Her skirt gathered about his forearm. His hand hidden between the dimpled crest of her thighs, the other webbed in the knot of her hair firmly holding her head in place.

And their faces— Parisa leaned far back with one hand tipping the top of her hat back to prevent it from obscuring her vision of their intimate perversions while the other grasped the railing tight enough to blanch her knuckles paper-white.

“That goddamn fool— Randy!”

Parisa lowered her head using the hat to shield the flames that licked at her cheeks from the servants and guards startled by Yarrow’s shouts as she hollered at the two. Wordlessly, she fished for the ice cubes now melting in Yarrow’s empty glass and tucked them between her teeth and cheek, hoping the cold sensations might cool her down.

“Swear them folk just need me to whoop the fire out their asses.”

Parisa nodded mutely. After a moment she peeked from beneath the rim at the couple but the sheet had settled back in place. She shut her eyes and willed for the picture to bloom beneath her lids but all she saw was red— the sun’s rays cast

“You should be heading back in now, them mistress and chilren be returning soon.”

“Can I wait?”

“She aint gon’ like it. You know that.”

“I know.”

“Yet you keep askin’ the obvious.”

Parisa glanced down at the entrance and marble steps. “I’m sorry,” her words a whisper far too delicate to be heard yet Yarrow’s lupine ear inclined to her patiently. The creature briefly met those ancient eyes and skittered away, “if I offended you somehow today… about the… the defect comment.”

The silence that settled between them began to swell oppressively.

Did I offend her again? Parisa licked her lower lip and tentatively peered up at her caretaker only to find her grim expression melting to that of… sardonic pity. A heaved sigh deflated the woman’s bosom as she shook her head, “I aint mad at you baby.”

“You’re not?”

“Naw. Lord only knows you git on my nerves sometimes but which child don’ ever bother their mama?”

“Then…” The creature interlaced her fingers to still their fiddling, “then… why have you been so silent?” It was a question laced with a desperation that could only surmise from months of repression. Yarrow began to speak but Parisa cut her off , “because some days Yarrow… you seem fine but then something happens, perhaps I said something triggering… I don’t know… you fall silent and I’m left wondering why that horrible net of gloom and mystery surrounds you… even when I don’t speak I see it…”, her voice dropped an octave so soft it seemed carried away by the wind, “I see it everyday now… especially when you look at me.”

Her heart was racing now, apparently trying to batter its way out of her chest.

Parisa waited. The noiselessness stretched agonisingly long until, finally, Yarrow spoke—

“Do you love him?”

The creature’s head snapped up, the hat nearly toppling over. “Who?”

“The commander,” Yarrow watched her closely, an imperturbable mask upon her visage. “Do you love him?”

The question should be normal. The answer should be swift and without hesitancy.

So why did the words strike like ice in the heat of the dusk? Why was the warmth in her body dissolving to a bitter chill that spread the length of her spine? Why was her skin suddenly cool as if she had walked in wind?

And why was she not answering?

Parisa’s lips parted, a soft breath of air escaping and not much more.

“Fourteen days child, you got fourteen days till the mating ceremony an’ not once have you brought up his name.”

“That’s not—“

“The gift he been sending you, I aint ever seen you touch ‘em or none.”

“I do—“

“How many gifts he been givin’ you since last year?”

Parisa paled.

“I aint e’er heard you say you love him, you appreciate him, you pray at him… I aint e’er heard no word of gratefulness for your creator, the one that chose to give you life… an’ that scares me straight baby. I don’ know how to tell you this fore e’erday I wake sick with worry over your choices… I thought it was jus’ a period you was goin’ through… just a year of you needing to know him but it’s been nineteen years baby, and not once ave I heard adoration from you o’er him.”

The sun had dipped low, its rays shining over Yarrow’s glossed eyes, “them people been’ talkin’… servants think something wrong wit’ you… I try to set em straight but there aint much I can do… and now the mating ceremony is fourteen days from now and you…” her voice cracked, something like choking held her back.

Parisa could not speak, could not move.

I’m not a defect, she wanted to say, I’m not a defect, yet the words seemed lodged in the back of her throat, swelling to a bubble that closed off all air.

Yarrow’s grip on the railing tightened. She took a few deep breaths to steady her quavering self as her eyes grew weepy, “you aint happy child… I know you aint… I been raisin’ you at my tit since you was given to me. E’erday that passes you been detached… talking about the world out there and tryin’ be human when you aint made to be human. It terrifies me, you terrify me… cause if I can see the difference in you… he will. An’ he’s sharper than me… if he gets a whiff of your…” defectiveness. The malignant word suspended between them on a fine gossamer thread that twirled and swayed, threatening to snap at any given moment.

Yarrow shook her head sorrowfully, “He’ll have you disposed off.”

Had it not been for her grip on the railings, Parisa was sure to have collapsed. Somehow her legs remained rooted to the ground despite the northward rush of blood flooding her head with a roar that left her dizzy. Her body felt numb, as if her spirit had detached itself from this artificial vessel and stood at the distance watching her.

The groan of the main gates withdrew her attention from Yarrow, numbly listing across the horizon and stopping at the sight of three dark cars gliding through the gates. The guards stood in deferential attention.

Parisa knew who it was before Yarrow could speak.

“Best be leavin’ now, mistress wont be too happy seeing you out. Her chil’ren be in the car as well.”

The creature’s tongue felt heavy. “Okay.”

The journey back to her room was arduous and long— more than once Parisa stopped to brace a hand against the wall or bannister as a spell of dizziness swayed her.

I haven’t eaten, she reasoned while entering the cool of her bedroom. That’s right… I just need to eat. Breakfast and lunch had not been offered during the day and she had not considered slaking her thirst, perhaps too enamoured by the idea of being outside.

Heat, hunger and fatigue. That was it.

Once her vessel was satiated, she could think straight and reason better. I just need to eat and rest a while and tomorrow I will explain it all to Yarrow.

Parisa sat on the edge of her bed resignedly and looked into space with lacklustre eyes. The scent of freshly washed sheets, duvet and curtains enveloped her in a cocoon of warmth that, had it been any other day, she would have pressed her face into the materials to scent the world outside. Everything had been scrubbed to a flawless shine whilst she had sojourned on the rooftop.

“I’m not a defect.” She murmured, “I’m not a defect.” Why? “Because I am grateful for everything he has given unto me.” What else? “Because… because I…” What is the one thing he desires from you? “I’m not defective. I’m not a defect. I’m not a defect.”

Say it enough times and perhaps the words might ring true.

Her eyes sought the calendar perched on the edge of a small polished oak table, the days of July carefully crossed off in her handwriting, marking down exactly two weeks to the date of their ceremony. A sacred day blessed by the creators of creatures. A day in which their creations would prove themselves worthy of faultless servitude and infinite adoration for the men that gave them life.

For this life is not my own.

To him I submit.

For it is him I serve.

I lay myself at his feet to fulfil every desire of his heart.

He shall not lack with me beneath him.

He is my everything.