John Ringo: Emerald Sea

“Amber?” Shanea said. “Why?”

“Because I want to.” Mirta grinned. “You’ll see. And one for you, dear, of course.”

“One that will suit her?” Megan asked. “Dinnertime, by the way.”

“Oh, yes,” Mirta replied, as they walked out the door. “Definitely one that will suit her. And I think that Amber’s will cover her almost completely. And make Paul want to tear down walls. The human body is a lovely thing, but never so lovely as when properly covered. It’s using clothes to create a mystery that is the truest art.”

“Not much mystery in what you made for me,” Megan said, sourly.

“Enough.” Mirta smiled. “Just enough and no more.”

When they reached the dining room the food still hadn’t been served and Megan sat down with a puzzled frown.

“Girls, listen up,” Christel said, clapping her hands for attention as Mirta sat down. “Starting tonight, you will be served individually. And for tonight all the portions will be equal. As soon as I can obtain a scale, all of you will be weighed. Those of you who are overweight, and you know who you are, will be placed on reduced servings.”

“What?” Karie said.

“Yes, Karie, you’re one of them, and Shanea and Demetra. But we’re also going to start having classes in dance and exercise. They will be mandatory for most.” There was a general unhappy muttering at that and she looked around at the group with a hard smile.

“Paul maintains a harem, not a palace for lazy slugs. It is about looking good for Paul and, frankly, most of you are starting to look a bit soft in the middle. That is going to change.” She waved to the kitchen and the servants began carrying out plates that had been pre-served. Megan carefully kept her eyes on her plate and tried very hard not to smile. One change effected.

After another week, Megan had the books in order and Paul still hadn’t put in an appearance. And after struggling for that week, maintaining things became easy enough that she got bored again. But she still didn’t go out of the room, much, preferring to use the excuse of “keeping up the books” to maintain some relative privacy. She was also exempt from the regular exercise and dance classes, but she kept in shape by working out in the office. Everything was on track except one: The kitchen books still wouldn’t add up; the harem was paying for at least twenty percent more food than was being consumed.

After going over the numbers repeatedly she reached the point that she was positive it wasn’t just sloppiness. Which meant she knew darned well where it was going. The problem was what to do with the information. She could inform Christel in which case the head cook could look to being on the wrong end of a Change. Or she could manage it more… obliquely.

She was also fascinated by some of the items available for order through the kitchens. There weren’t only foods and spices but cookware, distilling materials, cleaning solvents…

An idea was starting to tick over in her head one afternoon when the door opened and Christel waved at her imperiously.

“Megan, go to your room and put on that lovely outfit Mirta made for you,” Christel said, smiling viciously. “There’s someone you need to meet. Again.”

“Ah, the washing girl,” Paul said, smiling. He was no longer the old man he had appeared, but the face was the same. As was the long hair that hung in lanky strands. But his clothes were clean and finely made. He had the look of being about two hundred, slightly below normal height. Megan suddenly realized that she had met him before, years ago. She truly hoped that he would never remember the meeting.

“Her name is Megan,” Christel said. “Megan Sung.”

It was the name she’d used after the Fall. She didn’t know why she had changed it; it wasn’t like her father was well known. But, then again, the sort of people who would react to the name “Travante” were precisely the sort she didn’t want interested in her.

“How have you been, Megan?” Paul said, holding out his hand. “You look much better than the last time I saw you.”

“Oh, I am much better, sir,” Megan said, not taking the hand but instead dropping in a curtsey that kept her legs modestly crossed. She stayed in the curtsey for a moment then straightened back up, not meeting his eye.

“What a delightful young lady,” Paul said, running an eye over her like a horseman with a likely looking filly. “Beautiful bone structure. Love the outfit.”

“Thank you, milord,” Megan simpered as well as she could. Let him choose one of the others, let him choose one of the others…

“I think we should get to know one another better,” Paul said, taking her hand and leading her to the room reserved for him.

“Yes, milord,” Megan said, trying to sound happy and failing miserably. She bit her lip and the last thing she saw before the door closed was Ashly looking at her with an expression of malicious delight.

“The first time is always hard,” Paul said, raising himself off of her and rolling to the side. “It will get better.”

Megan rolled onto her side, away from him, and curled into a fetal position, clenching her hands so hard that her nails dug into the palms of her hands.

I will not attempt to kill him, she thought. It’s not possible. He’s protected. I’m in a prison in a fortress. It will only get me killed.

“It was… wonderful, milord,” she heard herself say.

“That is, in fact, a lie,” Paul said, neutrally. “But I appreciate the effort.” He patted her on her rump. “Get up. Clean yourself. It will help you feel better. And it will get easier with time. What you do here is of great importance. You are a fine group of potential mothers. Good genes should be perpetuated and here you are protected from harm to you and your children. Understand your importance and it makes the life much more pleasurable.”

“Of course, milord,” Megan bit out. I’m supposed to be thankful for being a well-kept broodmare. Gee.

Paul rolled to his feet and pulled on his clothes than tapped her on the rump again.

“Get up,” he said, not unkindly. “I will give you a few moments to yourself but then you will come out of this room.”

When he had left Megan grabbed one of the pillows and hugged it to her stomach, fighting against tears. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream. She wanted, oh, how she wanted to escape. But neither tears nor screams would do anything. As she lay there, feeling fluids trickling down the inside of her thigh, she had a clear vision of her hands pushing Paul’s head into a bucket. And she realized that the bucket was not filled with water, for all that the liquid was clear.

With that thought, she rolled to her feet, her face hard and her eyes like agate. She walked to the silver basin and carefully washed herself, then, recomposing her features, she donned her “outfit” and walked out the door.

“Marlene, thank you for meeting with me,” Megan said, sweetly.

She was sitting in the dining room by the door to the kitchen when the head cook came in. The cook was a slightly overweight, older woman with piggy eyes buried in her flesh.

“What do you want?” the cook asked, brusquely. “I’ve got work to do.”

“I know, I know; it must be terrible slaving over a hot stove all day,” Megan said. There were enough cooks on the payroll, if they all existed, to do the work three times over. She doubted that the fat old bitch had been near a stove in a year.

“I work for my keep,” the cook snarled. “I don’t make it on my back.”