[b]Bella![/b]

—and it’s the smell of pancakes that drags you up out of the depths. You’re late. You haven’t been late in so long (if you’ve ever been, you punctual little thing, you). You need to get dressed, you need to bring the Princess her breakfast, you need to wake her up and set out her clothes and it only then trickles in that this isn’t your cot, and this isn’t your job, and it hasn’t been your job for well over a year.

You’re in a bed with dark sheets, which haven’t been changed in some time. They smell like Redana; they smell like sweat; they smell like sex. Let it come back to you. The bathrobes provided by an inconspicuous, somewhat scandalized sheep. The giggling, stumbling through the halls, with wet feet and wet hair, her hand in your hand as she pulled you along, nearly falling over, leaning against walls, catching your breath, sneaking in kisses, who cares who might be coming around the corner, the world is bright and perfect and the piano haunts your footsteps and then you were stumbling into her room, the lights snuffed, bathrobes falling onto the floor, and you made your way to her bed eventually, with the occasional detour involving the table first. And then the bed. And then all of you, you poured it out, you took what she wanted, you made her squeal, you stole her squeals, you dug your nails into her back, you wrung her dry for everything and then succumbed to the dark, tangled in her, buried in the back of her head, sniffing, nuzzling, overwhelmed by the dizzying presence of her.

And now you are here, and the absence of her is a hollow. You may take a moment to feel it like a knife; you may helplessly dig your fingers into a pillow as your stomach contracts and your heart outraces your thoughts— but you are ravenous, the stomach is demanding pancakes, your mouth forces you to swallow down the drool building up before it slips right between your full lips, and you sit up, you brush back that glossy mane, you squint out at the dimmed lamps and the figure waiting for you.

Drag those eyes up. Let your Auspex record the sight. The shined shoes with their buckled straps, as dark as her boots. The milk-colored stockings, clinging to her legs as if trying to conceal the power in them, making them almost dainty. The ruffled lace of the hem, just long enough to hide what is needful, just short enough to invite thoughts of dropping things on the floor. The apron, with tangled flowers in each corner (a standard Alcedi design, easily achieved with a modiste’s stylus). The short leash dangling from the belled collar, the bell is exact, this had to have been commissioned, this had to have been planned. The headdress, and the golden bun peeking up over it, messy, done by hand, done by a girl who is used to ponytails and nothing fancier.

“Good morning, your highness,” Redana says, and curtseys, blushing, daintier than anything she’s maybe ever done, the bell swinging freely as she bows her head, and there are pancakes on the table (when did she have time, did the sheep help her with this) and there is a dress on a hanger behind her the color of the deeps of the sea (garlanded with pearls and flecks of a nebula’s gems, and not sized for Redana) and there are two bathrobes folded clumsily on a shelf (she must have been as quiet as Jil) and behind those bathrobes propped up against the wall there is a burned-out reel (___________).

And Redana stands still and holds the curtsey and waits for you, ridiculous, and there’s an attempt at a bow in her hair holding the bun in place, and she’s wearing lipstick just a little too bright, and the leash dangles waiting to be tugged, and you could be forgiven if you think that you’re being mocked, but then she looks up through her lashes and if she’s mocking you she’s an actress as good as Mynx.

And you are very hungry, aren’t you?