Oswic, Tom, and I were soon sitting around the fire in short order. Tom had even drawn a chair for Attart which she atop like a feather on edge atop a goose’s head.

“The cards are holy cards, Master, meant to bring one back from the path of sin,” I spread them out on the table, “Only the one who made them can know their true nature, but each card provides a different atonement or blessing. Some may even be cursed. Indemnification and restitution are also possible but often subtle in nature. To repent all you need to do is lay the card across your bared chest, over your heart.”

Tom peered over the cards. His fingers were twitching, ready to grab any at a moment’s notice, “But Sir does not know which card does what?”

I shook my head, “There is a pattern in the creation of holy cards, but it is unique to each set and each creator.”

Tom grinned up at me, “Would Sir agree the pattern of the cards is part of their nature?”

I stifled a groan. Tom had me dead to rights. It wasn’t hard, exactly, to determine the nature of the cards, but it meant I needed to use enough of them to get a general picture. Hopefully the holy man wasn’t a sadist.

“May I use a number of your cards Master Tom? It will assist me in determining their nature. It is the only way I know how short of questioning the holy man himself.”

Tom grumbled and made a show of it, but he relinquished five cards of the deck to my study.

I eyed Oswic. It would be easier to perform the tests on him for a number of reasons, and if he was lost, I’d still have my strengthened and rune inscribed body. On the other hand, his body was mine without the affliction of the dungeon’s corruption about it. If I ever escaped Bleak Fort I’d want his body over my own.

I couldn’t see the future, nor in this case even predict it. Perhaps the cards would cure my cursed body but allow me to keep my strengths. Or maybe they’d destroy the minds of everyone next to me leaving me unharmed. When there was no right answer the simplest course was the simplest course.

I grabbed a card and slapped it against the hole in my armour.

When that failed to do anything I started fiddling with my gambeson while Oswic pressed the first card to his bare chest. The image was of a drum bringing about the wave to wash away the fourth world. The card stuck in place.

The cards were beautifully painted. The paints were as richly hued as lead with the inner strength of lacquer. I only noticed it fully when the card stuck to Oswic’s chest grew dull.

It still held colour, but it was the colour of pigments mixed by a shopkeep painting a sign. By no means ugly, and possibly even desirable, but no longer containing the depth of mastery.

The dimmed card fell free from Oswic’s chest with a slight cracking sound and fluttered to the floor.

Tom eyed the card expectantly. I eyed Oswic.

A moment later I was proved correct. I’d lost my mind a moment prior and now it was Oswic’s turn. It felt as though his conscience was being pulled like taffy. Folded and turned, split on itself and re-merged, and stretched far beyond its furthest reaches until it was so thin I couldn’t see it.

Oswic himself was going through something similar.

His body flipped through itself. His top half rotated forward the full 360 degrees of a circle forward through his bottom half as though both were made of water.

Water was a good analogy. It was as if his entire body had become a droplet impacting a pond and we were now seeing it ripple.

The sun rose and the light could be seen refracting through his body. His shoulders touched and unfolded facing the opposite direction, then collapsed down into his toes casting rainbows the whole way.

The ripples multiplied and layered until Oswic’s own reflection refracted upon itself a dozen times over. He folded and unfolded like a paper flower, each undulation revealing himself again, further layered.

Now several dozen layers.

Now hundreds.

The rainbow settled.

And he was gone.

In his place sat Attart, wearing all he had been, which was to say, nothing. My sense of Oswic’s mind had vanished, yet my soul still had more than one body. I could feel it there, bound to Attart somehow, almost like a cloak about her own soul.

Attart sank heavily into the chair, “Where? How? What have you done?”

She patted about her, searching for what I could not say. Perhaps where ever her spirit had vanished to, for it was gone.

Tom’s mouth was hanging open. The hob scrubbed at his eyes.

“Master Tom has never seen such a sight in all his years, and many years there are! Master Tom was bound by duty to give Sir such a one sided traded, but he is now glad he did Sir! Master Tom does not need cards which turn him into a necromancer Sir!”

The egg cracked before the chick could fly. My body had been given to me, then stolen, both so quickly. I could feel a thousand futures slipping away.

I took a deep, steadying breath and slowly pulled the dress up from over my head.

“Here, it might fit you,” I said holding it out.

Attart recoiled from the dress, “No!”

She put a hand over her mouth, “No. Sorry. I forgot myself. Something feels wrong about that dress. It does not wish to be worn. Not by me.”

Tom bounced between us, “Perhaps old Master Tom could be of assistance? Tom is a skilful tailor, he would be happy to help clothe Mistress in the finest he can find.”

Attart shook her head, “You are very kind Tom, but I am sure I can find something.”

I had already pulled my tunic over my head.

“Here, take this instead. It’s a start.”

The shirt had shrunk somewhat in the etiquette realm, but I was nearly a foot taller than Attart, so it still managed to just about cover her down past her hips. It also had two holes in the front in a rather inconvenient place. A second try worn back to front managed to salavage something of a very red and flustered Attart’s modesty.

Tom had offered advice all the while, “Tom can stitch the tunic Mistress.” “Old Tom knows of a dozen dresses to fit Mistress.” “Mistress cannot be seen without a skirt! Old Tom’s mother would have a fit if she knew he had invited in one dressed such as Mistress!” “Master Tom would part with a pair of trousers for nearly free, Mistress, they are far too large for him.”

Attart hadn’t responded to a one. She was even more wary of elves than I was apparently, which made her trust in me when I’d saved her all the more desperate in nature. Not that I was an elf, but I’d have a hard time convincing anyone of that.

Especially now that I’d lost my unmarred form. Playing dress up—and even Tom’s nattering for that matter—had been a pleasant distraction, but the wound was still there. It was a boon I’d never thought to have, and one I’d never asked for, but it still felt as if my return to humanity had been torn from me.

I shook my head and grabbed a second card. It depicted molten gold being drawn from a pool of slag. I’d made a bargain. If I kept the bargain and the cards didn’t end me, or turn me into a second copy of Attart, I could make another bargain at some point and find another way.

I looked at the rune on my leg. Return to the time of your previous death.

I could re-enter the Mushroom-King’s lair and retrieve Oswic once more, this time with the knowledge of the holy cards and the wisdom to give Tom less than all my memories.

I could, if I risked whatever might happen to Attart. Last time had stolen her body from her. She’d taken mine in turn, but at least I still had spare, she’d been rendered powerless.

I slapped the card against my chest. One thing at a time.

“Wait! Oswic, I can question the—” Attart reacted far too slow. The card was already fading.

It fluttered to the ground.

Tom’s eyes widened and Attart gasped. For my part, I noticed nothing out of place.

“What is it?”

“Sir is asking of Master Tom and Mistress. Master Tom cannot help but notice,” Tom screwed up his face and pressed his eyelids together, “Even when he cannot see Sir Master Tom is being asked.”

That sounded like nonsense to me, but Attart was nodding, “You are giving off a presence Oswic. Like a precipice asking me to jump straight in.”

She gestured at me as if that explained everything.

I frowned, puzzled, “So... what happens if you jump?”

Attart stood and walked around the table. Then, without hesitation, permission, or the slightest blush she pressed her hand against my chest.

I was about to comment on her forwardness when two things happened. The first was that Attart collapsed. I rose to catch her as she fell, succeeding, but exacerbating the second.

It was if I’d been smothered by her. Her presence (not her person) clung to me like mud. There was no visible change to my body or clothes, but I could swear I felt something foreign running over my down my stomach and around my legs. Something climbing my chest and arms. Dripping through my hair and off my lashes.

Tom brought around a large low cushion for me to lower Attart into which I did. He peered over her with his large eyes.

“Is Mistress alright Sir? Master Tom had not thought Sir a vampire Sir.”

I put my fingers to her neck. Her pulse was faint but growing stronger, “She’ll be fine Master. I’m not a vampire. It’s something else. I’ll feel like I’ve fallen in a pool of mud.”

Tom peered closer at Attart, “Mistress appears clean, but Master Tom can prepare a bath if Mistress is needing.”

I shook my head. It was hard to concentrate with the feeling of being enveloped in lukewarm slag. I grabbed my left arm in my right hand and tried to wipe it off. Much to my surprise, the feeling slid off easily and my arm was clean.

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Better than clean. It felt... stronger? More comfortable? Balanced?

I flexed my fingers and bent my elbow. Something had changed. It wasn’t how my arm looked, but how it felt.

I tried wiping of my other arm.

The same thing happened.

Both hands ran down over my shoulders, chest, and back. I drew in a deep breath. I could definitely breath easier. A little deeper.

I finished clearing myself while Tom watched. By the end I felt as though I’d not only been through a cleansing shower, but also a series of deep stretches. My whole body felt limber.

“Well Sir? Master Tom wonders what the card has done to Sir.”

“I feel stronger Master. More flexible, maybe? It’s faint, so it’s hard to describe.”

Attart’s eyes fluttered open, “I myself feel ever so weak. Do you think perhaps you have stolen my strength?”

She struggled to a sitting position.

“I hope not. It’s possible, but holy cards rarely harm others. As I said earlier they are about redemption, not power. Even if they were cursed they should hurt the one who used them, me, not those around me.”

Attart raised her right arm and flexed it a few times.

“I am feeling a bit better now. Whatever befell me appears to be fast lifting. Perhaps it is a temporary sort of borrowing?”

I wasn’t feeling any weaker as Attart gained in strength and said so, “We shall see in time. Unfortunately, I am going to need to try another of your cards, Master. I still haven’t cracked the nature of our holy man here.”

Attart reached for one of the cards Tom had given me, “May I try one? I wish to help and I feel terribly guilty about whatever happened to your second form. I can imagine precisely how much it meant to you.”

Precisely seemed a little strong. Then again, there had been some hints that the form she now wore had been forced on her by the etiquette book rather than being her own, even if she had refused to fix it with the dream potion. Her soul merging with that of another wouldn’t have helped issues.

Speaking of which, perhaps that could be my saving grace. All I need do was return to the etiquette book and drink the vial as Attart had before me. Damages could be undone, or at the very least, remade. It was so simple I held the idea with some caution. Dark magic was alluring after all. But it was also so simple it filled me with a giddy hope. It didn’t matter if it worked. The important thing was that there was ways yet unexplored out of here. Not just the dungeon, the but the isolation and wounds it had wrought.

Which brought me back to Attart’s question. I had planned to try all cards, but all burdens need not be my own. If she wanted to help, she could.

“I’d welcome the assistance. Though please, feel no guilt on my account. It hurts to have my form taken from me, but I tore you from both body and time. If anything, the card which gave you your body was one of atonement.”

Attart hesitated a moment, hand hovering, and then delicately took up one of the cards. It depicted a man prostrated before a shrine atop a hill. The shrine shone with the dawning sun. Without slowing to study the card Attart threaded it down the neck of her(my) tunic and pressed it against her chest.

A moment later I heard the card unstick itself, but her tunic prevented it from falling. A gentle smile spread on Attart’s face as she tugged at the tunic to free the card, which eventually drifted free.

She turned the smile on me and—by the sacred seat—I was still reeling from the return of love into my life, but she was looking at me with the adoration of an angel. I’d not felt so loved more than a handful of times in my life, and that was including my mother’s affection at my birth.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

Her eyes crinkled in amusement, “I feel fine. A little warm, especially when you look my way, but that is all-”

She clutched her hand to her breasts. They were moving slightly, visible even beneath the tunic. All of her was moving. Her nose lengthened, her fingers shifted. Her tunic began to rise back into indecency as her hips rose beneath it. Her hair danced and twisted itself into a number of shimmering braids and her eyes lustered as they began to sparkle. Even her lips, brows, and lashes shifted subtly.

Attart had been beautiful before, but now she was reminiscent of one of the Harem-King’s beauties.

All the while the smile remained on her lips.

“What... what was that?” she gasped. Even her voice had changed ever so slightly, though not enough for me to pin down in what way.

The most damning thing was the concern in her voice. It hadn’t reached her eyes. It was like we were back in the etiquette room. Admittedly, with considerably less trousers.

She looked up at me with that gentle smile and desperation in her voice, “I cannot stop smiling. I must look as though I am in love, but truly, meaning no disrespect to yourself, I am terrified.”

I knew precisely how she felt, but that same understanding muted me as I sought for the correct words to say. Tom took that opportunity to insert his own form of care.

“Would Mistress like to reconsider Master Tom’s offer of a tailor? Master Tom will do his best to make Mistress’s tunic fit, though Master Tom wonders if such a task is beyond even him.”

“I...,” Attart tugged the hem helplessly downward. It didn’t move very far, “Perhaps Tom. What are you offering? Do you still think those trousers would fit? Or a skirt of some kind?”

“Master Tom has all kinds of clothing, Mistress, all kinds. People are always leaving gifts for Master Tom to find, and he is not so haughty to turn down gifts, Mistress. Master Tom will offer a skirt and some underclothes for poor Mistress in exchange for Mistress’s child.”

Attart’s smile never left her face even as she stumbled back from the dobby, “A child? But I have no child.”

She sounded more frightened than confused.

I drew my cutlass and levelled it at Tom, “You go too far Tom.”

Tom danced away from my sword and swept down his hat with a bow, “Master Tom apologizes, kind Mistress, kind Sir, but Master Tom detected something amiss with Mistress’s smile. Master Tom has now confirmed the holy man’s curse is upon poor Mistress and would happily offer Mistress skirt and underclothes as long as she promises never to give them away. Master Tom is very proud of his sewing, Mistress.”

“Is that all?” Attart’s voice was skeptical, but the smile never left her face, “What if they are damaged or stolen?”

Tom squashed his hat down back on his head, “As long as Mistress does not give them away, Master Tom can take no offence Mistress. Master Tom is a generous sort Mistress.”

Attart stuck out her hand, “Grant me a skirt and underclothes which fit and I vow never to give them away Master Tom.”

I reached out as fast as I could without being hasty (I tried anyway. Her fingers might have ended up a little bruised) and pushed her hand away. “Ask for a skirt and underclothes which he alters to fit you.”

Tom stomped his foot indignantly, “Sir is not part of this deal! This is between the kind Mistress and Master Tom, Sir, kindly do not intercede. Sir has no right to Master Tom’s other dealings.”

I pursed my lips. Attart stuck out her hand once more, “Grant me a skirt and underclothes which you alter to fit me, and are safe for me to wear, and I vow to never give them away Master Tom.”

I bit my tongue to stop from interceding again. Asking for more stipulations might feel clever, and I’d done it myself, but it also encouraged elves of all sorts to find additional ways around the bargain. Dobbies were said to be worse than most.

Tom grabbed Attart’s hand, “As mistress desires. The clothes of finest moonsilk shall be yours.”

Tom scampered off to a chest in the opposite corner of the room and began rummaging for fabrics.

I sighed.

“What is it?” Attart asked, “Is there something wrong with moonsilk? Itchy, perhaps?”

I shook my head, “It is said to be very strong and comfortable. Fireproof even. Like a superior sort of silk.”

“But...” she prompted.

“It’s translucent. Transparent depending on the thickness of the weave.”

Attart raised her hand to her face, but there was no blush to cover other than the glow which had been permanently affixed there by the card, “Was the point of the clothing not to make myself decent?”

“He viewed that you pushed him too far. Hobs are mercurial in nature. It is best to keep your bargains as simple as possible, lest they believe you don’t trust them and therefore try to earn your mistrust.”

“That is-”

“Crazy. I know. But the clothing will at least keep you warm,” I lowered my voice, “and once we’re out of sight we can smudge them with dirt or charcoal for your modesty.”

It was hard to tell if she had heard me. Her head dipped in what might have been the slightest nod, but with her face it looked like a demure side-eye. She really did remind me of the Harem-King’s lot.

Melinda!

He’d been convinced I’d fall for one of his girls, but I hadn’t known why. She’d been Melinda. But she couldn’t have been, because the rift had been active before I’d met the Mushroom-King.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and let the thoughts race through me. Always a dozen things at once down here. Tom was starting to turn and investigate our whispering.

I raised my voice again, “‘Never outwit an elf’ is the saying in the Painted Lands. That, and to avoid them wherever possible.” Tom wouldn’t mind hearing that. Elves liked the air of mystery. And it gave reason to explain why our tones had been hushed.

“It goes double for hobgoblins. Speaking of which,” I picked up a card, “You want another turn?”

To my surprise she nodded, “After Tom has my clothes ready I too will feel ready.”

And, it went unspoken, perhaps the cards would turn them into robes of vestment or paint them bright orange.

I took the penultimate card Tom had offered us. It depicted elves repairing a broken window with gold between the cracks.

Slap! Went the card against my chest.

Crack! And it lost colour.

The paper fluttered to the floor.

A voice whispered in my ear. Truly whispered, unlike the dark mutterings in my mind.

“Be not afraid. Sorrow not. Your journey is long and far from done. All debts will be repaid in time.”

It was a man’s voice, as powerful as any siren’s, but offering truth instead of death. A knot in my shoulders eased. Vanished. I no longer feared death, not when I thought of Elysium, but there were many tortures of the spirit. My twisted form was one of them. But the voice promised, and I knew it was a promise and a knew it was a promise about my alienating appearance, the voice promised restitution.

Tom returned with a tape measure in hand.

I’d lost my form, gained it again, and lost it all in a month. There were years yet ahead. There were those who cared for me even as a demon, even as an elf. Things I all knew. But now I believed them. Now they were true.

My heart felt like soaring.

“Well?” Attart said in a tone which sounded like an invitation rather than a question. I found my eyes roving over her for a comment before I caught myself. She noticed and raised her eyebrows in suggestion—questioning probably, but it looked like further incitement. I focused on Tom as he measured her changed form. He was quick, with the hands of a professional. Courteous and unobtrusive.

I felt only joy where guilt might once have remained. Or shame. It was so easy when I wasn’t in pain.

“Well and well and well,” I couldn’t stop myself from looking back to her to share in my joy, “Better than I have ever been. It... I’d feared returning to the surface after my transformation-”

Attart nodded her head gently. Understanding, I suppose.

“-but the card offered me a promise of healing and restitution. Not a cure exactly. But a reminder of patience. One that is sticking so far. My problems are all still here, but they feel so far away I could sing.”

Tom returned to his workbench and began sewing in a flurry of scissors and thread. Attart laughed and covered her mouth, “Go on then, what songs do you know?”

What songs did I know? Not any, really? I could sing well enough, but I never remembered any of the words.

After a minute of hesitance while I pulled all manner of faces in concentration Attart burst out laughing again. This time she didn’t even both to cover her mouth.

“Come one Oswic. Whatever you like!”

It wasn’t a matter of liking, it was one of remembering. And I couldn’t even remember a simple nursery rhyme. Nothing except for that squirrel secured badger song.

So what else could I do? I belted out the lyrics again, this time exaggerating each and every line with vibrato.

Tom had already finished his tailoring by the time I was halfway through the song. The little hob joined in on the last verse and then finished with a verse of his own.

“Should one hear a badger call,

And then an ullot cry,

Make thy peace with God, good soul,

For thou shall shortly die.”

Tom sung as he danced over to Attart with clothes in hand.

I hadn’t heard that one before. It was a little bit less positive than my own.

I shared a look wit—I looked at Attart and she met my gaze with an earnest yearning which filled my stomach with butterflies, but I was pretty sure we were on the same page—Tom could have been singing innocently along, or he might have put two and two together. He’d been clement, but that didn’t mean we could push him too far.

Tom, or whomever operated the loom was a master. The moonsilk was of the finest quality I’d ever heard of. I could barely make it out as he held it out to Attart, so sheer was its make, but she took it without complaint.

“Thank you Master,” she said graciously, curtsying in a manner which made me avert my eyes. That tunic was not made for the slightest bend. It would have been less obscene had she been wearing nothing at all at this point, but Tom was already gesturing to the blind next to his tailoring bench.