The car screeches as it turns, the sounds boring into Harriet's mind. “Astrid, yer not seriously takin’ me ta Regina like this.”

  “Why not?” The girl smirks. "It's from your time, right?"

  Harriet has to exhale through her teeth. Her chest feels tight, bound as it is by an off-the-shoulder blouse and lacework red corset. A ruffled black skirt, currently crammed into the passenger seat, otherwise rides off her in a train. It keeps her front legs exposed, revealing fishnets, heeled boots. And everything's capped by a feathered headpiece that, when Astrid put it on, immediately bounced into Harriet’s eyes.

  Harriet bites her lip. Tastes the cherry of borrowed gloss. “Some people wore it. In a certain profession.”

  “What?” Astrid squints at her. “You don’t like workin’ girls?”

  Harriet blinks. “I don’t like bein’ called one.”

  “Well, it ain't my fault 'ey keep revivin’ Chicago an' make me costume lead.” Astrid’s dress is simpler: blue, medieval, a silver tiara set on her forehead like Eleanor of Aquitaine. “Besides! Red suits you.”

  “So do less-revealin’ skirts.”

  “An’ hide those legs?” Astrid clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “Never.”

  Harriet grumbles, turning to the passenger window. They’re flitting through London’s ritzier parts - a sea of bright bulbs, crowded restaurants, department stores that reach to the sky. Whole streets are blocked, bumper-to-bumper, with drunken students, exhausted suits, guzzling cabs. If she looked long enough, Harriet’s certain she’d find a Nocturni in this crowd. Or two. Or five. Sovereigns and Unbound alike call the West End a watering hole for a reason.

  It's not because the food is scarce.

  Her nose twitches at the scent of exhaust. Astrid’s car - a dilapidated Vauxhall Nova - somehow feels older than Harriet herself. The engine sputters more than it roars. It’s not helping the sensation in her gut, a sensation so hard to place. Is she feeling thrill at the chance to see someone who could help her? Exhilaration to finally see the sky without Soteris’ presence to ruin it? Or is it fear, fear flooding her mind with thoughts of retaliation, hers or his?

  Her brows furrow. The latter. Definitely the latter.

  “... How many people should we expect?” Harriet asks.

  “I dunno. A few hundred?”

  “Are the hallways crowded or spacious?”

  “Uh…” Astrid squints. “I-I guess it depends on the hallway-"

  “An' fer vantage points, do ya recommend the windows? Rafters? Ventilation shaft-”

  “‘Arriet?”

  “Yeah?”

  Harriet turns. Astrid is staring at her.

  "Sorry." She blinks a few times. "I’m jes’ tryna prepare.”

  “We’re not killing them. And ‘ey aren’t killin’ you.” Astrid's focus returns to the road. “Spic an’ span so long as we get the Rite done on us.”

  “That implies we might not.”

  “It does.” Astrid grips the wheel tight. "Last bit of advice? Fings on their mouffs are called masks, and, uh..." She licks her lips. "... don't freak out if 'ey touch you."

  Windchimes seep into Harriet's thoughts, thoughts, but before she can comment, the street opens up. Completely bare. And what's visible through the windshield steals her breath.

  It has no sign, no letters, but Harriet knows. The Orphean stands before her.

  The walls seem black as coal, not a window in sight, bright neon streaks twisting through its edifice in the shapes of vines and flowery. Beyond, gilded light, hints of trees, the din of distant songs. A wrought iron gate surrounds the whole structure, and through its bars she can see a fountain, hedgerows, long thick willows that stretch deep into the sidewalk, drinking the outside world.

  It’s gargantuan, dwarfing every other building that’s crammed by its side. Yet no mortals seem to enter it. Or gaze at it. Or loiter by its ground. Why, she doesn't know. Across the street, things are busy. But every time someone starts wandering too close, their feet freeze mid-step, and they turn around.

  As a boon, it means Astrid has no trouble parking.

  Harriet watches the humans with concern. “How have I never seen this place?”

  Astrid grabs her handbag. “You weren’t invited.”

  Magic, then. How much aether does it take to run this place? Does the rest of the Court use this power? Does the Unbound even know its existence? How many secrets could - “Ahhh!”

  “Good evening.” A sharply-dressed man kneels before the driver-seat window. His voice is motionless. “I will handle your belongings from here.”

  Harriet’s splayed against her seat, the headdress stuffed against the ceiling, her eyes wide. The valet’s suit is white - spotless - with gloves and a bowtie that contrast his dark skin. A long strip of white cloth completely covers his eyes, but it doesn’t seem to stop him from looking directly at her.

  "Sure fing!" Astrid steps out of the door, casually dropping her keys and in the man’s offered hand. “The engine might need a few tries.”

  “Of course," he says.

  “‘Arriet, come on, he’s fine.”

  Harriet doesn’t move, clearly unsure. But another man, with black hair, olive skin, and the same blindfold, knocks on her door, and she watches herself open it. He offers a gloved hand of his own. “My lady?”

  It’s a foreign accent. Spanish? Brazilian? Hesitantly, she takes it. He hoists her to her feet.

  “May you bask in the light of Our Goddess, Ms. Eddards," he smiles.

  She can only stare blankly as he enters the car after her.

  The Nova slinks across the street, down a corner she didn't know was there. Eventually, Astrid tugs at her arm. “Cah’mon, ‘ey’re Oathsworn. They won’t steal wiffout cause.”

  Harriet's eyes don't leave the spot. “What if Lianna Stirling gives them cause?”

  “She ain’t.” Astrid pulls her close. “She woulda already stopped us if she were ‘ere. If I was you, I’d worry more ‘bout-”

  “Allod Traynor.” A voice calls .

  “MEI-LAM!” Astrid suddenly swivels, still flashing that grin as she places Harriet between herself and the three Oathsworn approaching them. “... fahk me.”

  Harriet's eyes are wide. There are three women in all, their thin white dresses curling onto the cobbles and feet with no shoes. Two have their breasts hanging loose, unclothed. A woman in the centre, who must be Mei-Lam, is taller than the rest. Haughtier. Her chin held high, her posture trained. A white wooden mask hangs over the top half of her face, and a matching collar is looped tightly about her neck. Long wires shoot from a bronze device on her back, glimmering in the neon. Colours dripping through the lights like the Sun on stained wings.

  Wings.

  She's wearing replica wings.

  While Harriet gapes, Mei-Lam tilts her head. "The Orphean remembers your scent, Traynor, but not the heartbeat beside you."

  “‘Arriet.” Astrid whispers from behind. “This one’s on you.”

  “What!?” Before Harriet can whisper a protest, Astrid pushes her even further ahead. Harriet's forced to awkwardly wave. “Uh, hi! Howdy! Harriet! I'm Harriet Eddards! Yh... g-gotta letter from-”

  “You were removed from our Goddess in disgrace, Allod Traynor.” Mei-Lam sneers at Astrid. “Now you return with an untamed killer?”

  “Standin’ right here," Harriet whispers through her teeth.

  Astrid steps forward. “She's not Unbound anymore, Mei. She’s claimed.”

  “I see no mark, and hear no chain.”

  Astrid huffs, and walks up to Harriet, grabbing the girl’s collar. “H-HEY!” Harriet shouts.

  Astrid ignores her, pulling the leather down, allowing the symbols beneath to writhe in the open air. Astrid takes a few steps back, gestures. "Better?"

  Mei-Lam smirks. “They say a Kept who hides their mark is a Kept who never honours their Keeper.” Harriet scoffs. “It applies to you, too.

  Astrid breathes through her nose, before sliding the scrunchie from her wrist, and holding the skin for Mei-Lam to see. Harriet blinks; it’s the same markers as her own. Finally, Mei-Lam nods. Her smirk could make Harriet's blood boil.

  “Your Keeper is not with you.”

  Harriet growls. “Yeah, he’s got better things ta do than parade my neck around-"

  “‘Arriet,” Astrid quietly warns.

  Harriet lets the brief flash of rage pass. “Regina only-”

  “Her Magnificence.” Mei-Lam interrupts. “The Goddess’ true name is a gift, not meant for Kept tongues. This is your first warning.”

  Harriet blanches. “My first warnin’?”

  Astrid clutches her side. “‘Arriet!”

  “It is a retainer’s duty to remember their station," the winged woman adds. "Titles aid in that cause. Sovereign Chrysanthou. Allod Traynor. Clearly, your Keeper has forgotten some steps in his training of you.” Mei-Lam ignores the hiss from Harriet’s throat. “May I see your invitation?"

  “I destroyed it.” Harriet says venom. “Shame, too. Qoulda loved ta shove it up yer-”

  “‘ARRIET!” Astrid shouts.

  “What!? Does Regina wanna see me or not!? I'm not playin' hen to her pack a’..." Harriet gestures wildly at Mei-Lam. “... fairy-tale freaks!"

  “This is your second warning. You are to call the Magistress Dunstan ‘Her Magnificence’ or-"

  “SCREW YOU!”

  “‘At’s it!” Astrid grabs Harriet’s arm, dragging her to one of the willows.

  Mei-Lam frowns. “This Kept seems ill-disciplined.”

  “Yeah! Workin’ on it! Gimme fiiiive minutes!” Astrid waits until they’re around the tree, out of sight, before pressing Harriet into the bark. “Are you outta your goddamn mind!?”

  “Are they!? If I wanted ta be pushed around like this, I didn't have ta leave Polyphron!"

  “Mei-Lam’s the head of the Oathsworn! She has more power than half the bloody Court. You can’t just tell her off!”

  “Yeah? Watch.”

  “No!” Astrid grabs her again, keeping Harriet pinned to the tree. “She’s the only one ‘ere that performs the Rite. We need ‘er to get in, and you said we’d get in! It's always been like this!"

  “Why!?" Harriet flounders. "Why are they so..."

  “Ey’re loyal.” Astrid blinks a few times. “The Magistress finds… strugglin’ artists. Depressed writers, actors workin’ coffeeshops, an; makes a promise. National fame, unmatched talent, anyfin’ 'ey can dream! An’ it comes true. I’ve seen it, ‘Arriet. It always comes true.”

  Harriet’s eyes grow wide. “Mei-Lam was your boss. Ya were Oathsworn."

  Astrid pales. “... I…”

  “... What did they promise you?”

  The girl doesn’t reply. Harriet's face sets.

  “... we need ta go.”

  “‘Arriet, no. I need-”

  “This isn’t safe!” Harriet pushes Astrid off, straightens her outfit. “Look, I know ya wanna meet Regina, but I’m-”

  A sudden spurt. A rush of air. Harriet’s face-first in the grass. Her breathing tight from the corset. She climbs to her knees, her ears ringin' from the blow dealt to her cheek. "Ow!"

  Mei-Lam is there, flicking a baton in her hand. “You were warned.”

  Harriet springs up, agape nursing the bruise with her hand. “Are ya outta yer goddamn- AH!

  She strikes her again. "You will speak with respect."

  “Keep yer damn respect! I’m goin'-” Harriet’s about to march for the street, but her arms are pulled back. The other Oathsworn are holding her. “W-wait…” She struggles, her breathing picks up. “What… what the hell are ya…”

  “You are in the Sovereignty of Our Goddess.” Mei-Lam says “Your Keeper might tolerate this attitude, but the Orphean follows the Old Way. And the Old Way has no space for ill-discipline."

  “I was asked ta be here, ya freak!” Harriet shouts. “Don’t-”

  “Mute her.”

  “- act like yer all-mmmnn!?!?!”

  Harriet doesn’t get a chance to finish. Something large and cold and metal is pressed to her mouth. A strange substance floods from it - thick, and liquid, with the texture of tree sap. It rapidly crystallizes on her lips, sealing them against the bronze. Turning her shouts into muffled cries.

  Mei-Lam bounces the baton in her hand. Her hips shift, and her wings catch an orange light. “Our Goddess is not to be mocked. Our Goddess is not to be disregarded. Her rule is boundless, infinite, and as great as the light her aether brings.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Harriet can only grunt as the Kepts start pulling her arms apart. Leaving her body open. Displayed.

  “Mei-Lam, stop! She isn’t-” Astrid pauses when the baton is pressed into her chest. “... what is this?”

  “It is your allodry she shames, not ours." Mei-Lam pushes deeper. "The eight strikes are yours to land.”

  Harriet's screeching into the mask. Astrid locks eyes with her, dulled by fear. “I-I’m not gonna hurt her!”

  “Your lack of control hurts her harder.”

  “She’s only been ‘ere a month! You wouldn’t-”

  “Speak another word of insolence, and I will consider this a formal insult. You will have refused Her Magnificence’s invitation.” Mei-Lam leans close, frown. “And you know she will not write another.”

  Harriet’s shaking her head, giving Astrid a pleading look as all her struggling fails. But the Allod’s gone pale. Her hands trembling over the baton.

  “You want to see her, don't you?" Mei-Lam whispers in Astrid’s ear. “You know that she only admires conviction. She only has time for strength.”

  Harriet whimpers, the noises muffled beneath the metal. She watches Astrid’s fingers finally curl.

  Astrid walks up slowly, with tiny steps. Her eyes on the soil. The moment she’s close enough, the Oathsworn hoist Harriet, desperation in her face. Unable to look away from the half-inch-thick rod.

  “Mnf-ffrm! MNF-FFRM!”

  Astrid’s eyes keep darting away. “I’m sorry.”

  Thwap!

  There are stars in her eyes, a smarming pain. Harriet’s balance is briefly lost, the Oathsworn pulling up as she wobbles. She can feel the welt already, struck on the bare skin by her shoulder. More pleads seep through the mask. “Mmf-fr-”

  "The marks should be seen," Mei-Lam warns.

  Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

  The hits are wild, and unplanned. Her arms. Her neck. One smacks the fishnet along Harriet’s thighs. Astrid’s dealing them quickly, leaving no time to recover, to breathe, until the Oathsworn are the only thing keeping Harriet from tumbling to the ground.

  Eventually, the pain stops. No more whistle in the air. Harriet opens her eyes, stained with tears, and sees the hints of red on the baton.

  Mei-Lam beams. “That was one more than necessary, Allod Traynor.”

  “I know.” Astrid shoves the baton in her hand. “The ninth is to make you stop talking."

  Mei-Lam grins, who nods to the others. “Ready the gifts. The Kept can stay masked.”

  Harriet’s rather loud complaints are stopped when the Oathsworn drop her like a sack. Astrid rushes to help, but Harriet holds up her hand, stopping her, glaring with hurt rage. It makes Astrid wilt.

  “‘Arriet, I…” Her mouth opens, but takes seconds to speak. “... I need to.”

  One of the Oathsworn returns with a ceramic bowl, full of little fruits. Bright, colourful, glowing. Harriet stares at them, their neon-esque light shining on her face, while Astrid merely plucks one out and crushes it against her head.

  “You too.”

  "Mmmnff?"

  Astrid repeats the process for her, a sweet-smelling juice dropping down her head. "Don’t eat it," she says. Sternly.

  Harriet nods, as if the mask gave her a means to.

  “You stand at the threshold of Lady Dunstan," Mei-Lam announces. "Magistress of the dhaoine rosín, Primus Magnorum, daughter of the British Empire, and handmaid to our queen, the New Sun, Potentate Optimatum." She's standing at a doorway Harriet hadn’t seen before. The building behind her is completely shrouded in darkness. “Allod Traynor, do you take responsibility for yourself and your Kept?”

  “... I do.”

  “MMMFF!” Harriet feels a hand on her side, and starts to protest. One of the Oathsworn clasps a golden device to her waist, with openings on either end. The muffled shouts get even louder when cuffs fling from it. Cuffs with chains.

  “Do you humbly request invitation to our Sovereignty, as all Nocturni must?”

  “I do.”

  Harriet stares at them wildly as they force the cuffs to her wrists. The chains are long, trailing across her back. Glimmering in the lights.

  “Do you promise to uphold all laws and rites of Hospitality? To do and speak no harm to our Sovereign, her property, and to the bodies and properties of those who follow her?”

  Astrid never even looks at Harriet. “I do.”

  Shhhk! Harriet twists at the sound. Behind her, the Oathsworn that chained her has unsheathed a knife, and put the blade to her flesh. Silently, she slices the skin, a stream of blood pouring out that makes Harriet’s instincts growl.

  “We shall drink from this vessel, and seal our words. As Her Magnificence’s representative, I and all others in this Sovereignty shall give no harm to you. May the Old Ones watch our oath, and may they curse us if it breaks."

  Astrid takes the Oathsworn’s hand, her fangs filing out. She drinks deeply, her eyes like slits. When she’s done, the mortal crosses the yard, offers Mei-Lam the same. Despite being a human, the Oathsworn has no problem ingesting it.

  “Come.”

  Harriet blinks. As Mei-Lam steps back, the darkness unveils. She sees a mass of pillars and gardens and trees. Green-hued waters. Bluebirds flitting between elegantly carved arches, mixes of wood and stone. It’s all in a style she’s never seen.

  A style this world has never known.

  The scent of honey floods her nose as Mei-Lam speaks. “We should not keep our Goddess waiting.”

  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  Harriet knew that Sovereigns could be eccentric. Really, talk to enough Shorn, and even town fools can figure out that. In dark alleys and dingy pubs, the same stories always spread through the Unbound, one decade after the next. She’s heard of men who put Kepts in a ‘dollhouse’. Women in ancient castles who force humans ‘studs’ to whinny and neigh. At first mention, one would expect the domain of Regina Dunstan to match these, but no.

  The Orphean exceeds. Exceeds them, and devours them whole.

  She cannot deny its beauty. The walls are made of bright stone, not from England, coloured in the gentle hues of autumn. Lit by torches, braziers, faint golden lamps, it seems that with every glance there’s some new crook, an unseen corner. The chiselled stone of the pillars curls and frays. The tiles on the floor shine brilliant golds. And the frescoes she sees as they pass each wall are even harder to describe. They show scenes of little beasts hiding from hunters. Silver mermaids singing from rocks. A cat with a hundred eyes.

  There’s an omnipresent steam in this place. It's warm, warmer than outside, warmer perhaps than all of Britain. Harriet longs to wipe the sweat from her brow, but the chains are just short enough to halt her. Aether is everywhere, running through cavities in the walls or grated piping in the floor. Basking everything it nears in a soft golden light.

  Like a monastery, large swathes of the palace are open-air, countless plants clustered in courtyards, tended by an equally countless number of Kepts. Their feet crunch on the soil. Insects buzz overhead. The plants are bizarre, fantastical. Sunflowers the shade of red. Mushrooms that glow neon blue. The trees seem overwhelming, their roots streaking across the halls, the tiles, the damp stone rooms. And yet their presence doesn't startle her.

  Doesn't even make her stop and ask.

  They seem a part of this place.

  As seamless and natural as the honeyed scent that clings to her nostrils.

  There are hundreds of people, too, and they seem even stranger. They work on colossal canvases, play musical instruments with sounds she’s never heard, and flit through the halls with silver bowls that smell of blood. Some wear white dresses, others black. Some wear masks, others chains. As they walk, she spots Egyptian pharaohs, a woman decked in authentic steel plate. Girls giggle with faces caked in mercury, while a small troupe marches beneath the standard of a legion of Rome. There are more folks with wings, just like Mei-Lam’s, but the shapes constantly change. Crickets and moths and ladybugs. Each has a different sheen in the light. Each, in its own way, glows.

  And past the wall of music and water and birdsong, moans of pleasure seep in. She sees the sources, with every almost every turn. Sultry looks, closing doors. Almost always, one dressed in white, one dressed in black. Even Harriet feels her fangs press to her sealed lips in hunger.

  A few don’t even wait enough to hide. They just start... pushing themselves against the walls. Not that it bothers her.

  It feels like part of this place.

  Just like the honeyed scent still fills her nostrils.

  Mei-Lam pushes forward, her steps certain, her movements poised. Harriet's mind is foggy. Thoughts and sensations flowing like rapid water. Astrid's been clinging to her arm since they got here, rattling the gilded chains, clearly lost in an equal trance.

  “Gorgeous, innit?” She whispers “‘Ey say there’s whole cities like 'is place, dotted through the dark. 'Ey say 'ey live in the trees, ride deer like horses, take barges pulled by butterflies. ‘Ey say ‘at time there can move ten years in a day, or a second in ten years. A world wiffout a Sun."

  Astrid looks down, at the grating between the tiles. Shimmering in light.

  “A world of only aether.”

  Mei-Lam finally at a pair of double-doors. Raises her hand.

  And both Harriet and Astrid pale as the Oathsworn pull out white strips of cloth and circle them again.

  Harriet's protests are loud, muffled, and futile. The cloth is thrust over her eyes, tied in the back, smushing against her lashes. The world now lost in a stuffy dark.

  “Our Goddess is sacred," Mei-Lam explains. “One cannot freely witness her face."

  Only then can she hear the doors open. A rush of wind.

  The scent of honey becomes overwhelming.

  The room they’re dragged into has thick air. Air full of wine and blood and palm oil, incense and perfume. There are more people than one, her hearing knows, for the chains that rattle exceed even hers. To her right, warmth, perhaps a fire, but to her left, openness, an awning. There’s singing in the distance, the echo of acoustics. A girl’s voice, calling in a language she’s never known.

  “May you bask in the Light of Her Magnificence’s presence,” Mei-Lam announces.

  Before she is ever seen, Regina Dunstan is heard. Heels on wood. A flowing dress. The woman wears so much jewellery that the air crackles as she moves. She's watching, Harriet knows, even though the Magistress never draws.

  “Goddess.” Astrid still holds Harriet's arm. She can feel her skin warm.

  The woman moves even closer, her jewels ringing, and a small soft hand holds Harriet's cheek. Finger trailing between the flesh and the metal. She holds it like that, for far too long. Until Astrid finally tries to speak.

  “I, heheheh, I-I-”

  Mei-Lam cuts her off. “Allod Traynor insists that she's been summoned from Polyphron.

  “N-Not me! ‘Arriet. I-I mean the Kept, I-heheheh! I-I-I w-would never impose-”

  “Muse."

  Harriet sucks in a breath. Regina's voice is light, and her breath tastes of honey. The jewels rattle - she's turning her head - and Harriet realises that the Magistress studies Astrid. Looking her up and down.

  “There is no call for panic." It's a young voice, younger than Harriet remembers. The voice of a teen. "You look graceful.”

  She can hear Astrid’s breath pick-up. Even humans are rarely this warm.

  “You bring the Black Prince’s princess." The chiming briefly stops. "I didn’t expect her to be masked.”

  “A cautionary measure, My Magnificence,” Mei-Lam explains. “She refused to engage in our customs. It would not serve-”

  “It does not serve me to speak with someone who cannot speak.” The lightness in Regina's voice is gone. Replaced by something harsh. “‘Refused to engage,’ of course she refused, she’s Shorn. Do you go into a forest and ask the wolves to play tricks?”

  Mei-Lam’s clearly nervous. “M-My Magnificence-”

  Regina hisses. “Perhaps I should order you to try.”

  Harriet can feel the air grow thick. And can almost hear Astrid’s smirk.

  “Go. You have other duties. I’d suggest attending to them more carefully. I'll take this thing off myself.” Mei-Lam practically sprints out as a finger pulls on the metal behind Harriet’s neck. Suddenly, the sap vanishes from her lips like snow in summer air. The device clatters to the floor, and Harriet gulps greedily, trying to force the disgusting taste of it. Flexing her muscles as Regina's hand returns to her cheek. “Celestials. Such a humbled people, and still they insist on their pride."

  Harriet wilts. The woman is petting. “Uh… G-Goddess-”

  “Magistress should serve you fine,” Regina cuts in. “... I apologise if their behaviour startled you. They have so little experience with your kind."

  “M-Magistress, we-we’ve met before. I-I don't know why yer-"

  She gasps. Those small hands have taken her arms, pushing her into something fluffy and plump. Briefly, Harriet panics, lifting her chained hands before sharp fingernails rip off her headress and start to dig into her braids.

  Astrid can only feel Harriet's absence. "Goddess!"

  Regina ignores her, sniffing loudly into Harriet’s hair. “The aspirationals are weak.” Her fingers move as she talks. “And the perceptives fluctuate, as if she struggles with sense of place…”

  Harriet is pale. Trying her best to stay still. Every few seconds, the woman’s hand moves again, feeling each of her skull’s rivulets. Almost measuring the bumps and moulds.

  “But your reflectives, your self-perfection…” Regina whispers more quietly. “... I sense a passion in you. A kindness.”

  “M-M-Magistr-tress-_

  “Shhhh, Fireside. This is science. The skulls cannot lie to me."

  Her fingers move down, to the back of Harriet's neck. Wringing across her throat.

  “You say you’ve seen my face before.”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe me.”

  Harriet turns blush. The woman’s thumb traces her lips. “I can't."

  Regina stops.

  "Ya said ya wanted ta be my friend. You. The most beautiful girl I'd ever seen."

  The cloth is pulled. The blindfold falls. Harriet’s eyes spark.

  Regina Dunstan offers a little smile. “... am I?"

  Her face is still soft and supple. Her cheek seems red like her lips, while her skin is pale as alabaster. Chestnut curls cascade down thin shoulders and a gold-studded neck. Her dress is long, noble, a deep purple intertwining with black, with ruffles shaped like leaves. She looks Harriet’s age, if not younger, but her clothes shamelessly display her body. A golden halo hangs behind her head like the diamonds set in her hair. It whistles when she moves, a series of chains and pearls and gemstones, reflecting the aether that shines all around her.

  With each shift of her head, her eye changes, like facets of a crystal. From the green of the Highland’s glens, to the blues of Dover’s waves, to the greys of Snowdonia’s fog. But only the one. For an ebony black mask covers the right half of her face. Solid. Featureless. No shape for nose or eyes at all.

  “Fireside.”

  Regina reaches down, clutches the girl’s hand.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you would make an excellent mother?”

  Harriet blinks. Silent. Stunned. Behind the Magistress, what seems to be a theatre-box, one of half-a-hundred in a large, sweeping performance hall. It feels surreal, surreal like the palaces they once put on postcards, of places like Oyo, Jodhpur, Kumasi. Gold plates. Rich engravings. Fabrics and tapestries from a dozen lands. Maps on display next to bowls of dates, and a mural even greater than the others. Of a massive, golden tree, surrounded by what might be white-clad angels.

  “Such a shame it was, Fireside, that our friendship could never flower. I was still retained, then. I had not yet found my calling." Regina is still smiling as she calmly stands up. Pulls the blindfold from Astrid's eyes, too. “I was not surprised to learn that a young Sovereign planned to tame our greatest beast," she giggles. "I am surprised that my gentlest muse agreed to help him.”

  Astrid blanches. “G-Goddess, I didn’t mean-”

  “No. I’m not displeased. If anything..." She takes hold of Astrid's arms. Looks her in the eyes. "... I’m glad to see you well.”

  Her hands move, petting the young Nocturni. Harriet can see the blush in Astrid’s face, the flutter of her eyes. They don’t fade, even as Regina parts.

  Harriet's gaze sharpens. "I don't need ta be tamed."

  "Shorn rarely think they do."

  Regina steps towards the boxes’ balcony, looking down on the sole, white-clad performer, singing from a raised platform. Harriet takes the chance to look at the other Oathsworn. They hold grapes, wave palm leaves, their faces covered just like Mei-Lam’s. A Nocturni stands behind them, a boy, with blond hair, bold eyes, a black robe.

  It’s only now that Harriet realises that all of them have dark skin, except for that boy.

  He has skin like her own.

  "The young look at our customs, and think them worthless. They hear of the people who made them, the people who made us… and see only monsters. Like all men, they let their isolation breed hubris. They cannot see the need." From this angle, Regina’s entire face is covered by the black mask. “And so it is my burden… our burden… to show them.”

  One of the Kepts steps forward. His voice deep and eyes shrouded. “Our Goddess is a redeemer. She knows that no jewel shines brighter than Britain. She knows that the Court, once its greatest protector, ever tries to sell it out. Greed has taken them. Their mandate is lost to them. Only the Rose now follows the Old Way, and only our Goddess can light the Old Path.”

  "I thought the Old Ones were tyrants-" Harriet starts.

  "Tyrants!? They were our first parents. Our first clergy. Our first kings. Fireside, our mother is dying." Regina turns around. "In trying to grow close, we’ve only grown more distant. In trying to find peace, we’ve only found war. Everything that made us strong: our art, our industry, has been ripped from our breasts like weeds in a gardener’s hand. Foolishly, we let the world self-rule, and now the world has proven that it cannot rule itself. They need guidance. They need strength. They need virtue and beauty, faith and diligence. They need…”

  She turns slowly to the mural.

  "... everything."

  She settles on the great gold tree, and her eye shifts colours to match.

  “All that came before.”

  Seconds pass, Regina still standing there, as if dazed by her own words. Harriet blinks, turning to Astrid, but the girl can only shrug.

  "Ya seem ta only be tamin’..." Harriet nods to the Kepts. "Certain sorts."

  Regina laughs, the jewels in her headdress clinging. “Is that all you can think of? That word? The one that swirls around me, threatening to close doors and tighten lips? It’s a weak word, Fireside. Uttered by men too vain to understand how far they’ve fallen."

  She finally moves, her eyes a vicious red.

  "The people of this world, they will insist their way works. They will herd their goats and sleep in their huts and call their lack of thought contentment. And when they meet strength again, strength from conquerers, strength from will, they will rout and hide and scream, ‘why?’ As we did, until we took their laws, remade their Court, grasped the power the Old Ones offered, and conquered a third of the world. The men who call me that word, they insist that because I protect our culture, because I respect our efforts, that I must despise all those not yet us. They could not be further from the truth. Look..."

  She turns, gesturing to the Kepts, their silver bowls and glasses of wines. Something catches in Harriet’s breath. A sweetness. A delightfulness. Harriet turns, and Astrid’s wide-eyed, spellbound. The scent of honey and ambrosia floods through the air.

  Floods from the Goddess.

  “My people love me,” Regina whispers. “As much as I love them.”

  Suddenly, the door bursts open. The air itself seems to burst, and the scent of honey is gone. Astrid blinks, the Oathsworn seem startled, and even Harriet instantly feels more aware. Regina looks at the figure marching in with a childlike annoyance.

  “You’re early.”

  It’s a woman, quite clearly. Jewellery clings to her skin, bronze anklets and amber beads, while a six-foot spear drags past her along the floor. Her skin is dyed a stark blue, so thick that it mattes to her golden hair. Her sculpture-like shape is hidden by... nothing. Breasts hang in the air, and tight buttocks stop at Regina’s thrones.

  Harriet watches in awe. Is that Lianna Stirling.

  “Dunstan.” The woman growls. “We need to talk."

  “Patience, Curator.” Regina holds out a hand, her smile still warm. “We’re in company.”

  Lianna turns, and her whole expression seems to shrink into a scowl. Not at Harriet, who's staring at the woman terrified, but at the only person who seems more afraid.

  “H-Hey, Li.” Astrid tries, and fails, to wave. “H-... how's it hangin'?"

  Lianna's eyes drip with venom. She says nothing, swivelling back to Regina.“I told you to bring only Fireside.”

  “And how exactly was she to reach us?”

  “Another way. Any way. You swore to me.” Lianna speaks through grit teeth. “Swore that you would keep this parasite from your home. Swore that I would never see this degenerate's face again!”

  “D-Don't worry, Li!” Astrid’s holding herself. “I-I’m not exactly thrilled to see you eiv-"

  “QUIET!"

  Astrid closes her lips as Lianna slinks closer to Regina. So close that their eyes would meet, if Regina’s was not masked.

  “Dunstan…" Her lips curl into a frown. "You are not to speak to my get."

  Perhaps that explains some things.

  unfortunately, she quite sets the trend! Her and Lianna's dynamic is based around the dichotomy of early British fascism. While Lianna represents the violent, revolutionary, worker-oriented and more xenophobic Mosleyite faction, Regina is drawn directly from the horde of country aristocrats that funded them, aristocrats who were impoverished by industrial urbanism and were never fully on board with democratic rule. would eventually take their grievances to the colonies, particularly in Africa, where they attempted to recreate on their palatial estates the feudalism they felt was their birthright. Regina takes this philosophy... a little bit further.

  been to that world, and so her styling comes mostly from vibes and hearsay. The end result, for me, is something almost Moorish, trying to capture the elements of light and elegance that most match how Regina views Dryad rule.

  did Regina summon Harriet? What exactly happened between Astrid and the dhaoine rosín? These will all be answered in Chapter 21: Taker and Taken. I’ll see y’all there!