AUTHOR'S NOTE
Thanks for reading this, and for putting the "H" on the previous submission. Hope you enjoy.
Edited by Redscaledknight, a gentleman of worth.
Consultation by LibraLady4U.
Two Years Later
Was this who she was?
Jenny Stirling's chest was bare, her breasts pointed like soft little pyramids, coy smile playing on her lips. She dipped the cotton ball into the amber bottle, tapped off the excess moisture, and held it to her.
Adriana Challette, Grand Duchess of Rotham, pushed her black hair back, leaned forward and took in the intoxicant's sweet fumes. The high came immediately, euphoria erupting like sweat from her pores. Her eyes were open, but she saw nothing, the world had become a swirl of color, strokes of a master painter.
"Do you require release, Your Grace?"
Jenny Stirling's words echoed over and over, but she could not recall if they were said seconds or hours ago. All she knew now was that her head lay against her pillow, gazing upwards at the stars in their strange rotation across the sky. They reminded her of the sparks evoked when sword met sword, or perhaps the stars were more like those evanescent flickers...
"
Do you require release, Your Grace?
"
"Yes," she commanded the nothingness.
Something stirred deep from below... her naked legs being spread by familiar yet curious hands. Something warm and wet touched her from within, lapping at her most feminine of places. Adriana opened her lips to moan, a fragrant smoke escaped from her lips... monk's incense, her lungs burning sandalwood and lilacs.
There were many words for what Jenny Stirling was, most of them hedged the truth: "bedmate", "night servant", "the private attendant"... but what brought Adriana to profound pleasure was a mere masturbation aid, just a tongue and some fingers, whose sole purpose was to ameliorate a virtuous young lady's frustration. Jenny was to be nothing more than that. That was by decree of the Saints.
Through the euphoric haze, Adriana gazed at the three ladies-in-waiting at her attendance, each looking frightfully uncomfortable, eyes downcast, their bodies stiff and hands folded their laps. Their role was to watch for behavior that was unseemly and unnatural between ladies, that which the Saints of Light held depraved. A job they performed admirably. In her eighteen years Adriana had not put her lips on anything but her father's brow.
Adriana twisted a curl of Jenny's blond hair.
What would my subjects think if they saw me like this?
she wondered,
To see their calm, collected Duchess writhing in lust to the ministrations of another woman?
She forgot. Jenny was not a "woman", not in her function right now. It was an easy thing to forget, especially beneath the lotus. Timelessness made certain things lose meaning. Desires long bottled frothed beneath their corks.
Jenny's lips smacked softly against her labia. Adriana loved that strange, elegant sound of two wet things separating from one another; it took her far from herself, the loving noise lulling her into sleep...
###
Adriana had servants to wake her up, but it was always duty that roused her. Jenny Stirling was still fast asleep, snoring peacefully, her arm wrapped around the Duchess's pale chest. She had to ease it off without waking the poor girl up.
Her bedroom had picked up a chill overnight, but she would not have to feel it long. Her ladies-in-waiting descended upon her, taking her like a chattering tornado to her dressing room. Any man would dream of being stripped from their clothes by these girls, the nubile, unmarried daughters of aristocrats and industrialists. But for Adriana it was a routine wordlessly accepted. She was bathed, washed and brushed, the girls would shave the fuzz from her legs and armpits, then finally they chose a dress for her.
Today, they chose a light white sundress paired with elegant white boots. An older woman applied a powdery blush to her skin and a pale gloss to her lips. Adriana preferred light cosmetics. She thought the lead paints slathered over some women of the court to be dreadful.
The sword she put on herself.
Her stylist had long refused to buckle it on. She thought it vulgar for a woman to wear a sword, a heresy of fashion, but Adriana wanted it all the same. The sword's weight was comfortable and pleasing, and should she need to take it out, the ripples on its surface reassured her with steel of exceeding quality. Her blade was supposed to be called
The Duchess's Heart,
which was inlaid in florid lettering to the surface, but Adriana found it to be as ill-fitting as her stylist thought the sword. She referred to it instead as
Papercut,
after what its certificate of authenticity had once given her.
At six-thirty she was expected in the dining room for breakfast. It did not feel odd to her that she should be the only one sitting at the massive banquet table as a row of soldiers, courtiers, civil servants and petitioners stood at attention. Her chefs had made something light and good for the Duchess's skin, a piece of toast topped with pink salmon and inky caviar, topped with a garnish of parsley. An attendant brought her some fragrant tea and squeezed orange juice, a little pulpy and sour, which was to the Duchess's taste. She hung onto every word of Harold Massey, the minister who each day would run through the day's schedule and alert her to events that demanded the Duchess's attention.
"...Overnight you have received five new offers of marriage," said Massey, reading from a clipboard, "The first is from Rory Quentin, the Earl of Bearwood..."
The Duchess swallowed a portion of the salmon and wiped her mouth. "He is over fifty. Besides, he is no longer the Earl of Bearwood. He was deposed."
Massey bowed. "My apologies, Your Grace. He still styles himself an Earl." He continued reading. "The second is from —"
The Duchess was tired of hearing of marriage proposals. "If you wouldn't mind, Massey, I'd like to move onto domestic matters."
Massey cleared his throat. "Very well, Your Grace. Three more bodies were found in the Blackwater last night. The newspapers are declaring this the work of the Weeping Maiden..."
The papers could scarcely stop talking of the Weeping Maiden. The Duchess supposed that a vengeful female killer preying on men was more exciting than another stabbed whore on the harbor. Still, they probably expected her to do something about it. "Issue a reward of a fifty pounds to whoever can capture the Weeping Maiden."
"...On top of the hundred we are already offering?" ask Massey.
Adriana didn't know about that. "No, a hundred is fine. We don't want people to start beheading harlequins." She popped the rest of toast in her mouth and listened to Massey intently.
"...Negotiations between H. Humbert and Sons and their employees have deteriorated. The workers are barricaded inside the factories. Some think this is the start of another Great Unrest..."
Adriana swallowed the last of her breakfast. "Tell my brother—"
Massey looked uncomfortable as he corrected Adriana. "—
Your cousin
, Your Grace..."
Adriana gave Massey a hostile glance. "He's my brother, half or not, a bastard or not."
"Your Grace," continued Massey, "calling him a 'brother' has certain political implications..."
Adriana huffed. "Tell John Clay, Captain of the City Guard,
my cousin,
to take down the barricades, but also suggest, in the interests of the city, to the Humbert Company that their workers be allowed to unionize."
"Yes Your Grace... there is one other matter. Your cousin Gwenevere Challette is arriving today in from Svandia... I have taken the liberty of scheduling you some time with her in the gardens, before your fencing lessons."
Gwenevere... it had been six years since they had last seen each other, though at the rate they exchanged letters she always felt much closer. She had four years over her, and had seen as her concerns went from handsome knights and dragons to issues of state, foremost being marriage. They were far apart in peerage now. Adriana ruled not just a duchy but an empire, her title commanded allegiance from kings, foreigners, rakes, murderers, nobles and armies.
Gwenevere, however, would never command anything, not since her mother produced a male heir. It made tittering with her as productive as fishing in the Blackwater, but that was exactly why she wanted to do it. Stars, sparks, swords, Jenny's serpent tongue plying against her cunt, the imagined kisses of a man of worth... and Gwenevere, with the promise of comfortable, idle chatter... these things washed away thoughts of flagpoles, peacocks, pens, guns, treaties, miters, gavels, barristers and wigs. A diversion... if only for a short while.
"Excellent," she said, "I'll be eager to see her."
###
Everything about Marcus Challette reminded her of a raven.
Most of all it was his midnight black hair, the shade all Challettes were known for. On him, it was long, it framed his head like a cloak. His doublet, breeches and cape were all the same shade, dark velvet of fine quality. A frown had become a feature, spoiling what should be a smooth, young face with something twisted and grim.
It was that grimness that made him perversely handsome... to some girls, at least.
As Adriana approached he stiffened alarmingly. He was very tall if not broad, and even a slight movement was noticeable.
"My lady Adriana..." he spoke reverently, bowing slightly with his hand over his heart.
"Cousin Marcus, how goes my uncle?"
Marcus cleared his throat. "Sickly. He sends his apologies."
Thank the Saints.
There were few words to express how much Adriana preferred Marcus over his father, and Marcus was awkward, clumsy, and humorless.
Her champion, Fiona, smiled pleasantly on seeing her and sauntered over. She had somehow become middle-aged, her hair a sandy blond with a that famous streak of white. In truth, she had only started to earn the lines to match the gray spot she'd been born with . When Fiona used to carry Adriana on her shoulders, the heir of Rotham would run her chubby fingers down that same streak. "Silver on gold," Fiona would boast.
Unfortunately, that was not Fiona's most notable feature any longer. A leather eye patch was slipped over one side of her face, a strap really, cut from a thick, sturdy hide. Even so, it was not large enough to conceal all the burns that spread beneath it, a black shadow creeping across her left cheek and seeping above her eyebrow. It was a wound earned in the Great Unrest ten years ago. A wound that had made Fiona a living legend.
"How's my girl?" Fiona brushed the hair from Adriana's face.
"Fiona..." said Adriana.
They took each other into their arms. As a child Adriana always confused Fiona for an aunt. Her father was the first to remind her, ever so sternly, that servants were not family. Fiona was to champion her and die for her, if necessary, but she was not be her friend. But Duke Corliss II was dying now himself, bound to his bed, and no longer the duke besides. She could do what she wanted.
Fiona patted Adriana on the head. "Let's not dawdle. It's too rare a day to be cramped up in that palace." Fiona's voice had a trace of gravel in it, it was rich and mature.
"Mother is not with you, I take it?"
Fiona frowned. "Lady Tetra is by your father today. She's not feeling well."
