Anya’s eyes opened to brilliant sunlight. She lay in a clean bed, and the ceiling above her was adorned with painted stars. The sole window framed the distant dome of a grand reliquary. Despite the exhaustion permeating her body, she felt clean, and her scent was masked with mild perfume, so somebody must have bathed her. Her knife was in her hand.

“Welcome back, Miss Anna.”

Anya started, and turned her head to see a maid sitting beside the bed. She was the same maid from before the ritual - a round-faced weasel, slightly taller than Anya, wearing an elegant black dress bearing the Clary claim-seal. She sat at a small portable table, and was putting the finishing stitches on a white-and-red dress accented. Behind her, a hastily-arranged home altar to the Saints Georgei and Ascalon had been placed in a corner, and its candles filled the room with a pleasant oak scent.

“Ah…hhh.” There was a sharp pain in her jaw, and a dull ache pulsed outwards from her chest.

Easy does it. Still getting all those organs back to where they should be.

“Who are you?”

“Renee, chambermaid and seamstress of the household of Yvon Clary. Master Yvon instructed that I serve you.” She spoke quickly, syllables blasting outwards like cannon-shot. She set down the dress and rose before performing a flawless curtesy. Anya noticed a butterfly pendant around her neck - the symbol of St. Niamh, whose followers used saint-arts to be reborn as the opposite sex.

“Oh, um, thank you. How long have I been asleep?” In Rus, Anya’s maids had been young women from the middle nobility, performing menial labor while they sought husbands at the royal court.

“Thirteen days. The doctors didn’t think there was much hope, but Master Yvon was real confident in that demon in your knife.”

Anya sighed. Any longer, and she would’ve risked serious neurological damage. Or waking up as Enkidu’s draugr-puppet.

“Are you from Parisi?”

“Born and raised in the Market Quarter, and stitching before I could speak!” Renee smiled, revealing needle-like teeth, and some primitive part of Anya’s brain conjured up images of the woman leaping forward and sinking her fangs into Anya’s neck.

“I thought only grass-eaters wore claim-seals in Gaul.”

The weasel laughed. “Funny thing, isn’t it? Supposed to go back to the Hunting Charter that founded Gaul. The bears and the wolves and whatnot say us weasels fought as mercenaries for the grass-eaters, so we get thrown in with them.”

“By the way, what do you think?” Renee continued, holding up the dress. The top of the chest was secured with a red ribbon, and red lace cascaded down from it over a white torso. “Master Yvon wants you to debut soon, and the dresses you brought from Rus are decades behind the times.”

“It looks beautiful. Thank you.” Anya looked it up and down, and the placement of the lace clicked. “Wait. It’s meant to look like a bloodstain, isn’t it?”

Renee’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Exactly! The princess who cut open her own heart to slay the draugr! It’s a wonderful story, and the whole court knows it by now. In addition, the first ball of the season happened just a week ago, and arts-inspired clothing was all the rage! You will draw every eye in the room.”

Anya pulled her ears down against her face. “Your craft is exquisite, but I would much prefer their eyes to be directed anywhere else.”

Renee set the dress down, and picked up an accompanying hat. Its brim held an array of faux roses crafted from crimson fabric, and chalk lines indicated where embroidered stems were to be added.

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“If I might be so bold, Miss Anna, people will form opinions of you whether you wish it or not. Better you give them a story to believe than let their prejudices fill in the blanks.”

Before Anya could respond, mirth once again filled the weasel’s face. “Furthermore, you will look positively stunning in a proper mantua! Sofia has elegance in droves, but her figure simply will not fill out the latest styles. You, on the other hand, are more than ample.”

“Sofia?”

There was a knock on the door, and Renee quickly rose to let Yvon into the room, carefully lowering her gaze as he entered. He wore breeches and a simple leaf-patterned waistcoat together with small rounded spectacles, and his eyes alighted on Anya for only a moment before turning to Renee.

“She is awake? Good.” He paused to place a hand on the incomplete dress, spreading the fabric under his fingers. “Fine choice of colors, although I feel something more is needed to bring the whites and reds into proper harmony. Perhaps you should experiment with gold embroidering. Now, if you would excuse us.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you.” Renee quickly folded the dress and took her leave, closing the door behind her.

Anya gulped as Yvon approached. The furniture in the room was sized for a person of her stature, and the wolf seemed a giant in comparison. He pulled up a particularly large chair and sat besides the bed, regarding Anya as one might a caged draugr-beast.

“The mastermind remains unknown, but you have been cleared of all suspicion, and the night ended with no worse than a few broken limbs,” Yvon began. “Except yourself, of course. The doctors tell me you recovered from multiple mortal injuries. Your demon must be fond of you.”

“Draugr do not experience sentimentality. If I live, it is because mine knew he would be pierced with a dozen silver spears the moment he commandeered my body.

Yvon half-nodded before slowly leaning forward, clasping his hands above his knees. Anya noticed his claws were carefully trimmed to bluntness.

“You have made a proper mess of things.”

“By saving your life?”

“Yes, precisely. Many of those present at the ritual were grass-eaters families with which the Clary business has significant dealings. They were quite enamored of your heroics, and have impressed on me that granting you anything less than the keys to the Clary estate would be a gross miscarriage of justice.”

“If you are concerned their opinions are ill-informed, I would suggest you allow me to make their acquaintance. A few minutes of conversation ought to demonstrate that I am wholly lacking in merit.”

“You will have the floor in two months. Against the traditions of the consortship and all rational judgment, I have had you provisionally registered as Countess Anna Vasilyev of Clary, and you will make your debut debut at the Hallowtide ball. No doubt you will commit a grave faux pas, and we will have legitimate grounds to revoke the title.”

“And then?”

“A comfortable life, well within the bounds of propriety. If you are faced with boredom, I am sure Renee would gladly teach you a craft. She is a skilled artisan, even if her manners leave something to be desired.”

Anya’s pulse quickened. It was a strange, heavy feeling, to have the arc of her fate so casually bent.

“There must be a way to earn my keep. Is your house in need of a doctor? I have a medical license from the Crimson Conclave, and two years of experience as a military physician.”

Her voice faded as the wolf brought himself over her, pinning the hand that held the knife. His nose twitched, picking out her scent under her perfume.

“Let me be clear. There will be no negotiation. You have nothing to offer me, and I expect nothing in return for whatever charity my common decency impels me to bestow. You will certainly have no need for your bloody arts.” He plucked the knife from her palm.

“Hey!” She reached for the knife, wincing as Enkidu’s presence flickered to a deadened void, but froze as low growl rumbled from Yvon’s throat.

“That will be all. I am glad to see you in good health.” The wolf rose, tucking the knife into his waistcoat, and made for the door.

“Wait. There is one thing I am meant to offer you, is there not? As your consort.”

“What could…oh. The prospect holds little appeal, but I suppose we ought to at least keep up appearances. Let Renee know when you are in season, and she can find a time for you to visit my chambers.”

“Do you take after Ganymede? If my present form holds no appeal to you, it would be easy enough with my arts to lengthen a few bones and grow a proper-”

“I have a wife. Sofia.”

For the first time, Anya noticed the golden braid-ring around his finger.

““St. Galaad be damned, did no one tell you?” Yvon snarled, his ears twitching bolt upright. “Well, you will meet her soon enough. Perhaps she will understand what goes on inside your head.”

He left, and she was alone. She waited, expecting Enkidu to slither into her mind with some snide remark, but of course he would not come. Whispering a prayer to St. Ascalon, she let oblivion claim her once again.