Renee screamed and writhed against the wolf at her throat, her voice echoing through the shadowed eaves of the chapel. Anya knew it was mostly acting, knew Yvon had only broken the surface of her skin, but still flinched as crimson splotches blossomed across the thin white dress Renee wore.

Yvon’s sister Marie directed the blood into a chalice, and signaled that he could release his bite. Renee collapsed upon the altar, leaving a single finger in contact with Yvon’s hand.

“The saint’s will is done, and the blood shall bear his blessing,” Marie intoned. A flash of golden light - far more than Anya’s blood had yielded - and Marie handed the chalice to Yvon.

“The ritual is at an end. May St. Hughbert watch over your footsteps, and lead you to reconciliation with all those who cross your path.”

Yvon drank from the chalice, and closed his eyes to whisper a prayer.

I wonder what he prays for. St. Hughbert doesn’t seem like the type to deal with money.

It was a few days since Anya’s abortive night with Yvon, and she sat for the first time in the manor chapel for the weekly sacrifice. Marie had arrived from Yvon’s father’s home in her vestments, and Anya, Sofia, Alain, and the senior servants had gathered in the chapel, and now the servants turned to go. The entire ritual had taken perhaps fifteen minutes.

“I’m fine, Anna, I’m fine, see? By the…erm, golly, you looked so scared! Yvon knows how to be gentle.” Renee sprung up, accepting Marie’s offer of a towel with which to cover herself. She nonchalantly wiped a smear of blood from her fur, her eyes seeming to shine as she looked to Marie. Yvon stepped away, seemingly embarrassed by the whole affair.

“You should try the ambrosia. I cannot say if it is due to the piety of the anointer or the wanton enthusiasm of the hetaira, but together they obtain a remarkable clarity,” Sofia said, nodding to the chalice.

Anya rose, quickly curtseying to Maria before taking the offered goblet. The liquid inside was clear and slightly golden, and smelled of wildflowers. Bringing it to her lips, Anya found the taste similar to honey, and soon felt vitality blossom through her body. It was different from blood arts - she could induce a similar effect by adjusting a body’s production of hormones, but this felt as though she was being warmly embraced.

“Yvon, I will not be available to perform the Rite of Predation for you next week. I have an interview and demonstration with the de Forbins. I know several priests who can perform in my stead, and will not object to use of a hetaira,” Marie said, taking back the chalice.

“Good for you,” Yvon said absentmindedly, wiping blood from his teeth with a handkerchief. “They are of solid repute, and have never failed to show us proper courtesy.”

“Thank you, brother. You have always shown me more kindness than I surely deserve.”

“The de Forbins are traditionalists, though. The father or the son will kill some hapless claimee, and you will be expected to prepare the corpse to be eaten. Are you prepared?”

“You taste my ambrosia every week, and know there is no fault in my saint-arts.”

Yvon raised an eyebrow. He glanced behind him, making sure all the servants but Renee had left.

“That is not what I meant. If Renee lay dead before you, could you gut her like a fish?”

“I would gladly exalt her, so that St. Hughbert may carry her soul to the Gold-Lit Wood.”

“And you would be prepared to bless the man who snapped her neck?”

“Yvon, I need not remind you that the de Forbins are a pious family, and kill only once a week and in the name of St. Hughbert, as sanctioned by the Church. Would you rather they be swayed by prey-lust, and send their sons to hunt in the streets of Parisi?” Marie replied, bringing a hand to the saint-icon at her neck.

“Of course not. I only wish to confirm you know what lies before you. Now, since I may not see you for several weeks, allow me to embrace you.”

Marie let Yvon pull her into an awkward embrace, and quickly curtseyed to Sofia and Anya before leaving the chapel. Renee’s eyes followed her to the door, though her eyes no longer shone.

“Sofia, I have urgent company business to see to. Would you-” Yvon began.

“No, you do not. You and Anna have dancing lessons to attend to. Renee, help Anna change into something more suitable, and come to the ballroom. Dearest Yvon, you are not to leave my sight.” Sofia rose, forcefully taking Yvon’s arm, while Anya took Renee’s hand and followed her to the exit. Alain followed them.

“Alain! You went with Yvon to meet the priest yesterday, right? How did it go?” Renee asked.

“Not well. He gave the same story as the rats, about some mystery healer who vanished as quickly as he came. Yvon wants to try going through the Archbishop’s office next, see if we can find a reason to have the priest arrested. You aren’t still considering going to the church, are you?”

“I’d like to. For Yvon, and Renee.” Anya replied.

Alain shot an incredulous look at Renee.

“Guilt rarely leads to good decisions.”

“No guilt. Someone got my closest friend, and I don’t want them to get anyone else. Besides, the Blanchets are honest folk. If it’s their church, it won’t be anything out of the ordinary.”

“If you say. Well, good luck. You’ll be in the hands of a far more capable magus than I.”

Before Anya could protest, Alain bowed and took the stairs, no doubt meaning to return to his room. Anya and Renee walked onwards.

“Um, thank you. For the blood,” Anya said. She could still feel the warmth unfolding within her.

“No need for thanks! It’s fun to get up there and perform, even if it’s for someone else’s saint. It really does barely hurt with Yvon, and Marie makes a good partner. At least, I thought she did. The weasel squeezed Anya’s hand.

“Yvon could not have put it more cruelly.”

Renee shook her head. “No, it’s in their nature to hunt, and she will ensure the prey are sent off gently. Marie has a kind heart, and I’m glad she is honest about what her work entails.”

“Then?”

“She knows I am sworn to St. Math, and intend to pass to his saint-field of Gwynedd of the mists upon my death. Even if she believes St. Hughbert’s Wood to be a superior end, it is not her place to direct my soul.”

“I see.” Anya rarely thought of such things - she had been sworn to St. Georgei, as were nearly all people in Rus, but seriously doubted he had a place in his saint-field for a blood-crazed doe like her.

“You take the hunters’ smiles and kind words, and think they see you as a fellow person, until they choose to show their fangs,” Renee replied. “Yvon is an exception, at least.”

“Because he treats everyone with equal disdain?”

Renee stifled a laugh. “I will choose to hold my tongue.”

They came to a hallway with a window to the lake, and Anya let out a surprised squeak as Renee threw her arms around her. They embraced for several seconds, and Renee’s warmth seemed to rekindle the ambrosia, sending sparks of comfort shooting through her form.

“Gosh, Anna, I’m so sorry. It’s just-” Renee suddenly pulled away, her face overtaken by a deep blush.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“No, it was lovely! And, um, you should call me Anya.”

“Alright, Anya. Thank you.”

—

“Your steps are too short. Those legs are for hopping, yes? Use them.”

Anya forced her leaden feet to move. Her hands were lost in Yvon’s massive grip, and her entire body lurched forward with every step he took. They came to the twirl, and she kicked her leg out for purchase…only to feel it slide as she collapsed to the polished wood floor. The musician in the corner jerked to a halt, and her cheeks burned red.

“Sofia! She’s barely half my height, can’t we find a better-” Yvon exclaimed.

“A prince does not adjust his stride for a mere consort. I trust she will find a way. Now, in position. We’ll run the bourée again.”

Yvon pulled her to her feet, and their fingers intertwined. Sofia nodded to the three musicians in the corner of the ballroom, and they played on.

“Just hold on and trust I’ll keep you upright.” Yvon whispered. “I would rather Sofia not keep us all day.”

Anya began to move again, struggling to keep herself aligned with Yvon’s body. The dance was comparatively simple, and she could let Yvon do most of the work - but the moment she had to think about what her individual limbs were doing, it was as if they’d been replaced by dangling worms.

“No, no, no. Just stop.” Sofia said, shaking her head. She strode from the edge of the room, shooting Yvon a venomous look.

“You are the son of the richest man in Gaul, are you not? Not a clumsy old man tossing fish on market day. If the rabbit is only capable of the bare minimum, at least refrain from sending her flying with every step.”

“Sofia, I promise I am taking this seriously.”

“If you wish to leave, so be it. I will show her the way.”

“But-”

“Give the rabbit to me.”

She flicked her fingers at the door, and Yvon paced away with his tail between his legs.

“Now then.” Sofia sighed, and her eyes turned downwards. “Were you not taught to dance in Vasili?”

“My father saw arts instruction as more useful.”

“Perhaps he recognized a lost cause. But no matter. If you truly lack grace, a façade will suffice.”

Sofia moved quickly, wrapping her delicate fingers around Anya’s hands and pulling the rabbit to her. One pair of hands went to their side, while the other was raised up into the space between them.

They were going to dance. Just a few inches closer, and her head would rest against the modest convexity of Sofia’s bosom - even from where she stood, her sensitive ears could make out the faint pulse of the princess’ heart. Her fingers slackened.

“Keep your eyes up. A woman’s gaze should lend dignity to her partner. Next, spread your feet, but not too far. Do not let your arm sag. Even if you are exhausted, the steps must appear effortless.”

“Yes!” Anya shifted on her feet, trying to loosen up. She raised her gaze, finding Sofia’s faraway eyes.

“We went over the steps in detail, so you should be able to anticipate my movements. Do not overthink it; in this moment, you exist only as an extension of your partner. Am I clear?”

Anya nodded. Even without her arts, she could feel the twitch of Sofia’s arm muscles, the subtle sway of her spine, through the weight of her palms. Her movements were so unlike Yvon’s. Like a beast preparing to pounce.

“Good. Let us begin.”

It was a simple dance - a novel style that had recently become fashionable in Gaul, which presumably meant it would take Vasili by storm in fifty or so years - and yet Sofia moved as if the particular series of motions were as natural and self-evident as walking. The strikes of her hooves against the floor kept time, and Anya soon found her breath synchronizing with the music. She still struggled to make the necessary leaps, and her own pulse pounded in her ear, but the task was far easier with Sofia as her anchor.

They came to the center of the floor, and Sofia slowly pushed Anya back, until she was supported solely by the princess’ grip. For a moment, their snouts became close, and Anya felt the lightest pressure of Sofia’s sternum against her chest. Hot blood flushed through her body, pooling in her now-burning ears.

Sofia released her, and she slumped to her knees. “Your body stiffens the moment any independent movement is expected of you, and you keep to the rhythm only with great assistance. Not beyond correction, but you will need serious practice.”

“I’ll…do my best.” Anya gasped for breath.

“Of course you will.” Sofia crossed her arms. “The whole of the bon ton will be at the Hallowtide ball, and a poorly trained consort would cause unpleasant rumors to cling to my husband’s feet. We will practice again tomorrow, and as many times more as is necessary. Now, get up. Your position is unbecoming.”

Anya rose, curtsied before the princess and the musician, and began to limp towards the doorway. Alain had promised to find for her a book on modern Gaulish arts theory, and Renee wanted her to practice walking in a hooped petticoat.

“Wait. Walk with me.”

The princess’ hand brush against Anya’s back, turning her and guiding her to a side exit. As they left, Sofia picked up a bag she had placed in the corner of the room.

Anya found herself in the back garden before the lake. It had once been planted in the austere Gaulish style, but the roses had long overgrown their geometric plots, and the hedgerows cast long shadows. Sofia stopped to admire an especially crimson rose, then ripped it from its stem to hold it close to her eyes. It was a chilly day, and Anya quickly tucked her eartips beneath her collar.

“I heard there was some friction between you and Yvon.” Her tone was as one might discuss the weather.

Anya’s blood ran cold. She looked up, trying to read the princess’ eyes, but the goat was still examining the rose.

“A beast may be broken and conditioned, until it no longer refuses to perform its role. But we are not beasts, and should consider ourselves fortunate it is so.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Sofia walked onwards, leading them to crumbling stone bench. She gestured for Anya to sit, and joined her a few inches away.

“Certain things are expected of you. If not now, then soon. From a certain point of view, it is not so much to ask, and I suspect any washerwoman or harlot in Tyre would take your place in an instant. Yet matters of the heart have a way of becoming complicated.”

Sofia’s hand crept across the bench, and the tips of her fingers settled on Anya’s wrist.

“What is the matter? Tell me.” Her words were soft, but Anya knew the softness hid thorns.

“I panicked when he touched me, and lost control.”

“How did my dear husband react?”

“He told me to go away. He seemed angry, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Neither did he, I suspect. Yvon takes to introspection as you take to dance, and rarely has a firm grasp on his own feelings.” Sofia sighed, and looked up at the dull grey sky. “And how do you feel, küçük tavşan?”

Anya idly kicked her legs. “I’ll try to imagine myself with his, you know.” She pantomimed holding a kit to her chest. “If there was love, or joy, or even anger, I’d have something to cling to, but there’s just…nothing at all. Like searching for grain in a fallow field.”

Sofia nodded. “What would love feel like?”

“A spark in my heart, I guess, telling me I was on the right path. In the stories I was told as a child, when the lady gave herself over to the knight, there was never any question to it.”

“To wholly trust another is certainly a form of love. Alas, I think it is one very few people find.” Sofia brought the rose to her lips, devouring it with a wet crunch. “I first met Yvon on the eve of our wedding. We had exchanged a few terse letters, and my parents had sent along a painting of my likeness, but I knew nothing of him. Only that his father aimed to improve his lineage with my arts, and that he had offered a royal ransom in exchange.”

“Were you afraid?”

Sofia furrowed her brow, as if trying to dredge up a distant memory. “Nicaea needed his coin. I only feared I would be an insufficient offering to secure it.”

“Oh.”

“I had no fantasies of a courtly romance, and certainly did not find one. But we shared a house, a table, and a bed, until I knew the outline of his heart better than my own. I think that is a kind of love.” Sofia slowly moved her fingers up Anya’s arm, bringing them to rest on her cheek. The fur covering the princess’ hand was remarkably delicate. “You will learn in time, little rabbit.”

The wind picked up. It was coming from the north, the kind that in Rus killed off the last insects and brought the deafening silence of winter, but Anya realized she couldn’t feel it at all. If she was just a few inches closer to Sofia…she could rest her head on the princess’ shoulder, press their skin together and share the meager heat of their bodies. They could sit together and watch the clouds come in, a pinprick of warmth in a gently dying world.

Is this a trick of her arts? Anya tried to think, but her mind had given way to a jumbled mess of emotions. St. Maria of Aegyptos be damned, it was worse than heat, and beneath it all was a raw, fathomless longing. She tasted salt on her lips, and realized there were tears running down her face.

“Anna?”

“Just the wind stinging. I should go, Renee wanted to see me.” Anya began to slide off the bench. If she stayed with the princess any longer, she did not know what she might think to do.

“Wait. I have something for you.” Sofia reached into the bag, removing a large rectangular book and handing it to Anya. Its cover had a title in a flowing language Anya could not read.

“It is a guide of sorts to love, from a kingdom far to the east of even Nicaea. I can translate parts of it, should you desire, although the illustrations alone may prove sufficient. You may find it useful in your meetings with Yvon.” Sofia opened it to a page with a well-worn bookmark, revealing a dazzling illustration of a castle garden. It was filled with people of all species, vigorously…

Oh. Oh my.

“Chapter eight. Intercourse across species lines, with remarks on approaching differences of size and anatomy.”

“Is that a mouse and a…what do you call those people? An oliphant? By the saints, how does she not crush him with those, um…”

“They appear to have found a way, and are having a most enjoyable time together.”

Sofia closed the book, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Anya had gone red as a turnip

“Perhaps you and Yvon could look through the chapter together, and discuss what would suit you.”

Anya imagined Yvon would rather drive nails through his skull, but nodded.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Anna. I feel our conversation has been highly productive.” The princess stood, straightening out her dress. She turned with a thin smile, cradling Anya’s hands in her own and lifting her to her feet.

“You have been…surprising, Anna. It seems my expectations of you were deserved.”

“How so?”

Sofia looked down, with an expression one might reserve for a particularly curious insect. “Some people are like stone, unwilling to be changed by fate or circumstance. They stand proud, until one blow too many leaves them shattered. I suspect you are more like clay. You may yet make a fine consort.”

Anya opened her mouth to respond, but Sofia had already turned away, floating back towards the palace with small, practiced steps. The wind was picking up again, and Anya hurriedly followed her.