Chapter 17 Stars on the Water

* * *

Milvess was partying. With a soul, as several hundred thousand people who had lived another year, and not the worst, and if you think about it, quite a good one.

In winter, of course, economic life does not stop, but it becomes half asleep, slowing down as the storms come. Lords wind down their feuds and begin to negotiate ransoms, and also who to breed with whom and how much it will cost. The clerks and prosecutors are happily rubbing their ink-stained fingers in anticipation of long rounds of court battles. By the way, Elena also got involved in the tangled jurisprudence of the capital, which has long been not happy. However, about this - in due time.

Prosperity and brisk trade await only the owners of oil shale deposits and peat bogs. Until spring, Milvess, or indeed any town, village, or house, will smoke with combustible stones and moss to ward off the cold. Although, perhaps, the candlemakers will also rejoice in the long nights, but moderately, anyway, the life of the absolute majority of people is tied to the sun. Artificial light is a necessity, while lamps and candles are a luxury.

Robbers will be gone, hiding in villages, farms, and castles because it is unprofitable to do evil on the roads in the winter cold. But in the cities, criminal activity will increase because darkness is the best friend of a dashing man.

And of course weddings. In the summer, boys and girls look at each other, checking each other out in complex and intricate bargaining, where dozens of parameters are taken into account, from the family's prestige to the banal possibility of conceiving a child, a future worker, and a breadwinner. Timid interchanges replace the first glances, and step by step comes "guest nights" with dangerous climbing over fences to attics. And there are already "trial nights," after which young people in love (or just sober-minded) (as well as their parents) agree that - yes, it's time. It is not for nothing that late summer and early fall are still called the "children's months."

It's all coming. And now for the holiday, the second day of the Memorial Day.

Elena waded through the crowded streets like a shuttle on a rough river. One hand habitually touched her belt pouch, the other under her cloak, on the hilt of her knife.

"Pretty boy, would you like some...?" The prostitute with a black ribbon on her symbolic cap showed a brass ring in her mouth and played with her tongue in it, promising unearthly pleasures. She wilted, lowering her eyes when she saw the face of the "handsome man." In the next moment, she again lit up with the hope that maybe the girl in men's clothes and predilections had the appropriate. Elena passed by, smiling slightly. However, the girl was not ignored. A dashing guy, a typical bully, and half-bandit with a dashing axe behind a wide belt, came up to her.

The afternoon sun was warming generously, even excessively. It was a little hot in her cloak, and she was a little sorry she'd put on warm clothes. She strode deliberately along the stone sidewalk, rejecting all the temptations of the festive Milvess. The fire under her heart flared again, electrifying her nerve endings. The woman shook slightly in anticipation of the strange.

Another group of masons, guarded by mountain mercenaries, passed by. They were scolded, sometimes thrown at, but more out of order than out of real anger. The Long Tower was visible even from here, across the river and through the neighborhoods on the southern bank. It was being built at a rapid pace, like a socialist construction site, and in violation of all laws. Tall residences were once one of the main elements of the cityscape, and every decent family, guild, and workshop considered it a matter of honor to erect such a spire. Cunning mechanisms and elevators lurked inside, and hidden tunnels ran from the cellars. The building both demonstrated wealth and served as a safe haven in case of riots, shop warfare, and other disturbances [1].

A long time ago, the height of spires was restricted on the pretext that it was inappropriate to build stone monsters that towered over the Temple of Sixty-Six. And the skyscrapers had to be cut down to a single standard. However, two years ago, the Island (or rather, the ruling family) obtained permission to erect a mega-tower like in the old days. The structure rose to the sky on the eastern edge of the city, completing a long street, the equivalent of the central avenue that stretched across the entire southern part of Milvess, culminating in the plaza in front of the Imperial Palace. The body of the tower was already complete, and now construction crews were filling the gaps between the two walls with rubble.

Elena quickly overtook a group of well-dressed townspeople who were discussing what the privilege of a waterwheel for the workshop would cost them. The conversation quickly turned to the subject of new taxes and cloth mills. Here, the interlocutors lost all respectability, and the conversation instantly turned into a scandal, attracting more and more new participants. The topic was indeed quite painful - the emperor, in an attempt to fill the empty treasury, began to limit the lease of water-driven units and to close the existing ones by the hands of his emissaries. In this way, the traditions of use hallowed by years were turned into expensive privileges for the wealthy workshops. The rich recouped the costs by selling the services further down the food chain. All of that fueled the already troubled capital like a tightly closed cauldron.

"Down with the wine monopoly!" shouted someone very close by, and, judging by the clatter of soles, ran away at the noise of the scuffle that had begun

Elena left behind her the fight, which, like a black hole, attracted to itself completely external conflicts like the belief in One or Two, the protracted feud between clothiers and cloth makers, internal disputes between tinsmiths and coppersmiths, as well as other issues that were of no concern to the prison healer.

Judging by the shouts and whistles, the neighborhood guards had already been summoned to the scene, so Elena would probably be treating some of the more zealous ringleaders in jail one of these days. She walked past the rows of caterers, ignoring the big aunts sitting on pots of hot food. Roast meat carvers were putting on little shows on the stalls, juggling their wares like Japanese chefs, cutting pork through the air. As they used to say in the Ecumene, "The city eats the pig, the village the cow." The meat was expensive, so chicken and fish pies, with a piece of fatty liver on top, were in much greater demand. They were supposed to be cut in such a way that each triangular slice was crowned with its share of liver. A special delicacy (and the most expensive dish of "street" cuisine") was pork, boiled at least one guard in four waters. The meat left mainly connective tissue, which tasted like crab, and the dish was ordered, among other things, as a medicine for sick joints.

Eating something seemed like a very good idea, her stomach urgently demanded food, but Elena followed the golden rule of Draftsman - if you don't know exactly what the future holds, it's better to leave your stomach empty. Besides, eating anything on the street was not too sensible. The most common illness in Milvess was diarrhea and other gastrointestinal ailments.

A group of salty goose vendors came across the road, and she didn't want to eat anything at once. Salted poultry and fish, which looked like boneless cartilaginous herring, were a legacy of the hungry centuries of salt scarcity. Food wasn't so much salted as fermented "in its own juice," often without even barrels, just in earth pits, pouring over a minimum of the cheapest Island salt. From Elena's point of view, it was impossible not only to eat it but even to be near it, especially in the wind. Nevertheless, the poor of Milvess and even some of the wealthy townspeople chowed down on the disgusting morsel with great pleasure, for it was cheaper than cheap. The salted goose was also considered healthy, and the diet was prescribed for recovery from severe stomach ailments.

Elena passed a procession of fishmongers, who were throwing small fish out of baskets for the poor people to eat. She bypassed a group of gangster-looking young men with ringlets and shields, some of them even wearing full-fledged helmets with bird-like visors, with "beaks" protruding forward. You'd have to guess whether they were bodyguards, or thugs hired by the shop or just rowdies who would organize some kind of pogrom further into the night. The Tournament of Faith was approaching, so the already militant Milvess was full of armed people, finally turning into a kind of military camp.

Elena noted that paper airplanes appeared on the streets. It looked like a toy made in passing had moved to the people, winning children's hearts block by block. It was a little embarrassing because kids didn't buy paper for their fun. And the counters were already selling free versions with glued-on dragon heads and other magical creepiness.

As she passed the house of a barber, Elena looked at the wooden gargoyle head under the roof. A well-fed meowur sat on the head, squinting with yellow eyes. Its large claws were deeply embedded in the wood, its short ears swiveling like locators, tracking the subtle notes of street noise. Most likely, this - the beast, not the gargoyle - was the neighborhood mascot. Reptiloid cats were beloved in Milvess, as they were in almost the entire Oikumene. It was an honor to feed the mystical animal, and it was considered a great sin to offend a meowr.

The gray beast looked directly at Elena, its oval pupils dilated as if recognizing her. The animal silently looked at the woman with an unblinking gaze. The former pharmacist remembered Mr. Cat from the Wastelands. She felt a little sad and wanted to know how he was doing. Does he get a decent portion of pork every morning as before? No reliable news from the Badlands reached Milvess, only general rumors that encouraged more and more of the town's poor to leave their places and go on a long journey to the north, where death was at hand with man, but there was plenty of no man's land. However, knowing a little of Santeli, Elena did not doubt that the magical wastelands were seething with brutal brigade feuds. If it hadn't already burned itself out, ending with someone's decisive victory. It would be good to meet alive Charley.

Baala and the letter, written in calligraphic handwriting on a sheet of real papyrus, were waiting for her at home. A courier in a colorful livery was shuffling from foot to foot, waiting for a reply for what seemed like hours. Elena expected to see text to match the luxurious leaf and the seal of green sealing wax, but the message was laconic and seemed to be written by the sender himself, without the services of a secretary. Flessa informed the "dummy" that she had decided to postpone the sparring to another day and invited "Master Lunna, townswoman, and worthy person" to come to the dock in the middle of the evening watch. A stretcher will arrive by the stipulated time. Return transportation is guaranteed to any desired address.

"The Countess is on fire," Elena remarked, turning the sheet over to make sure there were no additions.

*!!!!

"Countess?" The dwarf snorted skeptically, adjusting a long green scarf tied in the manner of a turban. "Look here," she jabbed her finger at a small mark on the seal.

Elena dutifully looked at the curl, which looked like a pentagonal tent with a conical top.

"A peasant," the dwarf sighed. "I'll have to teach you more. It's a crown of dignity. It's drawn over a coat of arms to show the wearer's rank at a glance. Your patroness is not a countess. She's a duchess and an "ausf."

Elena knew what an ausf was. This prefix to the surname meant that the owner was not only noble, having ten generations of aristocratic ancestors, but also owned land with at least one city, a private castle, a forest, and a port. The interpretation allowed for very wide boundaries. For example, a large grove rolled behind the forest, and the port could well be a river or even just a large bridge on a lake. However, the Black Duchess was definitely not one of those who had to manipulate with wording.

Not a countess, though, yes. A duchess, albeit a "vice."

T.N. I translated the Countess as Duchess everywhere because I remembered that her father is a Duke. So this conversation has lost a little bit of its meaning.

I'm climbing the social ladder.

"And from a rather old family, that's why the crown is simple," the dwarf continued heraldic enlightenment. "They were drawn like that after the Old Empire collapsed, and there was no one to make complicated calligraphic drawings. Then, coats of arms became more complicated again. So with this..." she looked at the letter. "The Wartensleben are definitely a couple of centuries old. Not primators, but very, very dignified."

Baala looked at the lodger and gave her advice with all sincerity:

"Catch the moment."

"What? Elena didn't get it.

"Take your chance," the dwarf advised patiently again. "A young heiress from a good family, even if from the other side of the Ecumene, is not a pig sneezing in a trough. Consider Pantocrator's lucky finger pointed at you. First into bed, then into servants. And after that, a family healer, why not?"

Elena wanted to say many different things at once, first of all, to repeat what she had already told Rodent-Murieur about prostitutes being in the opposite direction. But she changed her mind. This is the Ecumene, this is the way things are done here, this is the way they live here. And to be honest, if some megacorporation heiress paid attention to an ordinary citizen, inviting him to a cruise in her private jet, how many people would repeat Baala's recommendation, albeit in a different form?

The courier was shuffling from foot to foot, probably waiting for an answer. Elena sent him away, saying that she had received the message and would wait for the carriage. The dwarf nodded approvingly, called the widow over, and ordered her to warm the water for the bath, then dragged the lodger to try on all sorts of accessories. In the end, Elena categorically rejected pendants, earrings, and rings. She was repulsed by cosmetics, mixed with lard, vinegar, soot, turpentine, and other purely natural ingredients. However, she agreed to gloves up to her elbows with embossing, and a choker made of wooden slats inlaid with copper wire. And a pink ribbon tied just below her left knee, so that the ends dangled down to her ankle. The mix of costume jewelry with a man's suit was quite interesting. Moderately austere and yet unusual at the same time. Ah, what a gorgeous cosplay could come out... Or a model for a game.

At the appointed hour a small escort was already at the door behind the stone fence. Four porters and three armed soldiers. She had enough time to bathe, change into clean clothes, and comb her hair.

"Good luck," Baala said approvingly. Suddenly, she rose on tiptoe, drew Elena up by the neck, and touched her cheek with her lips.

"Don't be timid."

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"I won't," Elena promised honestly, feeling the chill return, tickling her fingertips. Not anticipation, but more like expectation of something new, strange, unknown. The voice of reason urged her to stop, to think and weigh everything. Not to risk a murky adventure with a high-flying aristocrat. In the end, not to get caught in the middle, given that somewhere in the Oikumene roamed the red-eyed monster and Ranjan, and behind them, in turn, hid mysterious customers who wanted to put "Spark" to rest forever.

Yes, common sense told her to stop. But Elena was tired of hiding, tired... tired of everything. And that's why she was going to give herself over to the heat under her heart, to experience a real, blood-thrilling Adventure, and then let it be what it would be.

Be what it will.

I want to dive into the sea at last. I want to swim the moon's path.

I want!

"See you tomorrow," she said to the dwarf. "I'll be back after prison."

"Prison!"- snorted the dwarf. "Tomorrow, you'll wake up on an atlas and eat breakfast off a golden plate!"

"I'll be back after work," Elena repeated. "The sheets are ephemeral, but the prison is eternal, and its silver is safe."

"That's right," Baala agreed very seriously. And she added, after thinking for a few moments with sincere respect. "You're the smart one, though."

Traveling in a stretcher turned out to be convenient, not without reason it was extremely popular among the rich. Besides, horseback riding in the city was expressly forbidden for the lower classes, and a decent man does not beat his feet and does not wear out his shoes for nothing. The measured rocking of the stretcher and the rhythmic stomping of the bare feet of the porters soothed, even induced a pleasant slumber. The light curtains concealed the person inside but opened a wide view to the outside. It was also pleasant to sit on the velvet cushions with hair padding.

Elena leaned back in the vine-woven chair and lazily thought that all significant events in her life happened in the evening, usually at sunset, like now. Just in case, she checked her knife at her belt and pulled up her thin leather gloves. Her lips itched as if from a hypodermic tickle, and her breathing was a little short, so she had to inhale deeply and often.

Outside the palanquin, a truly aristocratic part of the City opened up. The neighborhoods of rich houses, well-maintained parks, and luxurious shops with real windows made of real glass. Elena felt uncomfortable, gritted her teeth, and clenched her fists, brushing aside her shyness. No, fuck it, she wanted an Adventure, and she would have it and let the world burn with fire.

A cavalcade of horsemen rode past, rattling their horseshoes and shooting sparks from the paving stones. In the distance, someone was shouting at the top of his voice about unjust money made of despicable bronze and some dispensation for the Emperor's sacrilegious decree. It seems the rich part of Milvess didn't live a dull life either but worried about the same things as the poor. Yes, logically, the money is the same. The silver in the chests of merchants and bonoms is getting lighter in the same way as in the pockets of the city's poor and artisans.

The breeze, full of sea freshness, tugged at the curtains, bringing the smell of the sea on drafty wings. Not even an odor, if you thought about it, but rather an atmosphere, something complexly tangible, yet quite definite. Evidence that there was water nearby, lots of water.

The procession turned left, southward, passing the Dockyard. Nearby, the smithies rattled relentlessly, forging copper for plating the bottoms of large ships. Not all harbors were infested with the sea woodworm like the sea near the Wastelands, but it was common. A single creature, resembling the larva of a May beetle, could multiply and turn a ship into a rotting sieve in less than a year. There were different ways to fight the plague, from magic to all kinds of resin coatings. But the most reliable (and expensive) solution was metal plating. More precisely, a multilayer sandwich of paper, lard, wax, sulfur, fish glue, and then a copper sheet. She wonders who works here, despite it being a holiday.

She also wonders what the countess-duchess's ship looks like.

The stretcher, meanwhile, descended a stairway that led directly into the sea. It was a temporary anchorage for small vessels, which would come up to take on highborn passengers and small cargo and then leave at once. It was high tide, so it was a short walk. Behind me was a small temple with a green-colored roof (the same copper that had turned green over the years), dedicated to some patron saint of sea travel. Along the upper steps was a series of frightening columns - "pillars of sinners" - made of smooth stone two human heights high. At the top of each pillar was an unquenchable lamp made of a pirate's skull. The empty eyes and toothy grins of the dead heads glowed with a grave yellow-blue fire in the coming dusk.

And ahead...

The sun at sunset seemed small, no bigger than a half-penny, a warm red color with yellow hues added. Like a lollipop of boiled syrup in a honey glaze. Ragged clouds floated slowly across the sky, not torn by the violent wind but wispy, like rags of wool from sheep shearing. The fine waves were dark but not black. More like colored glass, reflecting light readily but not taking in a single ray.

And at the bottom step, drowning in the autumn waves, held by strong ropes was Flessa's personal ship, very much like a wooden swan - continuous curves, smooth lines, only the single mast straight as a ruler. The Mistress stood at the stern, arms crossed over her chest, outlined by the white fringe of light from the dying sun on the horizon.

The palanquin shook on the shoulders of the porters and slid down, clattering against the stone with its bronze-rimmed carved legs.

"Welcome aboard," one of the guards said discreetly, pulling back the curtain.

The yacht - there was no other name for the small ship - glided over the waves, catching the wind with its triangular sails. The ship was not alone, for this evening a number of vessels had gone out under the moonlight to give their masters an exquisite stroll. The warmth was still lingering in this corner of the world. The small crew skillfully steered the yacht away from the shore toward the setting sun. Flessa invited her guest to a round table set up on the back or whatever the aft superstructure was properly called.

The watchful Mourier took his position on the left hand of the helmsman. He was dressed up, apparently in honor of the holiday or following some etiquette. Over his brigandine was a dapper scarf of very large knitting, like a sea snood. The scarf was often worn under a steel neckpiece for cushioning, but the bodyguard wore it as a separate piece of clothing. His head was covered by a huge beret with a gilded plaque at his left temple. The Wartensleben coat of arms, engraved with wasp venom, was blackened on the metal.

The guest took the offered seat. Elena took a sip from a small glass of a liquid that looked like a thick juice. It even seemed to have alcohol in it.

"You have a good ship," the healer said, saluting her hostess with her glass.

"Yes," Flessa agreed. Her voice was low, with a barely perceptible hoarseness. Her blue eyes glittered with huge pupils as if her mistress had used belladonna.

Today, the noblewoman wore what looked like a pair of pajamas made of a light blue-purple fabric with numerous patches of oval patchwork. The high, open collar reached to the lower jaw and was trimmed with fine lace on the inside. The look was completed by boots made of very thin leather with no pronounced soles, something between shoes and stockings. The color and patchwork combination was garish but interesting in its own way.

"And you're beautiful," Elena decided there was no point in being shy.

"Interesting," Flessa leaned a little sideways, past the tabletop, and ran her fingertips down Elena's leg, fumbling for the knot of pink ribbon. She passed the smooth fabric between her fingers. "I've never seen this before. It was provocative. Attractive. Where do they wear this?"

"Far to the..." Elena stopped at the word north. "South. At least that's what I was told."

"You've never been to the South," she said vaguely, neither a question nor a statement.

"There are many places in the world where we have not been," the guest raised her glass again. The fruity drink was insidious, and the degree was not symbolic. Flessa leaned back in the carved chair and, in turn, took a sip of the tea-colored liquid with a distinct smell of brandy diluted with something apple. There was no cupbearer around, so the ladies poured their own.

"That's right," Flessa played her voice like a huge cat. "You don't seem to be looking for simple adornments."

"And you don't wear dresses," Elena remarked simply to keep the conversation going.

"I don't like it," the Duchess shrugged, a shadow of irritation running across her face, but it quickly dissolved.

From here, miles offshore, Milvess seemed like a toy. A fairy-tale city painted in watercolor on a huge canvas. All the colors were slightly blurred, softened by the twilight, all the ugliness of the huge city hidden in the shadows. Only beauty and lights are in view. Magical fireworks blossomed with magical petals high in the sky, planned with fading sparks, melting over the rooftops.

Elena carefully poked something that looked like an olive and a plum at the same time with a tiny fork. The sweet juice tickled her throat and blossomed on her tongue with the subtle taste of an orchard.

"Thank you," Elena thanked her sincerely. "Thank you, I've never seen Milvess from the sea. It's, uh. beautiful. And the evening is beautiful."

"Thank you," Flessa hid her feline smile behind her glass. "Who are you?"

"What?"

"Who are you?" The yacht owner repeated, putting her leg over her leg.

Elena was silent, twirling the glass in her trembling fingers. The corner of her eye caught the silhouette of a tense Mourier. She looked directly into the duchess's eyes.

"I'm Lunna."

"I know," a smile danced at the corners of Flessa's lips, beckoning and threatening at the same time. "That's your name. But who are you really?"

Elena pressed her lips together, experiencing a flashback, a veritable flashback that split the memory.

Who are you? Shena asked that one night, by the fire. The green-eyed Valkyrie. The closest person in the world. A shadow, now only in the memory of her fiery-haired friend.

I wanted to grab the arrogant duchess by the shoulders, shake her like a doll, and knock the resemblance to the man I loved out of her. Anger boiled in my veins. The desire to set the whole world on fire. Now Elena could name the feeling that was sweeping over her like a tidal wave.

Lust, sharp, painful, like the point of a dagger. Like a duel to the point of blood. Like a glass of the strongest wine that knocks you off your feet.

Elena set down a glass trinket worth a couple of weeks of her prison labor. Flessa answered with the direct, ruthless gaze of a man who had seen life and seen death. Everything seemed unimportant, easy. Only the fire in her heart was real.

"Set sail," Mourier ordered softly, somewhere on the edge of the world, in another universe. "Give up the anchor. And off the deck. I'm on the helm."

Elena stood up and stepped toward Flessa. The table was small, and it only took one short step. She looked down from above, savoring the moment and the expression in the noblewoman's eyes, where surprise, uncertainty, and incomprehension flashed like a kaleidoscope. She could feel Mourier's gaze boring into her back, ready to draw his sword at any moment.

"Moonwalk," Elena said quietly, feeling the warmth of Flessa's breath. "Always wanted to dive into it. You can't see the moon tonight. But it can be imagined."

She straightened and stepped to the low board, unbuckling her belt as she went, removing her gloves. Clothes dropped to the deck, item by item, until only a collar-cocker, shredded coins on a lanyard, and a "Japanese" loincloth remained on the healer. A leather cap fell over her shirt, crowning the composition.

"Are you with me?" Elena asked, half-turned.

Flessa bit her pale lip, her eyes sparkling with reflected flashes of magical fireworks.

"You devil," the duchess whispered, clenching her fist so white her knuckles turned white. The rings were darkening in thin bezels, coiling around her fingers like golden snakes.

"Or maybe a paid-off assassin?" Elena stepped aboard, feeling the hardwood beneath her fingers. She walked along the narrow railing, spreading her arms and throwing her head back. Her skin went goosebumps, but the young woman didn't feel cold; on the contrary, it was as if tongues of invisible flame slid along her body without touching her skin.

Two steps on her fingertips to one side, turn and back. Quickly, easily, like a true fighter, like a born killer with the grace of a hunting tiger. Draftsman would be pleased.

"Who am I?" the woman asked the sea, the sky, and the stars on the water. The reflections of the celestial lights seemed hardly brighter than the white dots overhead.

"I am a shadow in the twilight. I am a reflection in the ocean. I am a dance in the wind. I am Lunna!"

Flessa shrieked involuntarily as her guest stepped overboard in one confident motion. She pushed off and stayed in the air for a moment, savoring the feeling of weightlessness. Then the impenetrable darkness took her in almost without a splash.

Elena expected cold, thermal shock, and shortness of breath. But the freshwater sea greeted her gently, like a well-warmed bath. Apparently, the yacht was in a warm current fed by a deep spring.

God, that was good...

She swam along the side, enjoying the faint rocking of the barely perceptible waves. Like in a cradle, like in space, with darkness above and below, there is no cold or heat. There is only a moment of bliss that stretches without ending.

The impact, the splash. Flessa entered the black obsidian water like a professional athlete. Yes, it was natural for the mistress of her own ship to know how to swim. The duchess surfaced almost immediately, sniffing away, peering at Elena with a wild look. Apart from the rings, the noblewoman wore only gold jewelry, consisting of a hoop around her neck and the finest gold chains that descended in two symmetrical cascades on her chest and back, between her shoulder blades. Judging by the fact that Elena had never seen the chains before, the jewelry miracle was hidden under her pajamas.

Both women moved in sync, describing a semicircle like sharks around an invisible point strictly in the middle between them. Elena stretched out her hand, and Flessa responded in kind, like a reflection in a mirror. White stars danced on the waves. The vice duchess' slender fingers were cold and strong. Elena pulled Flessa to her and, kept afloat by the rhythmic work of her legs, wrapped her other arm around her neck, and pulled her to herself.

"Who are you!" whispered Flessa. Her whisper sounded like a scream as if two words could shield her from the inevitable. From the moment when there would be no longer a penniless townswoman or the proud heiress of a noble house. Only the sea, the black sky with gouged dots of stars, and the mad fire in her blood for which there are no barriers or elements.

"And why do I know you... How do I remember that gaze?" whispered Flessa, responding to the embrace.

The light flow brought them right up to the anchor chain. Elena grasped the metal links with her left hand and pulled the dark-haired woman even tighter against her, feeling the gold chains digging into her skin. It was almost painful, but the pain was strangely stimulating to the senses, echoing in her nerve endings to the point of sending shivers down her legs. It was good not to have to row anymore...

"It seems..." the healer said in the young marble-white duchess's ear. "We definitely need a bed."

"Oh, yes..." Flessa tilted her head and slid her lips along her guest's neck, just below the wooden jewelry, near her collarbone. She moved higher, taking her teeth to her earlobe. The duchess's skin was cool, her breath hot.

"Mourier?" asked Elena, feeling the hoarseness scraping at her throat.

"Forget about him," Flessa exhaled. "He's a shadow, he's gone."

Suddenly, Elena laughed, throwing her head back as if opening her neck for a bite, squinting in a grimace of painful pleasure.

Flessa pulled back a little, a look of surprise on the young woman's face. The prison medic's usually frowning forehead had smoothed, her wet hair lying flat.

"I thought of two ..."

Elena couldn't help but laugh again. Flessa smiled now, too, in a very human, uncertain way. It was like a person who'd forgotten sincere joy and a real smile since childhood.

Elena pulled the duchess close again, shifting the responsibility of holding the chain to her. She ran her fingertips along her back, and the smooth sweep of her fingernails tripped over a series of parallel lines in the marble-smooth skin. Scars... a few old scars. Flessa flinched, twitching, trying to free herself, her chiseled face twisted in a grimace that looked like a surge of horror. Helena pulled the woman tighter, overcoming her resistance, and finally kissed her.

It was fire and ice. An explosion, a collision of universes, an atomic fire, a hurricane rushing through every cell, every nerve of the two joined bodies. A battle and victory without arrogant triumph. A battle and defeat in which there was no loss, no humiliation for the loser. It was... just a kiss, endless as the passing of time. Beautiful, like a dream that seemed unattainable but was suddenly at arm's length. As fiery as the heart of a star and as gentle as the touch of a spider's web.

"My God," the Duchess moaned, almost sobbing, when her lungs finally ran out of air. "Oh, my God..."

"I've been thinking," re-captured Elena's almost-slipping thought. "About two things."

Flessa's sharp fingernails traveled down her spine, scratching her lower back. The knot of the underwear bandage came undone as if by itself, a slow flow dragging the strip of white cloth farther away. Then, the narrow but firm palm of the Wartensleben heiress slid further down, following the smooth curve with a sure, caressing motion.

"First..." Elena rested her head on Flessa's shoulder, a shiver running through her muscles, causing the fingers on the duchess's shoulders to convulsively clench like cat claws, digging deep into her wet skin. "I'm not doing well with experience."

"I had no doubt," hummed the Duchess, whose palm and fingers acted in tact with Elena's, only much more confidently.

"And the second..." From the sensations, the medicine woman involuntarily gasped, clutching her partner in her arms until her bones crunched, but the duchess didn't seem to mind.

"Yes?" Flessa squinted, feeling like the mistress of the situation again. She had only one hand free, but it was more than enough, and now it was Lunna's turn to bite her lip to keep from moaning.

"Let's see how much use we can make of pornhub!" Elena announced and pulled herself up on the chain, pulling the astonished duchess [2] with her.

* * *

[1] As an example, I took the famous towers of Bologna, which reached a height of 40-60 meters, in isolated cases up to 90 meters.

[2] I had some doubts about this point. In the end, I even had to do a little research on whether girls watch online porn. Turns out they do.