John Ringo - Emerald Sea

“My mother taught me to sew when I was very young,” Mirta said. “We’d make stuff and then take it to Faires.” Her face cleared of the cold lines it normally had and she smiled. “I used to love to go to Faire.”

“I hope we all can some day again,” Megan said.

“Don’t talk that way,” Mirta said carefully. “We are Paul’s servants. That is all that we are or ever will be.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t take us.” Megan grinned.

“Hmmph,” Mirta grunted, but she smiled as she did. “So what do you want?”

“I really don’t know,” Megan replied. “Some simple panties, for God’s sake. I’m just too clumsy with a needle to get the fine sewing for them.”

“Easily done,” Mirta said, then looked at her. “I saw what you were trying to do with the other outfit. I have some ideas. I don’t know if you’ll like them.”

“As long as it…”

“Pleases Paul.” Mirta grinned evilly. “Yes, I think it will. Do you want me to do it?”

“Please,” Megan said. “How do I repay you?”

“Oh, you already have,” Mirta replied calmly. “Although breaking the bitch’s neck and boiling her in oil would have been preferable.”

“Once you break the neck, they don’t feel the oil,” Megan pointed out. “Details. You have to decide.”

Mirta shrugged. “Okay, just lowering her into a vat of acid.”

“What?” Megan said, frozen.

“I said…”

“Yeah, okay,” Megan replied, her mind racing. “I guess I’ll get them in a few days?”

“That… works…” Mirta replied.

“Thank you,” Megan said, suddenly looking her in the eye. “You have been very helpful.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mirta said, staring at her. “Very glad.”

Megan gave her a nod and walked back to her room. She refused to whistle as she walked.

Shanea was there when she arrived. The girl had gotten over her fear of being out of the main room and now hid in Megan’s room much of the time despite the still-noticeable smell of urine. It was a pain in the ass in some ways and in others quite comforting. Megan had never really had many girlfriends and certainly none that looked to her for protection. It was pleasant and cloying simultaneously.

She was working on another outfit and looked up happily when Megan entered.

“Where were you?” Shanea asked.

“I had a… conversation with Ashly,” Megan said. “And Mirta is going to make me an outfit.”

“How did you talk her into that?” Shanea asked, eyes round.

“I was very charming,” Megan said, throwing herself on the smelly pillows. “Shanea, I need to think for a bit, okay?”

“Okay,” Shanea said, going back to her sewing.

After a while Megan threw herself to her feet and paced back and forth.

“Shanea, what does Christel do in her office all day?” she asked. It bothered her that the woman almost never came out except for meals. For that matter, she was never at the evening bath.

“She’s working on the accounts,” Shanea said. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t know,” Megan said, stopping her pacing and looking at the girl. “All day?”

“There’s a lot of them,” Shanea replied. “That’s why she’s always so angry. She hates doing them. I saw them one time and they’re really really complicated. I couldn’t make head or tails of them.”

Megan stared at her, unseeing, for quite some time, then smiled broadly.

“Shanea, you are the most wonderful person in the world.”

“Thank you,” Shanea smiled. “Why?”

“Just because,” Megan said. “I’m either going to be stumbling back in just a minute or I’ll be quite some time.”

She walked to the door to the office and knocked, knowing that all the other girls were watching her. What was that feely she had watched? Oliver Twist . “Please, sir, can I have some more?” That was just how it felt.

“What?” Christel said angrily from beyond the door.

“I’d like to speak to you,” Megan replied, as meekly as she could manage.

“Come in,” the woman said.

Megan stepped in, half expecting to end up on the floor, doubled in agony. The older woman was behind the desk, which was littered with paper.

“Shanea just told me that you’re in here doing the books all day,” Megan said, standing more or less at attention. “I… think I could help.”

“You?” Christel snapped, throwing a pencil on the desk. “What do you know about it?”

“I… was studying numbers before the Fall,” Megan replied. “I know something about accounting. And… you seem like you really hate it. That makes it hard on the rest of us. If I can help, that makes it easier. And, frankly, I’m bored to tears.”

Christel looked at her, cocking her head slightly to the side, then shrugged.

“You really think you can make head or tails of it?” Christel asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Megan said, walking over to the table and looking down. The papers were covered in columns with notations and numbers by them. They also were covered in equations, most of them scratched, rubbed or in some cases ripped, out. It was pretty clear that math was not Christel’s strong suit.

She pulled one of the papers around to her and read it, then blanched.

“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “You use single-entry bookkeeping?”

“What?” Christel said.

“Single entry,” Megan replied, shaking her head. “You’ve got both your expenses and your income on the same line. Not to mention mixing up your purchases and your use. No wonder you’ve been having problems.”

“How else do you do it?” Christel asked, bewildered.

“Okay, okay,” Megan said, dropping into a cross-legged position next to the desk. “You’ve got food purchases here and a new shipment of cloth. Not to mention housekeeping items and cleaning supplies. By the way, can I get some new pillows?”

“What happened to the ones you have?” Christel asked, angrily.

“They got… damaged. Look, what you do is separate this out by category…”

For the next two days Christel led her over the accounts, although it was quite often the other way around. It turned out that the woman was responsible for managing all of the needs of the harem. She had to track, and account for, all of the food that was consumed, the supply of bedding, the raw materials the girls used in their sewing, their “feminine” supplies and everything else that went into a functioning harem.

By the second day, Christel was in a more jovial mood. Megan hadn’t been lying when she said she knew something about accounting. It was clear that the younger girl was far better at organizing the accounts than Christel had ever been.

“The worst part is that Paul is always checking on them,” Christel admitted early the next day. “He wants me to account for every single item and explain why they were used. The food budget is the worst. He’s always harping about how much food the girls eat. So one time I cut them back and then they didn’t have enough and were complaining.”

“Well, from the looks of some of them they could use a diet,” Megan noted. “But not all. What we need to do is manage the diets individually. But that will mean working more closely with the kitchen staff. Also…”

“What?” Christel asked, looking at her sharply.

“Well, there’s no reason they have to sit around all day,” Megan pointed out. “I’m sure some of them know how to dance, for example. And they could use some toning up. Dial in on the food consumption, maybe have weigh-ins and track their body fat, and start having classes in, oh, dance, singing; can any of them play a musical instrument?”