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Tea with /HER/, further continued, a story of Tir na Cali for the Giraffe Call

Jan24

For @daHob’s prompt, in continuation of Sunday’s installement: Tea with HER (continuation) (LJ) and Saturday’s Tea with HER (beginning) (LJ)

Tir na Cali has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ

“I know this, Treanna, because, believe it or not, I was nineteen once, myself. And when this happens… come to me again, and we will talk.” She sipped her tea, her eyes smirking at me. “I’ll enjoy it.”

I sold him, of course.

I didn’t want to. I was entirely in love with him, a little more gone than was reasonable. And selling him without him ever getting him to love me was admitting defeat.

But I’d started to grow up, even as my mother got more and more ill. And looking at him, I couldn’t help but remember every childish tantrum, every teenaged secret I’d whispered in my ear. He’d known me at my worst. No wonder he’d never love me.

When you reach a certain point, you put away the pink diary and the teddy bears and the dolls. When you reach that point again, it’s time to move on from your first companion.

I bid him a quiet, respectful, tearful goodbye, and sold him to the best broker in town, demanding – and getting – promises about his well-being and the type of place to which they’d sell him. He’d do well. He was so very well…

There (exactly) ends 750 words… *evil laughter*
(note: I’m not THAT evil. I’ve already written another 150)

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/242800.html. You can comment here or there.

Tea with /HER/, a continuation for the Giraffe Call, Tir na Cali (@DaHob)

Jan21

For @daHob’s prompt, in continuation of yesterday’s installement: Tea with HER (beginning) (LJ)

Tir na Cali has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ

In today’s installment, our plucky protagonist and her slave get names!

“I should hope he does. I don’t act with the intent of being forgotten.”

I chewed on my lip, and then, immediately, stopped myself. That was a girl’s habit, a childish trait. He’d helped me break myself of it – why was it coming up now? I could see in her eyes that she’d noticed, however, and judged me for it.

“You are, I’d agree, quite unforgettable.” The audacious words were out of my mouth; again, my voice was working without having asked my common sense what I should do. That wasn’t her power, was it? I struggled to recall, and couldn’t. If so, what a masterful use!

But she was smiling. “You have some spark in you, don’t you? I like that.” She gestured, cutting off my objection: she’d snuffed the spark out of him long before she’d discarded him. “Slaves are slaves. A woman who will be ruling part of my territory, that’s a different matter. Do you think we can get along, Treanna?”

“I believe we can work together, your Ladyship.” There, now my brain and my vocal chords were working together. “I believe I can serve very well under you.” Wait, what? Was I flirting with my liege lady? I hated her! I didn’t want to flirt with her!

But her smile was growing. “I believe you would. However, as you’ve noted, when someone serves under me, there is rather less of them to enjoy when I am done. That’s why I sold him, you know.”

“I’m sorry?” I blinked, trying to change gears. What was she doing to me, this Ice Queen? “You sold Michael because…”

“There is a length of time one can serve under me. I kept him longer than I’d intended; he serves so beautifully, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and he is, himself, so flawless.”

Except the brand. But for her, that, too, could have been part of his perfection. “He is a beautiful man, and a wonderful servant,” I agreed, perhaps more warmly than I should have – but I was in love with him, so painfully so. “But he will not love me.”

“Not will not,” she sighed. “Cannot. I had hoped that, with enough time away, he might recover, but I’m not sure he will. Will he let you remove the brand?”

It should have been illegal, but he might have consented. Probably had consented. And would not consent to me having it smoothed from his skin. “No, your Ladyship.”

She sighed again, deeper. “Well, then, sadly, there is our answer. He doesn’t fail to love you, Treanna, because you are not a beautiful young lady – although you are very young – but because he cannot stop loving me.”

“Can’t you stop it?” I almost wailed. Later, I’d remember this with mortification and humiliation, but being around the Ice Queen opened all of your stops, eliminated all of your self-control. “Can’t you make him love me?”

She shook her head slowly, looking almost sympathetic. I hadn’t thought she had an emotion like sympathy in her. “No. No, I cannot. But I can tell you this. In a year, you will look at him, and you will know that, as much as you love him, you can’t keep him anymore. You can’t look at that face, that face that knows all of your youthful silliness, any longer.” She held up a hand. “I know this, Treanna, because, believe it or not, I was nineteen once, myself. And when this happens… come to me again, and we will talk.” She sipped her tea, her eyes smirking at me. “I’ll enjoy it.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/239537.html. You can comment here or there.

Tea with /Her/, a (teaser of a) story of Tir na Cali for the Giraffe Call (@dahob)

Jan20

For @DaHob’s prompt, based on a Cali idea.

Tir na Cali has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ

When the Countess called me in for tea, I didn’t know what to think.

I knew why, of course. My mother was ailing, young as she was, and I was her heir. I would be the Countess’s loyal Baroness soon enough, and I was (so I had been told a thousand times), young for the position. She needed to get the measure of me.

The problem was, I had the measure of her already. I had the feel of her hand and the chains she left on a mind – not in person, she wasn’t the sort of liege to do that to her vassals – but in proxy, in the slave who was mine, who had once been hers. I had it in the brand on his hip that I couldn’t avoid, every time I touched him, and the marks in his mind, the way that, even after she’d set him aside, he still loved her.

I went, of course. You do not turn down an invitation from a Countess unless you’re the Queen herself. I put on the proper clothes and the proper smile, mouthed the proper words, and spoke business of her for a while.

But it made me twitch, when I heard phrases from her lips that I’d first heard from his, or, worse, when I found myself echoing one of her phrases, because I’d picked it up from him. He’d been with me for five years, my first sex slave, my first Companion, my first “grown-up” slave, fresh from the market where she’d sold him, the Ice Queen, my Countess. He’s seen every woe and misery, every triumph, held me while I cried and celebrated with me when I succeeded. He knew all my secrets, and all my buttons. And he was still in love with her.

“He remembers you, you know.”

I didn’t realize at first that I’d said it. It was in the middle of a conversation on something banal, trade rights, I think. Important, but not what was on my mind. Nor hers, I think, because she didn’t ask “who,” merely raised an eyebrow, one perfect, impossible eyebrow.

“I should hope he does. I don’t act with the intent of being forgotten.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/238721.html. You can comment here or there.

Secret Santa, a story of Tir na Cali for the Giraffe Call

Jan8

For an anonymous (but sponsored) prompt.

Tír na Cali has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ.

The Agency’s Primary Response Team (the PRaTs, as they were called by just about everyone, including themselves), had decided to do a Californian version of “secret santa.” Bastards, second sons, and third daughters all of them, they were a mongrel and nastily sarcastic group, for all that they were Tir na Cali’s heroes.

Being all of that, their “secret santa” idea had turned into a practical joke session almost before it started. Nocturne-no-last-name, the team’s surveillance expert, began finding little “gifts” from her Santa almost immediately – toy mice, for a while, because her last, ill-fated boyfriend had liked to call her Kitten. Then chocolate – she was allergic. A hideous Christmas sweater – since almost no-one in Tir na Cali celebrated Christmas, her Santa must have gone to great lengths to find the monstrosity.

Since she couldn’t get revenge directly, Nocturne instead decided to go about her vengeance sideways, and thus tormented her gift-ee. Belial, third son of a minor noblewoman and a captured missionary, found Bibles stacked in his locker, advent wreaths, Santa hats.

Not to be outdone, Belial then inflicted his embarrassment on Taguia, whose origins no-one but the Boss knew. Taguia got maps (she had a bit of a direction-sense problem, and had gotten them lost when required to navigate), compasses, a GPS, an emergency beacon…

…and found her way to Davros’ locker, where she started leaving every single plastic insect she could get her hands on, along with several of the living variety. When Davros was done picking them all out of his locker, he moved back to his cunning plan of wrapping (having wrapped; none of the PRaTs were poor) five hundred small boxes, the sort a ring might come in, and placing them, one hundred twenty-five at a time, in his gift-ee’s locker.

When this led to Anastasia having a breakdown in the locker room, even the PRaTs agreed that things had gone too far. It was nearly Yule, though, so, by unspoken truce, nobody presented any more strange gifts for the remaining five days. Tiny, peace-offering treats appeared instead, as if the whole team was, very carefully, backing away from each other slowly. Didn’t mean it, sorry. Didn’t mean to make a mess. Here, have a cookie and some tea? They eyed each other uncertainly, nervously. They all liked pranks, right? They all ribbed each other, in that extra-rough way that siblings can get away with. They didn’t know how the line had been crossed, or ever where, exactly, the line was, but they knew that something had gone wrong.

On Yule, when the reveal was supposed to happen, people, instead, shyly left presents in the common room when no-one else was looking, and, just as shyly, all gathered together for an eggnog lunch to open their presents. They all pretended not to notice that Anastasia’s hands were shaking.

Agon, who was responsible for starting all this with Nocturne’s gifts, was more than a little hesitant, too, opening his present. It was awfully small, they all noticed, just about the size of hundreds of boxes in Anastasia’s locker. Was this going to be another prank? Had they all gone serious for nothing?

“Oh.” It was barely an exhalation, as Agon stared at his anonymous gift – anonymous, but obvious, as everyone but Anastasia leaned forward to look.

“Oh…” Davros and Belial murmured, and Taguia whispered a reverent-sounding “shit.” Nestled in the tiny box was a gold ring with a ruby. A Consort’s ring. An offer of a title none of them had to offer.

The PRaTs, staring at that box, silently agreed to never try this secret santa thing again.

Notes: The Agency is Tir na Cali’s answer to the NSA, the FBI, the CIA, and the DOD. Possibly also SHIELD.
A Consort in Cali is a royal’s non-permanent partner, a “marriage” that can be with someone of any status level, including slave.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/223300.html. You can comment here or there.

A Belated Yule Gift, a story of Tir na Cali for the Giraffe Call (@cluudle)

Jan4

For Cluudle‘s prompt.

The same characters as this story; Queen Larissa is also canonical Tír na Cali, in that she is one of the first characters I created in the world.

Tír na Cali has a landing page here on DW and here on LJ.

A slave was always at a bit of a disadvantage in dealing with his Mistress. The American-born kidnapped slave of the Queen of Tír na Cali was at even more of a disadvantage; their status could not, in this status-mad-society, be further apart unless he went rogue (at which point, he’d have bigger concerns than social disadvantages). When the Queen and Mistress was telepathic, there was no use even thinking of an advantage, not when she could turn off the telepathic damper at any time.

So Jeremy had no idea what Queen Larissa was thinking, just that, from her body language in the last few days, she must be planning something. It made him uncomfortable – he’d served her so well, made her, as far as he could tell, so happy. Californian politics were full of potholes and traps he hadn’t even thought to look for, when he’d first been bought; had he stepped in something and not even noticed? Had he horribly offended some very important person?

The worries ran in trapped-hamster circles in his mind for days while his Queen stayed busy with the rather-more-important business of running the country, and did not call on him at all, which did nothing to help his concerns. By the time she called him into her chambers, late on a Saturday evening, he could barely sit still for the nerves.

“I want to talk to you about something,” she told him slowly, which did not help. “Come here.”

He did, of course. Being disobedient would not help his case. He sat by her feet while she brushed his hair, and waited to see if she would say anything.

After a while, she did. “Duchess Candida’s eldest daughter.”

Another lineage test? Now? “Kerry? Black hair, probably from her father, stunning blue-grey eyes, and a very sharp smile. Unmarried and without Consort or children.”

“I would like to give you to her.”

“You…” His heart nearly stopped. It was one thing to know you were property, another to hear yourself being discussed like a piece of meat.

“Loan, rather, for perhaps a month and a half.” She squeezed his shoulder. “I like you, Jeremy. I won’t do it if you ask me not to. But she is, as you said, childless and young, and I am neither of those things, not by quite a while.”

He frowned. The Californian nobles aged very slowly, it was true, but Queen Larissa was no longer young even by their standards. “I enjoy serving you, Your Majesty,” he murmured, neutrally but honestly.

“I have noticed,” she answered dryly, her fingers hovering over the controls to the telepathic damper. “Will you tell me how you feel about this, Jeremy, or am I going to have to take it from your mind?”

“I…” he choked, caught on conflicting feelings and a desire to say nothing at all about any of it. Feelings weren’t what he wanted to talk about. “Wrap me up in a bow?” he choked out. “Happy belated Yule, Kerry, enjoy the present, I know I have?”

She patted his shoulder again, and did not invade his mind. “I hear,” his lover and Queen whispered, “that she’s absolutely on fire in the sack. Who do you think I’m giving a gift to, Jeremy, her… or you?”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/219873.html. You can comment here or there.

Linkback Incentive Story – A Family Tree

Dec21

Five years ago

“Aren’t I supposed to be the twister, the chaos-bringer?”

Spring looked at her older sister, trying to hide her amusement and really not succeeding at all. Her sister, in return, looked back at her with a glare that could melt paint.

“You are supposed to be, at the moment, helping me, and not telling Mom.”

“Have no fear, I still owe you for that… incident. But I want a picture.”

“Spring, if you don’t get me out of this damn tree, I’m going to get Winter to organize your sock drawer!”

“Coming, coming. Oy, Autumn, when did you get so cranky?”

Four years ago

“Explain to me again what you’re doing?” Summer sat on her sister’s bed, watching the haphazard packing and surreptitiously smoothing everything out, organizing it, and, just because she could, laying luck and happiness charms in every single shirt and pair of panties.

“I’m going on the road, more or less.”

“The RV thingy in the driveway would suggest that, yes. Weren’t you going to do college?”

“I was going to, but, well, Winter’s good at school and you’re going to be brilliant and… and I won’t be, either of those things. So the money’s for you two.”

“Nobel of you.”

“Ain’t it?”

Three years ago

“So how long are you going to do this?” Winter studied Autumn’s chaotic receipts, and, with a long-suffering sigh, began stacking them into organized piles.

“As long as I can afford to, as long as it’s fun, as long as it teaches me something.”

“You know you sound like Spring, right?”

“Well, it’s not as if she has a monopoly on making a mess, you know. She just happens to be the best at Tangling the world up.”

“All you seem to tangle up is your own life.”

She sighed. “That’s only the half of it, big brother, trust me.”

Two years ago

“I’m just saying, Autumn, you could bring someone home you actually intend to have a relationship with. He’s a nice boy, and he’s very appreciative of my cooking, but isn’t there going to be a special someone in your life? Even Spring has boyfriends.”

“Spring, generally, has boyfriends for about an hour. Maybe a month and a half if she’s been around Winter a lot.”

“Well, that’s Spring. You don’t need to be a chaos-demon, you know. One of those in the family is really quite enough.”

Autumn shook her head at her mother. “Mom,” she sighed, “I don’t TRY to make messes.”

One year ago
“I love your family, Autumn m’dear, but I get the feeling they’re not quite as fond of me.”

“It’s not that they don’t like you, Gregor, it’s that…”

“That I’m not the sort of boy that’s going to bring any grandkids. Although with a family of four, you’d think your mother would cut you some slack.”

“I’m supposed to be the ‘family’ one. Winter’s in charge of being level-headed, I’m in charge of being good with people…”

“Summer’s in charge of bad relationship decisions?”

“You saw that, too? Well, someone has to make the bad choices.” It shouldn’t always be her.

Thanksgiving, this year

“I know what it is,” Spring muttered to Winter. “I know what she’s doing.”

“Do you?” he asked gently, looking over at Autumn; his date and Spring’s were discussing business, much to everyone’s surprise; Autumn was making bad jokes with Summer’s dates and her own perpetual escort.

“You taught me how to see the tangles, Winter, I know you can see that one. The wild knot around her heart? The mess she’s pretending isn’t there?”

“Spring,” he answered, just as gently, “she’s always been a tangle. Chaos follows her.”

His littlest sister sulked. “Being a chaos-harbinger is my job.”

“It is. It’s her destiny, however.”

~fin~

This is Tir na Cali. Cali has a landing page here (or on LJ)

This story comes after Revenge of the Pumpkins (DW), When in Rome (and on LJ), which is after Too Hot for Prime Time (and on LJ) from September’s Giraffe Call.

“Lady, ma’am, Mistress,” Jason gulped, “I have no idea what is going on.”

Her eyes met his in the rear-view mirror, and her voice was gentle as she spoke to him. “You know the important things, Jason. I have bought you, and you are mine now, correct?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he answered, too nervous to even feel resentful.

“When nobody else was interested, because of your spunk and attitude. That part’s important, don’t forget that.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he echoed, and, because she had mentioned his spunk, he added, “so you shopped the bargain bin for me. I get it.”

“That, too,” she agreed. “But it’s important to remember that I bought you for that spunk, not just because no-one else wanted it.”

He nodded slowly. “You wanted someone with… a personality?”

“Among other things. I wanted someone with some life left in them.”

“You make me sound like a bull in the arena,” he complained.

“That’s exactly right.” Before he could balk at that analogy, she continued. “You know you belong to me. You know why I bought you. You know that today is Samhain, Hallowe’en. And you know that I have a costume waiting for you. What else do you need?”

“Why are they dragging that woman away?” he tried. “Okay, revenge of the food, but this seems a little extreme. She’s crying.”

“You would, too. She’s been picked to tithe to the poor and needy for the next year.”

“Like that? By being hit with a stick?”

“Just like that.”

Jason shook his head. “You people are crazy, Mistress. Absolutely buck nutty.”

“Foreign,” she corrected. “We’re a lot different from your people, but that’s not the same as crazy.”

“Looks the same from here,” he admitted.

“Well, you’ll have to learn.” Stopped at a light, she looked back at him. “Make no mistake, Jason, while I’m interested in your ‘spunk,’ I am not interested in disobedience. I will give you clear rules. If you do not follow them, you will be punished. If you continue to disobey, I will sell you. And the place I will sell you to will make the work camps look like a vacation resort. Do you understand?”

Jason gulped, and nodded. “Yes, Mistress.” Shit, shit shit. “I understand. I’ll be obedient.”

“I know you will.” Her smile, this time, was sharp and predatory. “Mind you, there’s nothing saying you can’t be a brat. You just have to be an obedient brat.”

“O… okay. So it’s safe to say I think you’re crazy?”

“In private, yes. In front of other people, I might not be so tolerant.”

“… you people are all nuts. Mistress.”

“And you will learn how to live with us, Jason. Or else.”

Jason gulped. “Yes, Mistress. And are you going to tell me why you have a costume for me?”

“I could tell you why,” she decided. “I knew I was buying someone today. And we always do a costume event at the ranch for Samhain, getting in the spirit, you know?”

Jason nodded nervously. “Okay. So you… have a costume for some slave you might buy?”

“Well, you wouldn’t want to be left out, would you?” she smirked. “When everyone else is getting into the celebration?”

“Mistress,” he answered, as honestly as he could, “I don’t know what I’d be being left out of.”

“You’ll see soon,” she assured him. “We’re almost there.”

“Oh, good,” he answered tiredly, and settled back into his seat. The cuffs were pressing against his back, his feet and other bits were getting chilled, but it wasn’t the slave shop anymore, not the auction hall, and not a work camp.

He didn’t want to think things were looking up, he really didn’t. That seemed like asking for more trouble. And there was this weird Hallowe’en thing to contend with, and the unknown costume…

And a garage. His new owner was pulling into a large garage, between an SUV and a Mustang. “I do well enough for myself,” she answered his unspoken question. “Wait here.”

“Yes, Mistress.” What else was he going to do? He waited, while she headed out into the garage and disappeared from sight, waited while his fingers and hands started to grow numb and he started drifting off.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/198573.html. You can comment here or there.

Target

Dec17

From kc_obrien‘s prompt.

Facets of Dusk is still lacking a landing page; Tir na Cali’s page is here and here on LJ

“Her?”

The Agent set down her scope and shook her head. “She doesn’t seem like all that much, Joe. She’s pretty enough, but nothing stunning.”

“Look again,” her partner insisted. “Look at her eyes.”

The Agent took another look, and set down her scope far more carefully. “Shit,” she shook her head. “What in the Consort’s pants are we going to do with that?”

“Run?” her partner suggested. “Running sounds good.”

~

“What do you mean?” Cole was impatient with, well, with everything, but with things that were esoteric, magical, he was even less tolerant than Simon. He shook his head at Josie. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Actually, she is,” Alexa corrected gently. “The Doors don’t always lead to the same place every time, that we know. It seems to be part volition, part unknown variables – and I think one of those unknown variables could very easily be a pulling from the other side.”

“A need,” Josie agreed, “or something very intense.”

~

Blaise stared at the small fire in her back yard, the roasting remains of the pigeon crackling as bits of fat fell into the flames. If she burnt it enough, maybe nobody would ever find out how it had died. If she roasted this area enough, maybe noobdy would ever know what she had done.

“Blaise!” Her mother, she thought dispassionately, sounded terrified. Sometimes she thought the daft bitch knew more than she let on. “Blaise, honey, step away from the fire, please. You know how much I worry about flame.”

She closed her eyes, willing the inferno back inside of her. “Yeah, mom,” she murmured, trying to sound innocent. Naive. “Yeah, Mom, I know.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/198972.html. You can comment here or there.

Encyclopedia Californica: The Modified Humanoid in Tir na Cali Culture

Nov20

This is the comment perk from the October Giraffe Call, a setting piece on the Tir na Cali cat-people. For whom I really need their own icon.

The Modified Humanoid in Tir na Cali Culture

History

The trend toward today’s Modified Humanoid, or “Moddies,” began as a fad for cosmetically altered slaves in the early sixties.

The first on record were a set of three cat-girls, triplets who were modified to have pointed cat-like ears, tails with some mobility, and dental work to look like sharp, cat-like fangs. The trio belonged to the tycoon Madison Arthur, a man who took great pleasure in appearing as eccentric as possible.

Others soon followed, modified with ever-increasing skill from a small cadre of experienced cosmetic surgeons and the empowered, to look like everything from house pets – dog-girls and mouse-boys – to predators – crocodile-men and wolf-women – to the fantastic – dragon-beings and, once, a failed pair of centaurs.

These slaves, altered through a combination of internal power and surgery to appear in some way inhuman, were genetically and biologically still completely humanoid. Their brain chemistry was still entirely “normal,” and their children, when they were bred, were of course still humanoid. They were no stronger, no more aggressive, no quicker than a normal human, either, and thus the purpose of their modifications was entirely cosmetic.

The trend towards owning “moddies” came and went, as with any fad, and, as with the sad accessories of any fad, the modified slaves were left by the wayside when the trend passed. Some were consigned to fieldwork who have been pampered house slaves; a few lucky ones were modified further to suit the new trend, or returned to their “natural” state. With each surge of the trend, the technology, science, and skill of the innately powered modifiers became more refined, and with each surge, the modified humanoids looked more and more realistic.

The second true wave of modified humanoids have only recently come into existence; the first genetically modified humanoid was made known to the general public in 2002. There are, of course, rumors that the Agency had been working on these genetic changes for as long as a decade earlier, and the rumors of second-generation genetically altered beings seems to lend credence to this theory.

These modified humanoids, better described, perhaps, as “scientifically produced hybrid species” are created by manipulation at the genetic level. At this date, the only producer of said hybrids is the Agency; all known attempts to make genetic hybrids outside of the Agency’s labs have resulted in, at best, failure, and, at worse, death. As such, all such experiments are illegal, save on volunteer free subjects.

The hybrids produced by the Agency are to their predecessors what a real tiger is to a children’s drawing of one. While a well-modified cat-girl might ape the behaviors of a cat, and, in modern times, have catlike ears, tail, and sometimes whiskers and claws that move naturally and serve as part of her body, the Agency’s well-protected hybrid cat-humanoids have brain chemistry and behavior patterns that, in many ways, are more feline than human.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/181097.html. You can comment here or there.

And Sisterhood

Nov15

For @daHob’s offline prompt.

This is in the Tír na Cali Setting, which has a landing page here (and on LJ), with characters I have not used before. It comes rather soon after Brothers and Brotherhood (LJ).

“Cotswald told me I’d find you here.”

Caleb glanced up from his book, refusing to jump, refusing to look nervous. Marianne was not the enemy. Next to him, Cye was having less of an easy time of it. “We weren’t hiding.”

“Clearly not well enough.” She sat down near them. “You weren’t at dinner. The Lady Mother noticed.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“That works for you, does it?” She pulled a couple rolls out of her pocket. “I know Cye’s mom will make sure you don’t starve, but you have to leave the library for that.”

“I like the library.” He took the offered rolls anyway, and passed one to Cye. “Thanks, Mare.”

“Hey, I like to look out for you, when I can.” She pulled three cookies out of her pocket and shared them around. “She’s on a rampage, you know.”

What was new? “Cotswald was looking for Simeon.”

“He wasn’t at dinner either. Probably why she noticed you weren’t there.”

Caleb winced. It was one thing to be invisible, another thing to have your nose rubbed in it. “Does this have something to do with Baroness Jacoba’s younger daughter?”

“That squinty half-wit? For everyone’s sake, I hope not.” She filled her mouth with cookie for a few minutes, and they all sat in passably companionable silence.

“Me, too,” Cye offered shyly after a moment. “Your ladyship.”

“You, too, wha… oh, Jacoba’s daughter? Why’s that?”

“She beats her slaves. Not all of them, I mean, but her companion.” Unspoken, because they all knew it: if she beat her slaves, would she beat her husband’s slaves? Would she beat her husband?

Marianne looked grim for a moment. “Thank you for that information, Cye,” she said gently. “I’ll lean on our Lady Mother, if she is talking to Baroness Jacoba about something other than land rights.”

“Thanks, Mare,” Caleb murmured quietly. It would probably be Simeon and not him, if it was anyone, but still…

She smiled crookedly at him. “I owe you two, for what you did with Michel ó Gwydion at that dance last month. And besides,” she added, when both of them flinched at the memory, “you’re my kid brother, Caleb. And you’re his, Cye. I have to look out for you two.”

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