She of Pale Hair, Chapter One

I couldn't stop my hands from shaking as I stepped out of the carriage. My Mistress locked her arm with me after the first few steps and patted my head, her fingers tracing tiny circles on my head.

“Calm down, petite. I'm sure everyone will love you,” she said. Her fingers lingered in my hair, playing with loops of my long white hair. It was a crude, animal sort of comfort, but I accepted it all the same.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, bowing my head. We began to walk up the marble steps to the Royal Palace, with me lifting the hem of her dress to stop it from dragging. It was a heavy crème dress with white lace accents, adding to her bulk. Mistress thought it matched my hair and skin.

I had read that Grand Hall of Luflaria's Royal Palace was the largest enclosed room on the continent. I was prepared for a hall big enough to hold my Mistress' manor within it; I found that my imagination could not do it justice. The Hall was filled with a town's worth of people-- servants bustling between work, nobles dancing and mingling in heavy clothing, their accessorized slaves in tow. Every inch of the walls was covered with artwork, beautiful portraits and Luflarian landscapes; or oil-burning sconces, filling the hall with the light of a summer's sun. Try as I might, I couldn't see the other end of the hall. It faded away, vanishing over the horizon.

I felt a sharp prick on the small of my back and stifled the urge to yelp. Mistress' fingers wrapped around my shoulder and neck from behind, and I looked over to her with wide eyes. As I craned my neck to face her, the tendons of my neck bulged against her fingers. What could I have done to earn the sting of her needle ring?

“Petite,” she whispered, “all eyes are going to be on you. Don't stand so slack-jawed.”

“Yes, Mistress.” She was right. With my bone-white skin and hair and my pinkish eyes, I was certainly the most unusual sight at court that day. Only a few people openly stared, but nearly everyone looked twice. I took a shuddering breath and hoped dearly not to embarrass Mistress. She was normally a very lenient woman, but had made it clear in the ride to the palace that she was not above using her ring on more intimate places if the situation warranted it. I walked with the light, regal step I had been taught early in my training. Mistress walked with a casually, plodding step, but the eyes were all on me after all. That was why we were here, living testaments to the wealth and discernment of our Masters.

“Countess du Palais,” said a man with a ruffled cravate and an even more ruffled moustache said. Following him on a thin chain lead was a young man dressed in the sheer gauze wrappings popular in far-away Flai Fren. “My compliments on your recent acquisition.”

The man brushed my cheek with his thumb, and I smiled for him as Mistress patted my head approvingly. “Isn't she just darling?” she said.

“Just so, madame.” The man's thumb passed over my lips and Mistress pressed her fingernails into my scalp. I closed my eyes and let my lips open for the man. His thumb felt rough as it slipped across my teeth and the roof of my mouth. I made a small, soft sound of pleasure, which earned me a gentle scratch from Mistress. “And obedient! Wherever did you find her?”

“They found her in Opland, near the boarder, or so I'm told,” Mistress replied. The man took his thumb out of my mouth with a wet sucking sound. A thin line of saliva still connected his nail to my lip until he wiped it against my cheek. It was cold and sticky, but of course it would be rude to ripe it off. I looked to Mistress and at the nod of her head looked back to the man who had pressed himself inside me.

 “Thank you very much, Your Grace,” I said in my high, sweet slave's voice.The term of address was a gamble. The man had approached Mistress first, so he outranked her, but I couldn't be sure he was a Duke or someone else meriting a “Your Grace”. But I wanted to demonstrate that, unlike the boy who trailed behind him, I was something more than a mindless doll.

He raised his eyebrow. “Few Oplanders with such manners.”

Mistress laughed. “Simone is quite a rare girl, Duke Laborde.”

“That reminds me. Duchess de Craon and I were discussing the recent corn shortages, if you cared to add a more Northern perspective,” Laborde said. He might as well have winked afterwards. It was a social invitation, nothing more. A Countess meeting with Dukes was quite an occurrence, and I felt a little bit of pride that I had catalyzed it. Mistress ran her hands through my hair, making my whole head tingle. She was pleased. We followed Laborde through the crowds for a long while until we came upon a dignified lady with a broad-shouldered slave kneeling to massage her thigh, his head resting against her. Mistress and her new acquaintances discussed recent events for a while, and I strained to listen. The stories required more context than I had, and my attention wandered. Laborde's slave boy kept a fair distance from him, looking at the paintings on the wall with glass eyes. I wondered what kind of a man needed a lead for his slave. He looked young, too, barely eighteen at best.A  preference for youth was, of course, common, but an eighteen year old was too young to have mastered all the skills of a court slave. My opinion of Laborde soured. What a weak man. De Craon was barely any better. Her dress was a simple thing, barely more dignified than my own, and her slave did his job mechanically, with those same glassy slave eyes. A birthmark marred his cheek.

I glanced at Mistress, but if she realized the company she'd fallen into she didn't show it. They may have been Dukes, but not very likeable ones. Perhaps that was why it was just the two of them gossiping together.

I barely noticed the messenger come and tap Mistress on the shoulder.

“Your Illustriousness,” said the messenger, “I come with a message from Minister Compere.”

Mistress' eyes popped and she reached for my shoulder, the metal of her ring digging into my shoulder. “Do tell, boy.”

“Minister Compere requests an audience with the pale-haired girl.” His eyes darted from me to Mistress to the floor and back again, and I could smell his sweat. Mistress turned to me.

“Come, petite, we'll be right there.” Her eyes were filled with wild hope. The messenger boy cleared his throat.

“Minister Compere requested a private audience.” He winced as though he expected to be hit, but Mistress only slowed down for a heartbeat.

“All for the better, as I have business here,” she remarked. She locked eyes with me and pressed just the tip of her needle into my skin. “Be a good girl for the Minister of Finance, won't you, Simone?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The servant lead me out of the Hall and into a library. On heavy oak shelves were more books than I had ever seen, packed together tightly. The titles I could read dealt with economics or philosophy, but there were many more in languages I couldn't recognize. Rows of shelves cut little alcoves into the room. In a clearing amid the shelves was a sitting space, with a red leather couch studded with gold and a few blocky wooden chairs.

“Minister Compere will be with you shortly,” the boy said. “Please strip, and kneel by the sofa.”

He stammered as he relayed the instructions and I narrowed my eyes at him. Only a complete ingénue wouldn't be used to outrageous orders from nobles. Only a complete ingénue would be so polite to a slave.

I slipped my dress off, letting it pool on the floor, shooting the boy a soft, shy smile. He glanced at my chest with his hand over his mouth, eyes opening wide. I took a half step towards him, took a lock of my hair in between my fingers and played with it, and that was enough. The boy blushed furiously and turned on his heels, marching out of the room. I chuckled just before he was out of earshot. I was naked except for my collar, a thin piece of leather studded with moonstone and diamond with a heavy lock in the back. I ran my thumb over one of the warm moonstones and sighed.

I kneeled next to the sofa. The imported carpeting had a geometric design, shapes-within-shapes cascading from a circle enveloping the rug down to tiny things of only a few stitches. Those little stitched triangles and squares scraped up against my bare knees. I held my face forward and folded my hands in my lap.

There was a clock somewhere in the library's nooks, ticking down the passing seconds. I swallowed, my tongue dry in my mouth. The seconds stretched on, and I resisted the urge to count them by the noise.

The bookshelf opposite me was jam-packed, extra volumes tucked above the main row to squeeze in more. My eyesight wasn't good, but if I squinted I could make out the titles. Philosophical texts, it seemed, some of which I had read back in Opland. Mostly Luflarian, but Oplandish and Flennish works as well.

The clock kept ticking. I resisted the urge to look any way but face-forward. It was important that I make a good impression for Minister Compere. Not just for Mistress, but for the sake of my own pride.

The clock ticked. There were fifty-two books in the row directly opposite me, with five on top of them. I swallowed, my tongue dry in my mouth. I wondered what the carpet under me was made of. I thought Western carpeting was supposed to be soft. It could have been a Luflarian knockoff, but nobody in the Royal Palace would accept such a forgery.

Though the air was cool, sweat started to bead on my back and in my armpits. I took a slow, shaky breath. I was starting to regret not counting the seconds. How long had it been?

My legs ached, but I was used to it. I had endured worse with Mistress. It was the smaller things that were getting to me. My neck ached and my shoulders shook with the strain of keeping my impeccable posture. I kept forcing myself to stare forward, but it was taking its toll.

Sweat trickled down my back and my knees quivered. As they shifted, I felt them peel from the carpet, leaving those geometric patterns embed in my knee. I wondered if they might bleed.

A dust mote was caught when I breathed in, sending me into a coughing fit. I almost fell to the floor, but I forced myself to keep my back straight, like it was against a wall. After that, it was harder, fighting against myself, my own desire to lie down, or stretch, or look around.

The clock was wearing at me. It was mocking me. I shouldn't have taken the messenger at his word. Nobles aren't often in a rush to meet with slaves. My hands balled up in my lap, fingernails digging into palm. The fleeting pain distracted me from the agony of kneeling.

Tick.

I didn't hear the footsteps. I just heard a soft voice behind me. “Hold this, Simone.”

She put a weight on the top of my head. My neck screamed out at me, but I would not lose here. My tendons bulged, locking my head into position. A tear escaped the corner of my eye and I took another shuddering breath.

“Impressive. Fall.”

I collapsed onto the ground in a wet, gently crying puddle, holding my shoulders and shaking. The rug left overlapping shapes all over the sensitive skin of my knees, and I was, in fact, bleeding, blood running over my skin like rose petals scattered over chalk.

The ticking was suddenly absent. I turned over and looked at Minister Compere, blinking away tears. She held a metronome, regarding it like a little jewel. The crying came back worse, a sob choking out of my throat.

“Sit,” Compere said. I sat with my legs folded under me, grateful for a little bit of relief.

“Eyes on me.” She was a woman of thirty or so, with a thin nose, a pair of silvered-framed glasses, and dark hair pulled behind her head. I kept my watery eyes trained on her, and she stared into them.

“Hopefully you are not too tired from the wait,” she remarked. I kept looking at her.

She cleared her throat. “Simone, you have permission to speak to me as it pleases you, so long as you don't interrupt.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency.”

To speak unfettered was a privilege, at least with other educated people. It also made impressing Minister Compere difficult.

“Call me Madame. Madame Rosalie,” she said, breaking my chain of thought. I quirked my eyebrow at her and she shot me a look.

“Are you questioning me?”

“No, Madame.” There was a sharp blow to my cheek. Madame Rosalie held a riding crop in her hand; I hadn't noticed it.

“Think before you speak, Simone. I hate liars, hypocrites, and idiots.”

“Yes, Madame, my apologies.” I bowed my head and she lifted it gently back up with her crop under my chin.

“As long as you understand my expectations, you will be fine. I am not here for niceties,” she said, crossing her feet over each other. She wore riding boots and trousers. I let out a breath at that.

“Sit by me,” she commanded. I stood on my foal's legs, resisting my instinct to support myself on the couch that was worth more than I was.

Suddenly, the ground was in my face. My vision blurred and Madame Rosalie sighed. Strong fingers wrapped around my thin arms and yanked me up. She set me on the couch.

“Thank you Madame,” I said. She turned from me.

“Simone,” she said. “Why do you think I brought you here?”

I thought about it and ventured, “Did you want me to service you, Madame?”

“Not particularly,” she said. “I'm writing a sociological study of Luflarian court slaves. For posterity.”

I was supposed to be beautiful and exotic, wasn't I? I'd think any woman in trousers would have an interest in me. It was a stupid thing, though, to say that to Madame Rosalie. Tantamount to offering myself like a whore.

“You caught my attention quickly, Simone. Talk of the bright-eyed albino with an Uplander accent is already buzzing through the court,” she continued. I felt a little pacified.

“Take a seat over there, fold your hands in your lap, and close your eyes.” She pointed her crop to a chair opposite the couch. It was capped in iron, with a thick cushion and a tall back. I stumbled over to it and did as she said.

Suddenly, there was a tight pressure on my chest. I looked down and saw a leather belt pressing into my breasts, deforming them slightly. The same thing then happened to my legs, pulling them close to the legs of my chair. I strained to look behind myself and saw Madame Rosalie standing up. Saying nothing, she took her place across from me, her legs crossed. She held a cloth-wrapped charcoal in one hand and a journal in the other. We were close enough to touch if she deigned to.

“Do you enjoy being a slave, Simone?” she said. “Her tone was even, even as she asked me the hardest question I could have thought of. I stammered trying to figure out what she wanted me to say.

“I'll note that for posterity. 'Um.'”

“Apologies, Madame Rosalie. I'm having trouble figuring out...” I trailed off.

“I can't imagine it's terribly difficult to figure out if you like being forced to serve with no wages or autonomy,” Madame Rosalie said. She made erratic, blocky marks on her paper.

“I don't, Madame,” I ventured. Madame nodded, set her writing aside, stood up, and walked behind me.

The belt around my breasts tightened and I yelped in pain. The belt had been snug, but now it stole a part of each breath I took. “You will be honest here, Simone.”

“Yes, Madame,” I choked out. “I don't know, Madame.”

“Oh? What's causing you such confusion?” Madame Rosalie's breath was warm against my ear.

“I just...”

“You just?” The belt tightened again, squeezing out a cough. “Think a little faster, Simone. I've had more engaging conversations with dolls a good deal more wooden than you.”

My face flushed and my mind raced. “What should I compare it to?”

That got Madame's attention. She leaned in, her face brushing against the back of my head. “Whatever you like.”

I let that roll in my head for a while. “I suppose it's better than being a common servant or someone's wife.”

The belt slackened a little as she took her spot again. “Truthful. And the truth is more interesting than your old lie, Simone.”

“Thank you, Madame,” I said. New air filled my lungs as our eyes met. Hers were a deep brown, looking on me with clinical detachment.

“Now, can you tell me what you think of the other court slaves?”

Not a moment's repose. But it wasn't very hard to answer.

“I don't like them very much, Madame Rosalie.”

Instantly, the hot pain of her crop rose up in my sensitive thighs. A strangled sound forced its way out of my throat.

“That's the truth, Madame!” I protested. A blow on the other thigh left a red welt, sending a throbbing ache through my leg.

“What do I hate, Simone?”

 “Lies, hypocrisy, and idiocy, Madame.”

Her crop whistled through the air again and I flinched. The crop rested gently in her other hand, her charcoal carelessly abandoned. “At least you're not an idiot.”

“Madame, if I had said otherwise, it would have been a lie.”

“I am not an idiot either, Simone” she replied. She took up her charcoal again. “Why would you presume to think I am?”

“My deepest apologies, Madame, I--” my groveling was cut short by another blow, this time against the sensitive, constrained flesh of my breast.

“Stare straight forward.” Madame Rosalie stood back up and walked over to me.

“Open your mouth.” Her fingers were smudged with sour-tasting charcoal that coated my tongue. I struggled not to cough. She pressed her index and middle finger deeper into my throat. My vision blurred as I concentrated on nothing but not gagging.

She withdrew her fingers and pat my head while I coughed. “Seems to me,” she said as she returned to her seat, “You really are just like the rest.”

“Yes, Madame,” I said, bile and shame welling up in my throat.

“And what of your Mistress, the Countess Lucienne du Palais?”

I swallowed down my indignity and the taste of charcoal. My eyes were focused on Madame Rosalie's crop resting in the crook of her arm. “She has been kind and lenient to me, Madame.”

“I asked you what you thought of her, not what she had done,” Madame said. She swatted my knee gently.

“She...” I began.  The tip of Madame Rosalie's crop rested against my aching shins, pressing down carefully. “I'm not sure, Madame, what it is you want me to say.”

“Not that.” Her crop sang through the air, hitting my cheek and drawing a thin cut on it. I shrieked, more from outrage than pain. A proper noble would never draw a mark on someone else's slave.

“Simone Doerr. I picked you, from all the slaves of court, in hopes that you could think, or at the very least speak. If I had wanted a dumb animal, I would have gone to my horse.”

I blinked at the tears in my eyes. “My apologies, Madame Rosalie, I... may I have a moment?”

The crop was firm and cold against the flesh of my breast. “Not too long, unless you'd like to tell your Countess what you've done to earn these marks.”

“The Mistress is the only person I've really known for more than a year, now.” I could, at least, stall as long as possible.

“Only a year? Such a turnaround,” Madame Rosalie remarked. Then she jabbed the crop into my breast. “Now get to the explanation.”

I cleared my throat and raised my eyes, trying to detect emotion from the Madame. She was as detached and implacable as ever.

“I haven't learned much about her, even being by her side all that time.”

“I'd think you'd be a little more concerned with the kind of person that owns you.”

“I am observant, Madame,” I said firmly. A tiny hint of a smile arose in the corner of her mouth. “I'm just not convinced there's all that much to know.”

The words had left as though of their own accord, but I knew them to be true. “She is simple. I think she would have enjoyed herself just as much if she had been born an Oplander burgher or factory worker as she does now, as long as there's gossip to be had.”

I watched Madame's face, eager for another sign of her approval and careful not to meet her eyes. Her lip curled upwards, the closest thing to a facial expression she'd made all day. “You act like you're more entitled to her position than she is.” She dug the tip of her boot into my leg and my face contorted in pain.

“I suppose I do, Madame.” Though it was meant to appease her, it sounded true just as well.

I heard her almost chuckle. “You're a quick learner, Simone.”