I have known Moira deRossier since we were both three years old, and she has been like a sister to me. My parents, Gaspard and Marie Toulard, the Duke and Duchess of Soleil, agreed to foster her as my companion, educating her as I was educated, training her as I was trained, and offering her every comfort our station could provide.
The only difference is that she is my whipping girl.
I learned of her purpose in our family when I stole sweets from the kitchen when I was a young girl. Moira had begged me not to, afraid that I'd get caught, but I thought I was far too clever to be found out. Unfortunately I was seven - I wasn't nearly clever enough. My parents were away to survey their holdings in the north, leaving us in the care of our nanny. Our people believe in divine right - the gods put the blood of my family in power, and it is an affront to them to punish one of the royal blood if you haven't a drop of it in your own veins.
Such a thing presented problems when discipline was required and my parents were not present to administer it. And that was why Moira had been fostered.
Our nanny informed me of Moira's purpose then, and I had to watch as she was punished in my stead. It wasn't anything outrageous or harmful - a spanking. But still, Moira was a delicate little thing, and having anyone seem mad at her made her cry. So for her to be spanked and scolded put her into a state. That made me feel terrible, so for many years I made it a point to be as well behaved as I could.
And when I couldn't stand it, I learned to be so clever that I wasn't caught. Which brings us to the present day.
Moira, of course, suffers my adventures patiently, my loyalest and truest friend and accomplice. She provides countless alibis for me, especially during receptions, fetes, balls, and the like. I can't stand them. Being dressed up and paraded around as the only child of my royal parents, and then hearing the whispered pity of the other nobles that I hadn't been born a boy... it's enough to drive one mad. Imagine countless indignities like that, and you might understand why I've grown up to be so deviant.
It isn't that I look the part of ne'er-do-well. My own name is Aveline Toulard, and I clearly come from royal stock. Even now at the age of eighteen, I have filled out appropriately, my height of 5' 7" stately enough in a dress without providing an affront to any of the gentleman dignitaries that visit us. My father is very tall, and had his daughter been of the same stature, I'm sure things might have been somewhat difficult for him. Instead, I am finely boned and beautiful, elegant, fair-skinned, silver-eyed, and blessed with ringlets of rich brown hair that, when left unbound, tickle at my lower back.
Moira also comes from the aristocracy, and she looks the part. Her hair is black, but it curls just like mine does, and is just as long and silky. Her physique is milder, svelte and elfin, and her personality is demure and gentle. Moira has a love of beautiful things, like poetry and music, while I love adventure, danger, and risks. We are very different, but our bond is strong. Some mistake us for sisters, and I can hardly blame them for their error. I love her like she's family.
Despite all that, I am yet again in trouble.
My handler Tomas, an older man who'd taken over responsibility for me when our Nanny became too old for the task, glares at me, looking over my filthy hands, face, and clothes. I'd stolen a pair of pants and a tunic, and had lit out on my father's old war horse, a stallion named Maelstrom. Despite his age, Maelstrom lives up to his name, but I can handle him. Or, rather, I usually can. This time I was thrown as I was racing him through the field. A flock of partridges had screamed and fluttered up out of the grasses, and Maelstrom was caught by surprise, immediately skidding to a stop. I kept going right over his head and tumbled to the dirt some ways away. I wasn't really hurt, but the bruises would be impossible to hide. I led Maelstrom back to the stables on foot, not attempting to lie about my mischief.
"You cannot risk your foolish neck with foolish stunts, Aveline!" Tomas yells tiredly, rubbing at his temple.
This is the first time I've been caught in several years, and I feel great apprehension about it. If the punishment were to come to me I'd hardly care. But I know it's not going to, not this time. Again, father is away. Mother passed from an illness many years ago, and father's duties frequently keep him away for months on end.
"I know, Tomas" I say, feeling like I've been saying this on repeat endlessly for the last hour. It's obviously that he wants to strike me in the face and be done with it, but if he lays a hand upon me his life will be forfeit. I'd hate for that to happen - I like Tomas quite a lot.
He scowls, then sighs. "Where's Moira?"
My face flushes. I want to protest - Moira hasn't had to suffer this indignity for some time, and I swore to her that the last time would be just that. The last. But I've let her down, and I only hang my head in shame as I wait for Tomas to go find her. Likely he won't have to look for long. Moira loves spending the mornings in the library, studying or reading for pleasure with a cup of tea. I pace back and forth, my heart racing. Damnit. DAMNIT! Why did the foolish horse have to startle? Then again... why was I out racing him when I'd been told time and again that he was prone to doing precisely that? A firm hand and seat are necessary to keep him focused, and I'd not been providing with either.
Within twenty minutes, Tomas returns to the stable yard with Moira in tow. She gives me a look that's full of disappointment, and that hurts more than anything else. Her frock today is plain but pretty, the laces of her bodice resting over her small bottom, the gray material clean and soft and well-tailored.
Tomas orders her to undress to the waist, and Moira flushes hotly. She's so shy about her body, and I glance around, noting a few stable hands going about their business. Yet there's nothing for it, and Moira pulls the laces loose behind her, rolling her shoulders up from her sleeves and pulling the front of her dress down, baring herself. Her slender arms hug around her small breasts, and she shivers in the chill of this March morning.
The punishment is brutal but quick - ten lashes with his folded belt, each one cracking down on her small back and leaving bruises and welts in its wake. Moira trembles and grits her teeth, but she doesn't make a sound, determined to carry out her duty and take the punishment on my behalf. When it's over, Tomas drops the belt on the ground and moves over to her immediately, guiding her with gentle words and hands back inside, and I'm left to stand there in the yard to contemplate what I've done.
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Later that evening, after I shower, dress properly, and we all take our dinner in silence, I find Moira up in her room, sitting on her bed. A candle that was probably snuffed out recently smokes in coils of blue and gray against the moonlight. Very quietly I slip inside and close the door again, but she doesn't move, aside from turning her head just enough to listen to me lock the door again.
"Moira, I know you're mad at me, and I'm so sorry," I say at last, moving to kneel by her bed, where she's currently sitting.
