Three Stanzas later the words were fresh again and my body practically shimmered with faux vitality. The drain he'd cut into me was invisible again, to everyone but me. I could feel it working. It always suckled more when I bled. Every day it stole a little more and left me with a little less. Tonight, however, I would be the one draining Rach.

Anticipation brought a smile to my dead lips. In the illusion of the mirror, it gave me an allure that seemed almost overripe. I looked the harlot, the kept woman, the conquest. “Perfect,” I murmured, “underestimate me.”

Then I turned back to the bed. In the rumpled sheets was my ticket into the ball. Lord Wairth von Mecklen, a notorious pig from the central continent with several decades on my youthful figure. He was the perfect cover. Nobody would look twice at another of the old lecher’s playthings. My unknown status would blow over as nothing more than a way for a member of the lesser nobility to obscure her fallen fortune and place of shame next to a man of such renowned debauchery.

A daring few might suspect the truth, that I was a nobody, but they’d stay quiet for fear of being wrong and giving Lord Wairth offense. The selfsame rules that stifled me growing up, confining me to a Scribal track at the Writer’s University and restricting my ambition to pursue Writing, would now be the means by which I brought low the empire’s rising star. The loss of Rach would be a double blow to the royal family, what with his rumored attention of the third princess.

I sneered at the slumbering man. “Stupid girl,” I said, “better to die a virgin than spend a night with Rach.”

Then I winced. Lord Wairth shifted, evidently closer to wakening than I thought. His movement shook me from some of my anger, and in a cooler tone, I said quietly, “He’s not worth bleeding for.”

My words seemed enough to rouse the fat Lord from his slumber. Groping around in the sheets he murmured through the haze of his hangover, “Darling?” his voice was plaintive and wheedling.

It disgusted me. When I indulged in men, I preferred they have more muscle than fat and act less pathetic. Then, I reflected, perhaps this simply was the way of men. After all, I’d never stayed for the morning after before. Even with Lord Wairth, I’d demurred any advances. But the possibility he might not invite me to the ball tonight was too high. So I’d grit my teeth and affected a smile when his innuendoes turned dirty instead of pretending to be too stupid to recognize his phrases with a double entendre.

Then I got drunk. Well, I got him drunk. I took on the appearance of being drunk. And in the words of Lord Wairth, “Far too lushed to leave at home, my dear lady.”

Here I was, then, the proverbial prize. Here I sat, awaiting his Lordship’s morning, by now late afternoon, blessing. I’d hoped he’d stay asleep for longer, but I had a contingency plan in case this happened.

Putting on my best vapid smile I squealed, “Lord Wairth!”

He groaned, apparently his libido wasn’t as awake as the rest of his obese figure. Whining he complained, “Dearie! It’s far too early to be awake, come back to bed.”

“I’d rather die,” I whispered to myself.

“Don’t make me chase you,” he said with what he doubtless imagined was an enticing voice.

I was wrong about his libido, I thought. A moment later, as he swam his way through the blankets, I received an unwelcome visual confirmation of that fact.

Tittering, I gasped and said, “Lord Wairth, why your lordship I’ve spent hours on my appearance already! I want to look good for you tonight.” I said the last bit with a pout.

Wairth sat up, confused, and asked, “Tonight?”

“Silly man!” I exclaimed, “The ball, you went on and on about it last night!”

“The ball?”

“The ball!”

“What ball?”

“The princesses’ coming of age!”

“Ah, um, my dear…” Lord Wairth trailed off with a trapped expression on his face.

Internally, I wanted to laugh. The pig hated social occasions, being such a disgrace. He’d be invited to the ball but ostracized by anyone worth speaking to, especially with me on his arm. The only ones who would spare him any attention were the other elderly Lords, all of them so old they no longer cared who they offended or interacted with. In Lord Wairth’s case that would restrict him to the old veterans, a group of notorious drunks almost as lecherous as Wairth.

But then, if he told me no, the morning after he’d ostensibly slept with me, it would be a social insult my false persona would never tolerate. Soon as he said it, he’d sacrifice any chance of seeing me naked again. Counting on his lust to overcome his sense, I whirled about. Giving him a full view of my enchanting figure, I walked into the closet and emerged a moment later with a bathrobe draped around my shoulders.

Flaring the silk, I let it cling to my bare skin. Cinching the rope around my waist, I leaned over and let the front fall slightly, but not completely, open. Then I said to the dumbstruck lord, “Come see the dress you bought me!”

He complied immediately. Probably more due to the prospect of watching me strip off the bathrobe than seeing the dress. Seeing him rising I gasped. “Why Lord Wairth! You simply must get dressed first. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to show you what you’ve bought otherwise.”

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“My dear,” he said in a solemn voice, “I would do anything to hasten your happiness. If that means standing naked then you may consider my body your ready sacrifice.”

“More than you know,” I whispered to myself as I ducked into his closet. I needed him to look presentable. He couldn’t be allowed to watch me Write, so I gently closed and latched the door and got to work. A moment later, I heard him rattle the doorknob.

“Darling?” he whined, “darling you’ve locked me out!”

“I’m preparing a surprise for you!” I shouted back through the door.

“I do so love your surprises,” he murmured through the wood, still affecting his imitation of a sexy voice.

My disgust at his statement almost broke my concentration, almost. I was a Writer, no matter what those fops at the University claimed. A minute later, I finished. His doublet was stiff necked and gallant. Epaulettes flared out the shoulders, giving him the impression of being stocky and not simply obese. Stylized embroidery at the chest and buttons would draw the eye up the body and away from his rotund stomach. The high collar and bar inlays would provide the final touch, an unavoidable invocation of his homeland.

It was a subtle nod to the old wartime uniforms of the Low Countries. That was ideal for ensuring that Wairth ended his night drinking with comrades in arms. The Empire and the Low Countries maintained the longest alliance of the modern era. His attire would make him an exotic oddity among the old veterans of the War of the Quintuple Alliance.

Wairth was never a distinguished military veteran, but all nobility of the Low Countries served. For those unfamiliar with his service record, which would be everyone considering his lack of distinction, it would invoke a question that I could serve as arm candy during. Old war stories had a way of bringing together the least relevant of the nobility. They’d all be clamoring to tell a story once Lord Wairth’s clothing started the conversation. It also helped that the old men were certain to spend more time looking at my bust than my face, too old to care who or how they offended.

With one final flourish, I finished the Writ and the doublet sprang into existence. I’d Written in a few signs of wear, just enough to ease any suspicion of the Scribes that this was a Writ piece of clothing. Technically, what I’d just done should cost Lord Wairth a pretty penny. But only if I’d had my Writer’s Degree, which I didn’t and could never get. The anger flared at the base of my spine as I reached for the door, thinking about what they denied me.

“I see no evidence of Skin Writing. Such allegations are a serious matter Student Auteer.” The sneer on the provosts face as he reached for his pen. My angry screams as the School Scribes copied my expulsion order. As they dragged me from campus, Rach’s simpering, condescending, smile when they passed me. I forced my hands to relax. I couldn’t risk damaging the lord’s doublet.

Flinging the door open, I painted a smile on my face as I presented the articles of clothing I’d chosen to accompany the doublet. “My lord,” I exhaled in a sultry tone, “I simply must see you wrapped up in this.”

Guffawing he replied, “Wrapped? Am I a present?”

“Only if I get to unwrap you tonight,” I whispered before maneuvering around him.

As I went, I grasped the rolls of his shoulders and placed him in the room. Closing the door firmly, I relaxed. With a quick motion, I then disappeared behind the dressing screen.

In a few practiced motions, I reWrote my dress from earlier in the mirror and conjured it perfectly placed around my body. It would surprise Lord Wairth for me to finish so quickly, however, so I hid behind the screen for another hour fending off his endless entreaties for a private show. When I finally emerged, much to his enjoyment, it was only an hour before the ball.

Fastening myself to his arm, I piloted the toad into his carriage. Just like that, we were off to the ball with minimal fuss. Although I spent the entire ride rebuffing his advances after proclaiming that he could not possibly touch me for fear of spoiling my makeup.

Stepping from the carriage, I knew I turned a few heads, all of them male. They kept on turning soon as Lord Wairth followed me, however. Only those with a worse reputation than him kept looking. The Scribes hardly spared us a second look after waving a pen over Lord Wairth’s card. They didn’t even bother to check mine. The only attention they paid me was a cursory sweep of my dress, or rather where my dress wasn’t.

As we stepped past the outer gates, I glanced up at the castle. It was a specially modified palatial estate of the Empire held in reserve for just such occasions. While it lacked the austere and imposing visage of the royal capital, it carried a vibrancy the capital lacked. Most of that vibrancy stemmed from the bunting lights and streamers cast liberally about the vast yard. As much as I hated to admit it, I was excited to see the inside.

What would typically be a mark against the location, the lack of Old Imperial Writer’s Blocks, would serve as an advantage on a night like tonight. Instead of obstructing all but an Author, the stones here would let ink flow freely. Such a thing allowed for the pomp and circumstance the royals required to introduce the third female child of the House of Bard.

We wandered the grounds for a few minutes. Lord Wairth pointed out the various sights to me as we progressed through the fair. In one corner, a Paint Writer made miniature-dancing constructs of various guests. In another, a Chalky Editor entertained children with pavement games. I could just barely make out a delegation from the University extolling the virtues of enrollment on the far end of the grass.

Then Lord Wairth jostled me and whispered in my ear, “Darling, do you see the representatives of the Penmanship Guild?”

I smiled down at him and said, “Lord Wairth, I’m afraid this is all so exciting, could you explain it to me?”

Preening, he answered with pride in his voice. Apparently, he was too stupid to realize that my country bumpkin act would reflect poorly on him. “They’re here to demonstrate how important proper Penmanship is to the aspiring Writer. See that one?”

“Mmhm,” I encouraged.

“Well he’s Writing on the head of a pin! So fine that you wouldn’t be able to read a word of it but his constructs still function just fine.”

I cooed as he pointed towards another. “And that one, see her? She’s Writing with water, demonstrating how precise and quick she can go. If she is slow, the water will dry. If she is too quick, she may smear the water. So it is a delicate balance she has to maintain.”

Gasping at the marvelous display, I asked him in an impressed tone, “Could you manage such feats?”

My subtle barb hit the old codger exactly where I intended as he mumbled, “Well, no.” Perking up he added, “But then, I was a fighting Writer! I dueled with words and ink, dealing death to the enemies of the motherland! We had no time for penmanship practice, not in the trenches.”

I fluttered my eyelashes, suitably impressed at his boasting. Inwardly, I sneered in contempt at him and his vaunted Writing. I could Write circles around the pathetic Penmanship Guild. Circles so fine they’d cow those fools into immediate submission if they reviewed my work.

The sound of clapping interrupted my thoughts. Lord Wairth and I had apparently stopped close enough to admire the work of the water writer and were politely applauding her latest creating. I joined in belatedly, hoping nobody noticed my faux pas. Fortunately, attention shifted as a voice cut through the crowd. “My word! An impressive display indeed from the Penmanship Guild. I do wonder if you would allow a poor lord the chance to measure himself against your skill.”

His voice was like ice in my veins. “Rach,” I whispered.