Chapter Text
You’ve been summoned.
The letter had come without warning, its envelope falling onto your head as you peruse the Duke’s shop in the village square. Glancing around the area, you don’t see the envelope’s deliverer anywhere at first. But then you spot a crow, sitting atop a tall branch and watching you with beady eyes. As you stare up at it, the bird cocks its head at you. A sharp, clicking sound escapes its beak. Gulping, you force your gaze away. Anxiety is already rising in your gut as you hold the envelope in shaking hands. Your name is written on the front in slanted, inky cursive. There is no return address anywhere on the envelope, but such a thing is not needed. Staring at the paper in your hands, then up at the crow, and then at the paper again—you know. You know exactly who this is from.
It’s an honor. It should feel like an honor. You should be elated.
You don’t feel elated at all, and that trepidation doesn’t lessen as you rip open the envelope and stare down at the letter contained within, its message scrawled out in that same elegant penmanship. The written words are impersonal—cold, even.
Go to the church immediately. Once inside, await further instruction.
“Is something the matter?” a kindly voice asks, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you look up to see the Duke peering at you from where he sits at the front of his shop.
“This letter,” you begin with no small amount of fear. You hold out the paper to show him, hands still trembling. “Do you know what this is about?”
The Duke takes the letter in one pudgy hand and examines it closely. His eyebrows knit together before smoothing again, and when he glances back your way, his expression is carefully neutral. “…Ah. I do,” he affirms after a pause. “But I’m afraid, my dear girl, that it’s not my place to talk about the letter’s contents.” He looks down at you and smiles. It’s a sympathetic smile, like he feels sorry for you, and the pit in your stomach twists like a coiling snake. He offers the letter back and you take it, feeling faintly nauseous.
“I don’t…” Your words trail off. You don’t know what else to say.
The Duke shoos you along. “Best not to keep her waiting, dear girl.”
Feeling numb, you nod and turn away.
The walk to your new destination is not a long one, but it feels almost like time has slowed down somehow as you force one foot in front of the other, over and over again, through the village streets. With each step, those cryptic words echo in your mind.
Await further instruction.
Await further instruction.
You pass by your house on the way to the old church, and you find your feet pausing right outside your front door. There’s a temptation to just duck inside and barricade the entrance and maybe even hide under a pile of blankets. Would Mother Miranda be able to find you? Does she even know where you live? Well, it probably wouldn’t work anyway. Not when those damn birds scouted out your location so easily by the Duke’s shop. A flash of green catches your eye. Your small garden of tomato plants cheerfully sways in the warm breeze. The soil beneath them is dry. You haven’t watered them yet today.
There’s a cawing sound somewhere above your head, and you break out of your distracted thoughts and look up to see another crow. Or maybe it’s the same one from before. There’s no way for you to really tell. It clicks its beak at you, almost accusingly, and you shudder and quickly resume your walk. All too soon the church comes into view. Usually the sight of the old building is something that inspires comfort in you. Today, however, you only feel a looming, oppressive dread.
You don’t really know what to expect as you push your way through the heavy doors of the building, but the sight that greets your eyes still brings some shock. This is clearly not some kind of one-on-one meeting you have with the priestess of the village—there are several other young women waiting inside, all looking similar to how you probably look right now. Worried. Anxious. But there’s also one person present who you recognize instantly.
“Elena!” you gasp. “Wait, what are you doing here?”
Your best friend blinks at the sight of you, and then takes a deep breath and offers a wavering smile. She was always better than you at putting on a brave face, and that hasn’t changed even now. “Probably the same as you, I suppose,” she says, nervous. “Mother Miranda summoned me, but… I have no idea for what reason.”
“She’s not here yet, is she?” You glance around the large room but there is no sight of the priestess, no crows or black feathers or golden regalia, no trace of her at all beyond the framed photo at the altar.
“I think it’ll be soon,” Elena murmurs.
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t you sense it? She’s close.”
You feel it happen before you even see it. Something in the air shifts, even though this space is enclosed and should be shielded from the outdoor winds. There’s an echoing in your ears, something that sounds like the cawing of crows. The sound rises to a crescendo, ringing, pulsing. You hold your hands over your ears, squeezing your eyes shut. You can’t tell if this sound is real or if it’s only in your head.
And when you open your eyes again, the priestess of the village stands near the church’s altar. But she’s not alone. Her hands, gleaming with ornate, golden claws, are wrapped around the shoulders of a second figure. One dressed entirely in black, face obscured by a veil, with an old doll hanging from one arm.
“I’d like to thank everyone here for responding to my summons,” Mother Miranda says. “The reason for our meeting today is simple. I will not bore you with unneeded details. One of my Lords, Donna Beneviento, is in need of a wife… and you all are the lucky candidates.”
Arranged in a row next to Elena and the rest of the women, you stare straight ahead and take deep breaths to calm your anxious heart. How strange it seems to think back on how normal your day had begun, and how quickly now things have spiraled into what feels like a terrible dream.
Lady Beneviento herself doesn’t seem particularly engaged in the selection process, opting to remain standing near Mother Miranda while her doll, Angie, examines the group in her stead. Giggling to herself, the doll wanders up and down the line. One of the women, someone you think you’ve seen before in the village but never spoken to, buries her face in her hands and begins to cry. You can hardly blame her, but you do your best to force your own face into an expression of blankness, jaw clenched tight.
Angie, for her part, regards you only briefly and with clear disinterest before moving on. The quietly weeping stranger earns a shrill cackle of laughter. Elena, standing to your left, is still trying to smile. The doll stops in her tracks and stares up at her.
“Donna!” she screeches. “Donna, I like this one! She looks like she’ll be fun to play with. Choose her!”
No.
No, no. Not her, not your best friend, not Elena. Anyone but her, please.
Without thinking, you reach out and take Elena’s hand. She glances back at you, pale and terrified, lips frozen in a smile that now looks more like a grimace. Her hand shakes in yours, so you squeeze harder. She blinks, clarity returning to her eyes, and then takes a deep breath and nudges your hand away.
Quiet, heeled footsteps approach as a hush falls over the room. Lady Beneviento doesn’t emanate the same regal grandeur as Mother Miranda—on the contrary, the dollmaker’s posture is stiff and deliberate in a way that looks stiltedly practiced. The thought strikes you that she doesn’t look entirely alive, at least not like a normal person might. Not quite alive and also not quite dead, but instead some uncanny amalgamation of the two. Angie somehow seems more lively in comparison, despite being constructed of wood and porcelain rather than flesh and muscle and bone.
Lady Beneviento stops in front of Elena, who shakily bows and tries again to smile. She studies your friend for a long moment. Angie, tugging at the Lord’s skirt, breaks the ensuing silence.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” the doll chatters excitedly. “Donna, Donna. She’s perfect.”
A sick feeling churns in your stomach, and you bite your tongue nearly hard enough to bleed. You want to push Lady Beneviento away from Elena. You want to voice your protests, or scream, or cry. You want to close your eyes and wake up in your bed with the relief that all of this is nothing more than a horrible nightmare.
You do none of these things, and instead just watch in terrified silence as the dollmaker tilts her head. Her veil shifts just enough to offer a glimpse of her neck and the side of her jaw. She looks… human, from what little you can see. In the back of your mind you had imagined something worse, something monstrous, and this unremarkable normalcy somehow feels crueler for betraying that expectation.
Lady Beneviento exhales softly. The sound is whisper-quiet, the front of her veil fluttering gently. She glances back at Mother Miranda and then again at Elena, hands clasped together, a strangely hesitant gesture. After a moment, she steps away from your friend and your heart stutters in your chest and—you feel hope. Fragile, tremulous hope.
But then the dollmaker takes another step. And then another. She stops—right in front of you—and waits. In an instant, that elation curdles into dread.
Angie’s disappointed voice rings out in the otherwise silent room. “Wait, you want her? Really, Donna? She looks so boring.”
Lady Beneviento nods. You just stare at her in growing horror, too stunned to react.
“No,” Elena whispers, still deathly pale. She’s not pretending to smile anymore. Her voice rises to a scream and it’s one of the worst things you’ve ever heard. You would give anything to never hear such pain in Elena’s voice again. “No, no! Lady Beneviento, I’ll—you can take me instead, just please—”
Please.
Quiet.
There’s too much happening right now. Between Elena’s protests and Angie’s grumbling and your own frantic heartbeat pounding in your ears, the world begins to blur into a foggy haze. It’s beginning to feel hard to breathe.
Stop talking.
Please stop.
Suddenly lightheaded, you try to take a step forward but your legs wobble and give out beneath you. A hand, wreathed in golden claws, grabs your arm and holds you upright. “The rest of you, out,” Mother Miranda says. The priestess’s tone is cold, businesslike, and she doesn’t even bother looking at Elena and the other candidates as she orders them away. Her eyes narrow as Lady Beneviento approaches with Angie in tow. “You as well, Donna. I wish to speak to the girl alone for a moment.”
The dollmaker hesitates, gaze still fixed on you, but then she nods and retreats toward the door of the church. She hangs back slightly, allowing Angie to take over the work of shepherding the others out the exit—a task which the talking doll seems to relish. From across the room, you catch one last glimpse of Elena’s anguished face. The young woman whose name you didn’t know, the one who’d been crying next to you, wraps an arm around your friend’s shoulders and leads her away. Feeling hollow and helpless, you watch them disappear through the door and out of sight.
Lady Beneviento and Angie are the last to leave, and you don’t know if you’re thankful for their absence. That clawed hand is firm around your arm, a touch that feels simultaneously insistent and threatening. Fear is still bubbling up in your throat. The veiled Lord and her doll certainly frighten you, but you’re not sure if it’s any better that you’re alone with Mother Miranda right now.
As you shakily try to catch your breath, the priestess just stares at you from behind the golden cage of her mask. Her expression is appraising and blandly neutral. You meet her gaze for only a moment before gulping and looking away. Humming to herself, she reaches out and cups your cheek in her other hand, turning your head back to face her again. A whimper escapes your lips, despite your best efforts to be quiet.
“None of that,” the other woman scolds, almost maternal in tone. She holds her hand there on your face and it feels wrong, hideously wrong. In the past you had privately wondered if she’d ever had children, but after today you don’t think you could ever again imagine the priestess as a mother. “I don’t want to see any tears from the blushing bride,” she continues, a little more harshly this time.
You force air into your lungs with shallow, stuttering breaths. “M-Mother Miranda. What is it you want from me with Lady Beneviento? Why do I need to…”
The other woman is quiet for a moment, like she’s carefully considering her words. And then she taps one golden claw against your cheek and says simply, “I want you to help her be happier.”
The words are spoken matter-of-factly rather than with affection, and with that same cadence of clinical aloofness. Perhaps in response to your confused expression, she adds, “Despite whatever unfavorable first impressions she may have made, I can reassure you that Donna is not a cruel woman. She will protect you and provide for you. But in exchange, I also expect you to do the same for her.”
You try to shake your head, but the movement causes the priestess’s claws to press deeper against your face. Biting back a yelp, you force yourself to stand still again, a difficult task when you’re already shaking so violently. “I don’t—a commoner like myself can’t possibly protect or provide for a Lord. I have nothing to offer someone like Lady Beneviento.”
Mother Miranda’s lips twitch, a hint of a smile. “My sweet child, that’s not true at all. You have yourself to offer.”
Your heart stops.
“I trust you understand what I am implying,” she continues, seemingly unbothered by your rapidly growing distress. “Companionship and intimacy are important components of human wellbeing… and despite her self-imposed isolation, Donna is not exempt from such needs. You will wed her and bed her, and if you have any self-preservation at all, you will try your best to enjoy it.”
An unpleasant feeling twists in your stomach, like you could be sick at any moment. You touch a trembling hand to the other woman’s wrist, a feeble attempt at pulling her claws away. She raises an eyebrow but eventually relents. Perhaps some part of her feels pity for you. It’s a small mercy and you hate yourself for feeling grateful for it. “The marriage… was it her idea or yours?” you ask, helpless.
“Mine, of course,” Mother Miranda says with a quiet hum. It’s hardly a surprise, and you’re not even sure why you bothered asking. “If she could have her way, Donna would readily spend the rest of her life alone with no one but her dolls for company. But her mental state is poor enough as it is, and it’s long been a detriment to the quality of her work. I’ve been patient with Donna for many years, child, but even patience such as mine eventually runs thin.”
“So that’s the real reason for all of this,” you find your voice to say. Adrenaline is clouding your judgement and emboldening your words with a foolhardy bravery. “You don’t care if she’s happy at all, Mother Miranda. You just care that she’s not doing her job as a Lord to your standards.”
It’s a mistake—you know it’s a mistake—but still you say it anyway. There’s a faint thrum of satisfaction at the displeased look on Mother Miranda’s face, but your emotions quickly fade back to fear. The priestess’s clawed hand grabs your arm again, less gently this time. “You forget your place, you foolish girl,” she says calmly. She’s frowning now, that horrible look of cold detachment marring an otherwise beautiful face. “This is not a suggestion, nor is it a request. I am ordering this of you. Don’t think I’m above handing you over to Alcina instead, and you can spend the rest of your short life bleeding out in the cellars of Castle Dimitrescu. It’s of no great loss to me. Donna may have chosen you, but there are plenty of women in the village. It would not be hard to find a replacement.” She squeezes your arm, hard enough to hurt. “Now, then. Are you going to cooperate?”
If you were braver, you would face your death in the cellars with your dignity intact. But you’ve never been so brave, and you’re also not quite ready to die yet. You close your eyes and nod.
There’s no grand ceremony for your union with Lady Beneviento. There are no wedding guests, no music and dance, no white dress and matching veil over your face. Your mother is not here to pin flowers in your hair, your father is not here to walk you down the aisle. Not that you would expect them to be, anyway. After all, your family has been dead for a long time.
But still, you had always imagined that your wedding—a hypothetical, fanciful dream, but a wanted dream nonetheless—would be happy. A joyous moment in your life, something warm and tender and breathtaking, something to share with whoever you had fallen in love with. You suppose you’ll never have such a thing now, unwillingly bound as you are to one of the Lords.
You marry the dollmaker right there in the church with Mother Miranda performing the service. The vows you offer are generic and impersonal, but you can hardly bring yourself to care. Lady Beneviento is silent in response, which is neither surprising nor especially disappointing. Angie, sitting off to the side, blows a loud raspberry to demonstrate her displeasure.
“Donna, you have to say something,” the doll complains, indignant. “It can’t be worse than what your boring new wife came up with.”
Boring. You can work with boring. Maybe both of them will leave you alone if you’re uninteresting enough.
But then Lady Beneviento lets out a breath. She’s held your hands throughout the ceremony, as is tradition, and you’re not quite frazzled enough to miss how her hands are just as nervous and shaky as your own. A low, hoarse voice comes from behind her veil, and your eyes widen in shock.
“You are mine,” the Lord says slowly, haltingly, “and I am yours. And I hope our life together can be… happy.”
She doesn’t exactly sound convinced—on the contrary, she sounds tired and reluctant in a way that’s remarkably similar to yourself. But you’re more distracted by her voice. A lovely voice—albeit one so quiet you almost wonder if you had imagined it. Gentler than Angie’s voice, less condescending than Mother Miranda’s. More alive than her gloomy aura would suggest, if only slightly. Heat rises to your face when you realize you’re staring at her, and you flush and force your eyes away.
“Very touching, Donna,” Mother Miranda says dryly, breaking the silence. With a flourish, the priestess pulls out a small box from the depths of her robes. “The rings.”
Wedding rings. You hadn’t really expected that, with everything else in this union being so awkward and rushed, and you just stare down at the box, feeling lost. When it becomes clear that you’re not going to be taking any initiative here, Lady Beneviento picks up the first ring and carefully slides it onto your finger. The band is gold, very pretty, and probably worth more than everything you own, including your house. It’s a perfect fit on you, which gives you pause. You don’t really want to think about why Mother Miranda has wedding rings exactly in your size just lying around in her pockets. Pushing those thoughts away, you place the matching ring onto your new wife’s finger with trembling hands.
The ceremony soon comes to a close, with Angie clapping and pretending to wipe tears from her glass eyes. Lady Beneviento doesn’t try to kiss you, which you are grateful for. Instead, she steps close and tentatively presses her forehead to yours. She has to lean over a bit to do so—the dollmaker is much taller than you are. Her veil flutters against your face. The black cloth is softer than you would have expected.
With all the business at the church concluded, you trail behind Lady Beneviento and Angie back outside. The village is deserted. There’s something unnatural about the stillness of the normally lively streets. You wonder if it has something to do with Mother Miranda—if she has somehow ordered everyone to stay indoors for your union with the dollmaker to be held in greater privacy. Either way, it makes the walk feel even more foreboding. It feels a bit like you’re walking to your own grave.
The path takes you right past your own house again. There’s a painful squeezing sensation in your chest when you walk by without stopping. The tomato plants are still dry. You wonder if you’ll ever have the chance to come back and water them again.
With a shake of your head, you keep walking.
The Duke still has his shop set up in the heart of the village, although you’re guessing that any customers have long since retreated. He smiles as the three of you approach. It’s that same sympathetic smile from before. “My congratulations to the newlyweds,” he says benignly.
Lady Beneviento politely nods, but you can’t bring yourself to make any response in return. There’s no further conversation offered, so the three of you continue on.
You’ve never had any reason to pass through the iron gate that leads to the dollmaker’s territory, so the landscape approaching her estate quickly becomes unfamiliar. You follow close to her, mindful of low branches and protruding tree roots. You follow even closer when it comes time to cross a long, rickety suspension bridge connecting the land across a deep chasm. The old wood creaks with each step, and you wonder if Lady Beneviento would even bother trying to catch you if your foot went through one of the boards. The wet sounds of a waterfall can be heard in the distance, over the groan of the bridge.
Along the path, there are a lot of graves, and dolls, and some kind of unfamiliar yellow flower that dots the land with bursts of color. There’s a distinct scent emanating from the blooms, floral and slightly bitter, and you sneeze. Lady Beneviento pauses at the sound, glancing back at you. Her hands twitch. The fear in your mind had somewhat settled in favor of a numb emptiness over the course of this walk, but that tiny jerk of her fingers reignites your anxiety in an instant.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble. You’re not even sure what you’re apologizing for. For sneezing? For walking too slow? For existing? It’s hard to tell what triggered her annoyance, if it’s even annoyance that she’s expressing right now. You’re not familiar enough with the Lord’s body language to know for sure. The halfheartedly amused thought strikes you that these are the first words with which you’ve directly addressed your new wife, excluding those hasty vows from earlier. When she continues to just stand there in silence, you quickly add, “Lady Beneviento.”
The dollmaker stares at you. “…My name is Donna.”
She sounds tired. You’re tired too. Tired and wrung out and with your nerves wearing dangerously thin.
“I don’t know you well enough to use your first name like that, my lady,” you counter. The title is offered with respect, but there’s a spiteful edge to your voice that you can’t quite hide. A little defiant, you set your jaw, as if to challenge her.
It’s a dangerous game you’re playing right now, against an opponent you really don’t know much about. You know some basic things—you know Lady Beneviento is one of Mother Miranda’s chosen four. You know the villagers fear her, like they fear the other Lords. But you don’t know how she treats her playmates. You don’t know if her temper runs hot or cold, or if she prefers words over actions. Maybe she’ll scream or curse you, or worse. She could do anything or nothing at all, and you’re not entirely sure which outcome you would like better.
Mother Miranda had reassured you that Lady Beneviento was not one for cruelty, but after today’s events, you don’t think you could ever trust the priestess’s words again.
After a long pause, the other woman dips her head in a shallow nod. “…Well. As you say, topolina.”
You stare at her. “That’s not my name.”
Lady Beneviento laughs. The sound is more hollow than pleasant, and without any real trace of humor. There’s nothing lovely about her voice this time. “I don’t know you well enough to use your first name like that,” she says, a thin veneer of politeness doing little to disguise the trace of mockery there. Then, almost like an afterthought, she adds, “Little mouse.”
She turns and continues walking along the path. You’re frozen for a moment, filled with some emotion you can’t quite identify. Indignation, embarrassment, trepidation, perhaps. And maybe even a hint of shame. Swearing under your breath, you hurry along to follow her.
House Beneviento is somehow beautiful and eerie all at once.
The selection process, ceremony, and walk must have all taken longer than you realized, because the sky has grown dark by the time the looming manor comes into view. The waterfall is louder here, but your ears have become accustomed to the sound by now. Nervous and not really knowing what to expect, you hang back as Lady Beneviento pushes the heavy front doors open.
Perhaps you needn’t have worried—the manor’s interior is attractive, with cherry wall panels and floors and fine wood furniture. But when you look a little closer, you can see how almost all the furnishings are coated with a thin layer of dust, like they haven’t been touched or used in a long time. In a vase atop what you assume to be the dining room table are more of those yellow flowers, and their scent tickles your nose as walk past.
Or maybe it’s just the dust.
It’s not much of a tour, but following silently behind the Lord and her doll eventually brings you down to the basement. The latter is left behind in the kitchen as Lady Beneviento takes your arm and leads you through one last door. Your heart skips a beat.
It’s Lady Beneviento’s bedroom.
She crosses the room and sits at the edge of the large bed with a sigh. After a brief pause, you sit down next to her, hands fisted tight into the fabric of your skirt. You stare at her, but the veil covering her face is an inexpressive shroud. Still, as she turns slightly to face you, there’s something in her posture that suggests invitation.
Or perhaps expectation.
Tension makes your body shiver in an unpleasant way, but your head feels oddly numb in comparison. You’ve known, in the back of your mind ever since your private conversation with Mother Miranda, that this was going to happen eventually. It’s your wedding night, after all. Lady Beneviento had chosen you, pulling you from your old life and into hers. Into her manor, her bedroom, her bed. And now that you’re here, there’s one more duty she must be expecting you to fulfill.
You take a deep breath, willing your heart to slow its frantic rhythm. A second deep breath. A third. You look at Lady Beneviento again and she tilts her head to one side, as if questioning. Questioning why you haven’t made a move yet, perhaps. Or maybe questioning why you look so sick, so frozen.
Oh, a tiny voice in your head muses, oh, you’re going to cry now, aren’t you?
A hand touches your shoulder, hesitant. “…Topolina?” Lady Beneviento says.
You shove her hand away and draw in another deep breath. You’d lost count somewhere after breath seven or eight, but it hardly seems to matter now. The dollmaker sits motionless for a moment, arm still half-outstretched and hovering awkwardly in midair, before she stiffly folds her hands in her lap. Her gaze, hidden as it is, burns through you.
Wed her and bed her, Mother Miranda had instructed.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you raise your own hands. Slowly, mechanically, you bring them to the top of your blouse and start undoing the buttons at your neck.
Immediately, Lady Beneviento’s hands are on you again. Your eyes snap open in shock and you almost push her away out of instinct. But she’s not touching you where you’d feared—instead, her fingers, thin and pale and surprisingly gentle, are wrapped around your own. She guides your hands down until they’re resting limp in your lap, and then she reaches back up and carefully begins to button your blouse again. Your jaw goes slack.
You don’t understand.
“Wh-what are you doing?” you stammer.
“I could ask the same to you,” Lady Beneviento sighs. “What are you doing, you silly girl?”
Bewildered, you stare at the other woman’s hands, hard at work fastening those final few buttons. You hadn’t really paid much attention during the ceremony when you placed the ring onto her finger, but—she has beautiful hands, long and slender. Her nails are neatly trimmed and painted a color that reminds you of ripe plums. There are scars across her knuckles that glow white in the light of a lamp atop one of the room’s nightstands, thin raised lines that are a shade lighter than the rest of her skin. You let out a quiet breath when those hands lightly rest upon your shoulders, their work with the buttons apparently finished.
Lady Beneviento squeezes your shoulders and any kindness from the action is quickly forgotten because the spell has broken, and you remember again—you remember why you’re here with her.
You lick your lips, which feel uncomfortably dry. “Would you… prefer it then, Lady Beneviento, if I undressed you first?”
Her hands jerk back, startled. “What? Of course not!” she sputters.
“Well, what do you want me to do then?” you snarl. Anger begins to bubble up, your anxiety quickly darkening into something more like frustration. “It will be easier to consummate our marriage without the barrier of clothing, Lady Beneviento, do I really need to explain this?”
“Who said anything about consummating our marriage?” the dollmaker snaps. There’s an edge to her voice now. She sounds tense and maybe even a little disgusted. “I just—I thought you might be tired. I thought you might like to go to bed. To sleep, not… not anything else.”
You swallow a nervous breath. “I-I am tired, but…”
“But what?”
The memory flashes in your mind’s eye uninvited—golden claws laid upon your face, the touch devoid of any warmth or affection. Cold eyes regarding you from behind a cage-like mask. The promise of a threat, hidden beneath honeyed words. And finally, you blurt out, “Mother Miranda gave me very clear… um, orders.”
Lady Beneviento goes very still. In a strained voice, she asks, “And what exactly did she order you to do?”
The reminder of the priestess’s instructions makes your skin crawl with an odd mixture of shame and revulsion. You don’t want to repeat those words out loud, not when it’s already bad enough to hear them echoing in your head. There’s a bitter temptation to answer with something vulgar, something crudely sarcastic. But instead, you just squeeze your eyes shut and whisper, “She told me to do what married people do with each other. With you.” And to try to enjoy it.
Lady Beneviento lets out a slow breath and folds her hands in her lap again. Then she looks at you and when she speaks next, her voice is quiet and very, very cautious. “…Do you want to do that, topolina?”
Long overdue, your eyes begin to fill with tears. Exhausted—you feel so exhausted. Biting your lip, you bow your head and swipe a hand across your face. You don’t want her to see you cry. You don’t want her to see you at all right now. “No.”
Lady Beneviento doesn’t immediately respond, and you wonder if that last whispered plea was spoken too quietly. But then there’s a low creak of bedsprings as she stands up, and you hear quiet footsteps as she walks to the wardrobe at the other end of the bedroom.
“Do you have sleeping clothes?” she asks, as if completely ignoring the previous conversation.
“Of course not,” you mumble, still staring down at the floor. “Why would I, Lady Beneviento? I didn’t get a chance to grab anything from my house before you dragged me over here.”
There’s a short pause, and then the dollmaker sighs. “…I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that. We can return to the village to gather your belongings later. For now, I’ll just give you something of mine to sleep in.” She rummages through her wardrobe and pulls out a nightgown. It’s a simple thing, dark gray in color and sewn from soft cotton. You stare as she offers it to you, but you can’t quite bring yourself to take it.
“I’d rather just keep my own clothes on,” you finally say, after the ensuing silence has stretched just a little too long. It’s an impractical argument to make—the nightgown looks much more suitable for sleep than the blouse and skirt you’re already wearing. But the thought of putting on Lady Beneviento’s clothing makes you uneasy. It feels too familiar, too intimate, and you don’t want to get undressed near her. You chance a quick look at the other woman, but she doesn’t look offended or even surprised. She just nods and gestures toward the nightgown again.
“I’ll be changing into something more comfortable then, if you don’t mind,” she says, sounding faintly hesitant. “Is that okay with you, topolina?”
Why is she even asking you this? You wave your hand around in a haphazard fashion. “It’s your bedroom, Lady Beneviento. You can do whatever you want around me. You can do whatever you want to me. Why would you even care otherwise?”
“We’re married, little mouse. Everything of mine is yours too, now. And despite whatever rumors you may have heard about me, despite whatever instructions Mother Miranda may have whispered in your ear—I am not such a monster that I would ever take advantage of you,” the dollmaker hisses, a sharp edge returning to her voice. Her hand, white-knuckled, clenches around the nightgown. She doesn’t wait for a reply and instead stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Through the walls, you can hear her agitated footsteps quickly fading from earshot.
You let out a breath, leaning forward to cradle your head in your hands. After a few minutes, you slowly peel back the bedsheets and burrow yourself beneath the soft covers. And you wait.
It doesn’t take much longer before you hear the door open again, more gently this time. Lady Beneviento’s footsteps are calmer now. The covers shift as she carefully slides into bed next to you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough still that you are very aware that you won’t be sleeping alone tonight. You peek over at her after only a moment’s hesitation. She’s changed into that gray nightgown now, but she’s also still wearing her veil. It’s almost a ridiculous sight, but you’re far too tired to laugh. The bed creaks as she reaches over to the lamp on the nightstand.
“…Good night, Lady Beneviento,” you say. Very quietly, almost hoping she doesn’t hear, you add, “Thank you.”
Before the lights go out, you catch a glimpse of the dollmaker’s hand atop the sheets. You can see the glint of her wedding ring, and the weight of its twin feels heavy upon your own finger. Breathing deeply, you curl into your pillow and close your eyes.
“Good night,” Lady Beneviento whispers.