breakfast. When Lady Beneviento hesitates, you quickly add, “Not to Mother Miranda’s meeting, but just… into town. Together, with you.”

Angie lolls her head dramatically from where she hangs in the dollmaker’s arms. “What, you don’t want to sit in that dusty old church watching Madam Beanstalk get into a screaming match with Heisenberg for an hour? You don’t want to guess how many times Moreau can puke on the floor before Mother Miranda sends him away?” She flails her spindly wooden limbs around in all directions. “Really now. You don’t want to hang around for all the incredibly fun times we’re gonna have there?”

You shake your head. “Not especially, no. And thanks for the sarcasm.”

The doll extends her middle finger in your direction. “Well, good for you. Must be nice to not have responsibilities. But unlike you, Donna and I happen to be super important around here.”

“I’ll probably just pay Elena a visit while you two attend the meeting,” you muse, more to yourself than anything else.

A pause. Then—

“What?” Angie shrieks. “No, no, no! You can’t just go and visit my girlfriend without me! That does it—I’m going with you instead. Donna, you won’t need me there, right?”

“Angie, you’re staying with me,” Lady Beneviento sighs, rubbing her forehead.

Another screech from Angie. “Donna, no!”

“Donna, yes.”

“Ha! Like I didn’t hear enough of a certain someone moaning those same words all afternoon yesterday,” the doll grumbles. She shoots you a meaningful look and you flush.

The fact that you and Lady Beneviento are now… what even would you call the two of you? Lovers? Partners? Girlfriends? Well, at any rate—the fact that the two of you are now together was always bound to be the source of much teasing from Angie. Loitering by the front door while your employer gathers whatever she needs for the meeting, you suffer through the doll’s innuendo-laden remarks with as much calm as you can muster.

Lady Beneviento is wearing her veil again, you note. Not really a surprise, but still a small part of you is disappointed at the sight of that black shroud covering her face. You do your best to stamp that disappointed feeling down. No need to be greedy, you tell yourself scoldingly.

“Shall we?” she asks, pushing the door open.

Throwing caution into the wind, you loop your arm through Lady Beneviento’s and brace yourself for the stares during the walk to the village. And… sure enough, there are a few stares from the other villagers. But the attention you’ve attracted doesn’t seem to be of the negative sort. If anything, people seem a bit amused at the sight of you looking so besotted. Lady Beneviento and Angie part ways with you at the altar by the village square, with you pointing in the direction of Elena’s house to meet up later. You’re about to make a beeline to the Lupu residence when a familiar metallic sound catches your attention. The Duke has set up his shop here today and he quickly waves you over.

“Extra buttons for you or the lady today, little maid?” he offers, shaking the usual glass jar with a wink. Suddenly self-conscious, you look yourself over—earlier this morning, Lady Beneviento had been very enthusiastic with her affections and you had spent several lovely minutes with the front of your blouse unbuttoned and open to allow access to your employer’s wandering mouth. The search ends up fruitless—no missing buttons to be seen. Embarrassed, you shoot the Duke a glare while he just offers a knowing laugh.

“How about some tea instead?” you say, diving into your bag for a handful of lei. It’s not the most graceful attempt at changing the subject, but it’s all you can think of at the moment. Anything to escape the merchant’s teasing looks. The rattle of coins certainly quiets the Duke’s laughter. Ever eager for a transaction, he pulls out a variety of tea tins.

“For yourself and Lady Beneviento and Miss Angie, I presume? May I suggest this lovely bergamot blend?” he offers, holding out a metal tin for you to see.

“It’s just for myself and Elena Lupu this time, Duke,” you reply, leaning in to better read the label on the tin. “I’ll bite, though. Elena loves bergamot.” You hand over the money and eagerly accept your purchase.

“Oh, and congratulations, by the way,” the Duke adds after taking the money from your hand.

“…Congratulations?” you cautiously repeat.

The merchant laughs. “My dear girl, you are positively glowing this morning. Would it be safe to assume you and the lady had quite the romantic time recently?”

Warmth rises to your face. “…No comment.”

He just laughs and waves you away. “If you ever need supplies for a wedding, little maid, you know where to find me.”

A wedding? Marriage? The thought of it sends your heart into a frenzy but you can’t deny the appeal such an idea holds. Excusing yourself, you hurry to the Lupu residence before any eavesdropping villagers start a whole new series of rumors concerning Lady Beneviento and yourself. Thankfully, Elena is home right now if the view through the front window is to be believed. Still trying to calm your pounding heart, you knock on the door a few times and wait.

Your friend opens the door and blinks in surprise. “Oh, hey,” she says.

You hold up the little metal tin from the Duke. “I brought some new tea.”

“No Lady Beneviento today?”

“You say that like we’re attached at the hip or something.”

Elena steps aside so you can wander further into the house. “Well, aren’t you? Seems to me that she doesn’t like to let you out of her sight.”

“We did come into town together,” you admit, feeling deflated by the way Elena rolls her eyes knowingly. “But she had a meeting with the other Lords and Mother Miranda, so I thought I’d come visit you instead.”

“Well, you know I’m always glad to see you, especially if you’ve brought gifts.” Elena ushers you into the kitchen and plucks the bergamot tin from your hands. “…You look happy,” she adds at last. Your friend’s voice is casual, but you know her well enough to pick up on the traces of suspicion lingering at those words. And likewise, she knows you well enough to raise a skeptical brow at the way you try—and promptly fail—to arrange your face into something a bit more neutral.

There’s no way you’ll be fooling her, but that doesn’t stop you from making an attempt anyway. “Can’t I just be happy to see my best friend?” you grumble in mock indignation.

“Sure,” Elena says flatly. “But there’s a slight difference between ‘I’m happy to see you’ and ‘I just got laid and it was a transcendent experience.’ And the look on your face suggests the latter rather than the former.”

You glare at her, but to little effect. Even though Elena’s words hit rather close to home, you can tell there’s no hidden meaning behind those jabs. It’s just an ordinary day and she’s just teasing you like she always does. Still, you know you’re going to have to break the news to her eventually. A deep breath is drawn into your lungs and then released. “Lady Beneviento and I are together,” you say in a moment of attempted courage.

You wait a moment or two for the dramatic reaction, but Elena seems more absorbed in sorting through her teacups than paying your confession any great deal of attention. “Yeah, you mentioned you came into town with her today, didn’t you?” she says distractedly. After rustling around for a few more seconds, she resurfaces from the cupboard and pulls a face at whatever dumb expression you’re probably making right now. “What?”

Very delicately, you try again. “I meant, we… um, we slept together yesterday?”

With a noncommittal shrug, Elena pops open the bergamot tin and gives its contents a sniff. “Haven’t you been sleeping in her bed for a while now?” She pours hot water into two cups and slides one across the table to you.

You stare at her, eyes wide.

She stares back.

“Elena,” you finally say in a mortified whisper, “I’m saying we slept together.”

Elena chokes into her teacup. At a loss for what to do, you just slap your friend on the back a few times until her noisy coughing has ceased. “Well, damn,” she wheezes. “Took you long enough, didn’t it? How was it? Did she leave the veil on the whole time? How many times did she make you—”

“Elena!” you whine again. Inwardly, you beg for the Black God to take pity on you, but your pleas go unheard. Much to your dismay, Elena ends up spending an excruciatingly long time grilling you for all the details of your love affair with Lady Beneviento—during which, you have to try very hard not to sink into the floor from sheer embarrassment of it all. The conversation carries on for so long, in fact, that eventually her suspiciously specific questions regarding exactly how skilled the dollmaker was with her hands is interrupted by a polite knocking upon the front door. Only barely muffled through the wood, Angie’s voice is as shrill as ever.

“Oh, thank Mother Miranda,” you sigh, all too eager to escape this line of questioning. “Hey, Elena, it sounds like your secret admirer is here.”

Elena groans and buries her face in her hands. “Why do you get a fancy Lord as an admirer while mine is the creepy doll with no indoor voice?” she complains, already bracing herself as she grips the doorknob. Plastering a rather forced smile onto her face, she pulls the door open and tilts forward into a bow. “Lady Beneviento, fancy seeing you here,” she greets the Lord.

The dollmaker stands there in the entryway somewhat awkwardly. She manages to hold a squirming Angie at bay, though not without difficulty. “Miss Lupu, good afternoon.”

Elena’s lips twitch. “Please, come in,” she chatters, words dripping with the most forced of politeness. “Can I offer you some tea?”

The Lord nods, while Angie finally wriggles free and rushes over to Elena. Your friend wastes no time in fleeing to the kitchen, the talking doll following closely behind.

Lady Beneviento’s body language is unreadable right now. For lack of a better idea, you take her hand and guide her to the living room couch. “Is everything okay?” you ask, hesitant. Already, there are terrible scenarios taking over your imagination.

The other woman draws a shaky breath. “I told everyone,” she says slowly, haltingly. “At the meeting. I told them we’re… together.”

Filled with dread, you squeeze her hands. “How did the others react, my lady?”

“Mother Miranda said…” The dollmaker’s voice breaks. It’s not out of fear like you’d originally thought, but rather humiliation. “She said—she said, “Yes, Donna, you made that abundantly clear when I walked in on you with the girl’s face between your thighs yesterday.””

“My face wasn’t between your thighs when Mother Miranda visited,” you squeak in protest. “That part happened, um… afterwards, remember?”

Lady Beneviento sighs. “Yes, dolcezza, I do remember. Quite vividly, in fact.”

Your face reddens. That particular memory is vividly fresh in your mind as well, but now is probably not the best time to be thinking of such things. “And, um, what did the other Lords say?”

“…They all shared similar sentiments,” the dollmaker mutters. She takes a few deep breaths but it does nothing to ease the tension in her posture. Still sounding frazzled, she continues, “Alcina saw fit to imply that we were in the middle of… well, in the middle of the act that time she stopped by to pick up her dress and my portrait. Karl very gleefully brought up how you had my bra in your bag that day in the village. And even Salvatore thought it was lovely how we wore matching outfits for his movie night a few weeks ago.” The tension in Lady Beneviento’s shoulders crumples into something more like tired acceptance. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that they all thought we were already together and… and that for me to announce it during a meeting was redundant.”

She crosses her arms and lets out an explosive sigh. It occurs to you that she might even be pouting right now. The very thought brings a little twitch of laughter to your lips. Even so many months later, there are still facets of Lady Beneviento you haven’t seen yet. Smiling a bit wider, you let your hand rest upon the other woman’s shoulder. “Are you upset?” you ask.

“No,” she mumbles. It’s not convincing in the slightest.

Humming to yourself, you scoot a bit closer, letting your hand slide down the Lord’s shirt. Giving her ample time to move away if desired, you slowly pull aside the veil just enough to reveal Lady Beneviento’s mouth.

Barely visible behind black mesh, you can see how her eye nervously darts in the direction of the kitchen where Elena and Angie are. Still, she stays seated and motionless there on the couch as you lean in and kiss her. It’s a much gentler kiss than the ones that had been exchanged earlier, and you can’t help but smile into the soft touch of the dollmaker’s lips as she kisses you back. Warmth blooms through your chest as your eyes flutter shut. Lady Beneviento’s hands come to rest on your hips, exerting just enough pressure to coax you a little closer, as your own hands creep beneath the veil to caress the back of her neck—

“Okay, that’s quite enough!”

At the sudden interruption, you squeak and almost fall off the couch in shock. Lady Beneviento catches you around the waist but then quickly retracts her hands to adjust her veil instead. The source of the interruption comes in the form of Elena standing in the doorway with a teapot held in shaking hands, Angie now clinging to her shoulder like an unruly kitten. Your friend’s face has gone an impressive shade of red. “Look,” she grinds out. “I don’t care if you two are my best friend and her Lord girlfriend—there will be no fornication in the middle of my living room.”

Lady Beneviento makes an agonized noise and shrinks into herself. The side of her neck is barely visible beneath the veil and the skin there is a deep red. “It’s not—we weren’t—we were just leaving, actually,” she squeaks. She bolts to her feet and reaches out to the doll hanging around Elena’s shoulders. “Angie, say goodbye to Miss Lupu.”

“No, no, let me stay here with Elena!” Angie shrieks. Spindly wooden limbs flail through the air when the doll grabs at Elena’s sleeve even as Lady Beneviento tries to drag her away. “Elena, please tell Donna I can stay! I don’t want to go home with those two! Donna’s bedroom has thin walls. I could hear everything yesterday!”

There’s a dull clatter of wood hitting the floor—Lady Beneviento has dropped Angie out of shock. The doll is quick to run deeper into the house and soon disappears from sight. You bite back a groan. Hide-and-seek wasn’t on your list of things to do today, but it looks like maybe you don’t have a choice now.

Lady Beneviento stares down at her empty hands for a long moment, and then folds them in front of her like she’s not quite sure what to do with herself. Finally turning back to Elena, she says in an even voice, “Miss Lupu. Angie enjoys making all sorts of ridiculous jokes. You probably shouldn’t take what she says too seriously.”

“Oh, right. Jokes. Of course.” Elena shoots you a meaningful look.

You just hide your face behind your hands and groan.

The rest of the day passes without much fanfare. You say your farewells to Elena, with Angie still complaining how she would rather stay at your friend’s house than return to the manor. Once back home, Lady Beneviento quickly disappears into her workshop while you begin your work on some of the usual chores. The clothes on the clothesline are dry, so that’s probably a good place to start. You’ve done this so many times that you don’t even have to think about each step anymore. Grab the baskets for clean laundry. Grab the step stool. Take the clothes down. Easy, right?

With that in mind, you begin the task. After setting the baskets down, you climb onto the step stool and reach up for one of Lady Beneviento’s black blouses and—

Something’s different.

Slowly, you lower your hands and step down to solid ground again. The rows of laundry flutter in the gentle breeze, everything snugly held in place with the usual wooden clothespins. Not quite trusting your eyes, you stare at the clothesline with furrowed brows. And then you reach for that black blouse again.

Your fingers touch the wire like it’s the perfect height for you. Easily, comfortably, without even needing the step stool at all. Letting out a soft breath, you pull the blouse free from the line and hold it between your hands. It’s the same one you’d resewn the button on, all those months ago. Temptation wriggles to the forefront of your mind—a sudden desire to press your face into that sun-warm fabric. Hesitation reigns for only the briefest of moments before you give in and burrow your nose in the blouse. It smells like summer and flowers.

A familiar voice pipes up, directly in your ear. Warm, soft, almost teasing in tone. “Are you taking a break so soon, sweet girl?”

Nonchalant, you fold the blouse over your arm and turn your head to shoot an innocent look in Lady Beneviento’s direction. She’s wearing her veil, but the cloth has been pulled away just enough to reveal the unscarred side of her face. The way she looks at you, so lovingly fond, makes your heart pound as warmth rises to your cheeks. Your gaze darts from the Lord back over to the hanging laundry again, and instead of answering her question, you find yourself asking one of your own. “Lady Beneviento. You lowered the clothesline for me?”

She blinks, her eye shifting over to the rows of hanging clothes. Then she crosses her arms, a puzzled look making itself known. “I noticed you have trouble reaching the wire without something to stand on,” she says at last. “I’m sorry I didn’t make the adjustments sooner, but I just never found the time until now.” The dollmaker tilts her head, still looking somewhat confused. “Dolcezza, I have to ask. Why didn’t you ever adjust the clothesline yourself, especially when it would have made the laundry that much easier for you?”

It sounds like such an obvious thing when she says it like that. Still, you just shrug and lower your gaze. “It was never my place to change such a thing without your permission, my lady.”

“It is your place,” Lady Beneviento says at once. Her lips twitch into a smile, soft and almost hesitant. “It’s your place,” she continues shyly, “because your place is here with me, is it not?”

You set the folded blouse aside and reach out to take the dollmaker’s hand. “There’s no place I would rather be than with you, Lady Beneviento.”

“You can call me Donna,” she says. A hint of red dusts her cheeks. “I… I liked it when you used my name before.”

“Donna, then,” you whisper. It feels so good, so perfect, to use her name like this. The final barrier erased. You barely even notice your feet moving until you’re pressing close to the Lord, arms looped around her neck, pulling her in for a kiss. She relaxes into you. But then she leans back a bit too far, and begins to stumble. Her hand darts out, searching for something to regain balance. Her fingers curl into the clean laundry hanging from the clothesline—and then she promptly pulls everything down into a messy pile at your feet.

“Oh,” she sighs, staring at the pile of clothes now on the ground.

You laugh. You really can’t help yourself—how ironic and even nostalgic this scene is. Lady Beneviento glares at you, but her expression quickly shifts into a rueful smile.

“Laundry time again, little maid of mine,” she says.

You scoop up an armful of clothes. “To be perfectly honest, my lady? That’s a chore I don’t mind one bit.”