It begins with a creature. 

A girl with velvet eyes set in a face far too delicate to be human, gazed out into the world from the lone window in her room.

It was quiet enough to hear the steady cadence of her breathing– warm as it drifted onto the glass in a plume of white that dissolved once more to reveal the dark tableau of rooftops and chimneys with traces of standing smoke.

Blinking away dregs of sleep that still crowded around the edges of her eyes, she lifted a small fist to knuckle at her droopy eyes as her throat swelled with a stifled yawn.

Almost there.

Remnants of frosted night air still lingered beyond the window– that which managed to slip into her room raised the fine downy hairs on her arms forcing her to hide them within her silk nightgown.

Five more minutes.

Her nose began to leak.

She sniffled and swiped at her upper lip with the back of her hand, a streak of watery mucus iridescent against pale skin which she stared at in dull amazement then wiped off the side of her gown. 

The possibility of using a napkin had crossed her mind within the hour of waking and listlessly staring out the window, but the floor looked impossibly cold even with the plush carpet and the fear of missing out on the world’s rising kept her anchored on the spot.

Four more minutes.

Her heart began that familiar pattering rhythm against the top of her thighs pressed tight to the small barrel of her chest.

Today is the day, she chanted inwardly as fear and anticipation rose bittersweet to the back of her throat, today is the day.

Nine months of observing the most basic, fundamental greetings of wolves and mortals alike. 

Nine months of practising before mirrors, day and night, on how to talk, which facial expressions to use, the slackness of her posture, the openness of her face– willing to absorb everything and return it back with as much intensity.

Nine months of fabricating and perfecting her human veil within the gilded cage of her room had narrowed down to this moment.

Today today today–

Today, I’ll do it.

The night had begun to take on a hue brighter than her eyes, flushes of orange unhurriedly creeping across the skyline as the sun’s outline appeared in the horizon like a distant promise. It rose in a pale accretion of light that gathered softly in the heart of her bedroom, speck motes that hung suspended in the quietude wheeling about in the golden shafts of sunlight.

The creature shut her eyes to the blinding intensity, waiting in bated breath as her vision adjusted then peered through the slices of light to not miss the dawning day.

Four minutes.

Her pink tongue tracked a nervous circle around her lips as a silhouette appeared beyond the estate gate. 

A maid… two maids… three… she lost count of the servants that began to steadily stream through the iron gates, pausing once for security screening then proceeding onwards with mechanical gaits. Heads tall, spines straight, uniforms starched and neatly pressed in knife-edged lines that pleased the commander’s wife.

Her eyes slid across the bedroom in search of the clock still perched atop her nightstand.

6:03 AM

He would be arriving in two minutes.

Her heart did that funny jump; that’s enough time to get it right.

How had they done it before?

Spine tall, shoulders dropped and rolled back… no that’s too rigid. He’ll think I have the trots.

Focusing on the wooden panel before her, the creature cleared her throat while morphing her facial expression to that of amiable… warm… a cordial invitation for a friendship of innocent sorts.

“Good…morning.” The timidity of her voice wavered. She cleared her throat again and practised a smile, the corners of her mouth straining unnaturally. “Good morning… good morning… goodmorning!”

Did that sound too formal? 

Yarrow never greeted her like that. 

Child you best get yo’ ghost ass up and outta that bed before them waters run cold.

No, Yarrow had raised her, their relationship gave the old woman licence to speak that way, and the creature knew that she could not mouth those words to the man. Unless she intended on never seeing him again.

Biting her sulky underlip in frustration, she drew it into her mouth, sucking in thoughtful contemplation as a delicate line furrowed between her dark brows.

How had the servants done it?

Rarely had she seen them speak before her. Most days the room she would be placed in were empty save for Yarrow’s lumbering figure and a guard. Oftentimes they spoke with hushed voices and moved with quiet steps around her, their eyes gliding across her coolly as if they didn’t quite see her.

Once, in the throes of naivety as a young child, she had approached them.

Two girls that seemed young, nearly within her range. And she had smiled at them, almost reflexively, as their gazes met in the distance between. They stared for what seemed like eternity then dropped their eyes all while muttering incoherent apologies and pivoting away.

Her head dropped into the palms of her hands with a soft groan, “I can’t do it.” Already defeat rolled its heavy head in the base of her belly; what if he simply stared? What if he did not return the acknowledgement? What if her response scared him off? 

Afterall, he had been the one to approach her first.

But then a familiar whistling sound echoed from the main gates: a sharp, shrilly tune that she had grown accustomed to every morning. The song she did not know yet it felt all too natural to memorise it and hum along.

He had arrived.

Her body stiffened in nervous anticipation. 

Somehow unable to lift her head completely, the creature carefully parted her fingers and peered from between like a shy courtesan at the man as he crossed the screening. He was half-turned, waving and shouting something at the guards in a jovial manner that juxtaposed the soberness of other servants.

Him.

A tightness stretched at her throat. He wore the same outfit as every other driver that worked for the mistress; resplendent grey gabardine trousers pressed to a knife edge, the collared shirt creases thrice across the back in military fashion, a leather whip encircling his left hip that she had seen him use to woo the female servants as he cracked it expertly in the air, drawing figures in the air, curling it like a serpent around his bicep as if the item was simply an extension of his arm.

She judged him to be no older than twenty-two; a young man fresh from the army hired to work in a position for a lycanthrope second-in-power to the Alpha.

Her master. Her creator.

The commander.

He tipped his hat at the servants and clapped hands with the males, a guffaw of laughter ringing about his bright presence. He was the sun and they were all flowers listing towards him for warmth, comfort, thirsty for a sliver of that brightness.

He’s coming. He’s coming.

Still she had not moved from her position. Her palms felt warm and soft and damp against her face.

Varying emotions raged through her deceptively still frame as he turned down the path that ran directly beneath her window. His hands slipped into either pockets casually, a spring in his step as he whistled. She stared at the top of his head, marvelling at the dark hair slicked back fashionably, at the youthful face tanned golden from standing in the sun while washing the cars.

“Don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t look up–” look up look up look up please look up

His pace shifted to a purposefully slow gait as if her debating words had somehow reached him and he was intent on taunting her. 

But then his head craned to the side and she knew that he would look up.

Unprepared but frozen in that vulnerable, awkward position, the creature could only watch as the male raised his head in search of her. He found her within a heartbeat– gaze snagged on hers, trapping her in a lock that somehow left her unable to look away.

With dramatic flair, he visored a hand upon his brow though the sun was barely out, and stared at her. The corner of his mouth jerked upwards in a secretive smile that surfaced a flush hot as steam across her cheeks.

And then he spoke.

“Hello.” The movements of his lips was all she could use to decipher his mute voice.

Hello. Hi. Goodmorning. Hey you.

Everyday for the past nine months he spoke to her. Everyday for the past nine months she failed to gathered the courage to return his words. 

Her throat jerked spasmodically as she swallowed a lump then the word came quietly through her, muffled and hidden by her hands still pressed against her hot face.

“Hello.”

A look of surprise flashed across his face disrupting the usual pattern of friendliness. He wasn’t expecting it. Somehow that gave her courage not to slip behind the curtains. The male raised both hands to his face in mimicry of hers, then lowered them and shook his head as he mouthed; “I can’t see.”

Oh.

She felt naked while lowering her hands, suddenly exposed to the elements of his scrutiny. Her eyes immediately averted to the wall and lingered there. Look back look back look back before he goes. Inhaling a mouthful of the cool morning air to douse the fire in her face, she returned her attention to him.

He was still standing there, waiting, a large smile on his face baring the sharpness of each tooth. “Hello,” he repeated, then waved at her to respond.

All practice went out the window. 

The creature stared mutely, then slowly, hesitantly, raised a hand in a small wave-like gesture with words spoken so quietly she could barely hear them, yet his intense expression was confirmation enough that he understood. “Hello.”

“How are you?”

Her heart was thrashing now, caroming wildly against the walls of her chest. Dumbly, she raised a finger and pointed it at herself; Me?

The male’s head fell back in a laugh so boisterous it startled her. “Yes, you!” 

It was intoxicating, this happiness of his left her light-headed and giddy and thoroughly confused. Perhaps sensing the onslaught of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, he continued while gesturing animatedly at himself. “Me? I’m as great as I can be, you?”

She stared.

“It’s so cold out here,” arms wrapped about himself, rubbing each bicep whilst subtly flexing them. He pointed at her exposed arms and the light gown, “aren’t you cold?”

She had scooted closer to the window now to properly watch his hands, his face– eager to pick up traces of humanity for herself to practise later in the night. With her palm pressed upon the surface and her upturned nose puttied on the cold glass that fogged over with each intense exhale, she began to shake her head–

He stopped her with an open palm and gestured at his mouth.

“Speak to me.”

The hue on her cheeks deepened. 

“I’m not cold,” this was the longest conversation she had ever had with someone other than Yarrow. It felt… odd. 

Was this the beginning of friendship?

If so, she liked it… a lot.

Should I ask him if we are friends now? Or is it an unspoken rule?

The male dropped his stare and glanced in both directions, perhaps wary of someone walking in on them. His head tilted back once more with a look much different from the previous friendliness, “What’s your na–”

She was off the window in a heartbeat, dashing across the room on silent feet and diving under the beddings just as a key slipped into the keyhole of her bedroom door. 

Her heartbeat was thunderously loud with each breath harsh and erratic against the silk pillow muffling her face. A skein of silver hair had slipped from the loose ponytail hold and now curtained half her face, blocking the view of the door as it opened. 

If someone stepped in, the creature did not know. 

Blood tunnelled in her ears loud enough to muffle out the person’s heartbeat and movements. 

The curtain still fluttered from her stirrings, falling back in place as silently as a bird alighting.

She waited in bated breath for the voice, the possible punishment–

“Who you foolin’ child? Even my blind mama would know you been up since morn’.”

The creature lifted her head, gazing at the stout dark woman standing with hands akimbo at the foot of her bed. Relief flooded her so thoroughly she nearly forgot to breathe. “Yarrow?”

“Parisa.”

“You scared me.”

Yarrow’s grey speckled brow rose in sardonic curiosity, “Did I now?”

Sensing the trap too late, Parisa began to backtrack, “I mean– I didn’t– I wasn’t–”

“Din’t, wasn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t…tsk tsk,” the old lady began to amble towards the window. Her movements had lost their virility with arthritis, disease and the inevitable rush of age. Parisa watched as she reached for the curtains and drew them back letting in light, she squinted at the grounds below in disapproval, “now let’s see which fool you been wasting sleep over.”

I wasn’t looking at anyone, was what she wanted to say but the lie could not rise. So she sat abashed while nervously fiddling with her fingers beneath the blanket.

“That boy yonder? Him?” 

“Which boy?” Parisa questioned with as much innocence as she could muster, demurely peering at her caregiver from beneath long lashes.

Yarrow’s thin chops wobbled as she spoke, “I ain’t no fool child… forget i was once youngin’ and hormonal like you.”

“Hormonal?” She echoed, unsure of the word and how it related to her.

Yarrow shook her head, “Ne’er mind.”

“No…” she was clambering off the bed now, crawling across the vast expanse of mattress towards the woman with the eagerness of a pup, “tell me, what is that?”

Yarrow’s face twisted in a grimace, regret clear as crystals on her heavily-wrinkled face. “Parisa-”

“Please…” Parisa knelt at the foot, hands clutching at the bunched material around her knees as she gazed up at her like some ancient goddess in a temple. “Please–”

“Fine fine, hush now, first we gotta measure you.”

Hastily rising from the bed, she reached for the hem of her nightgown and lifted it off her body revealing a torso so narrow and pure with white skin that seemed to glow with a light of its own from within. Stark ribs shifted like the ivory keys of a piano with each movement she made, abdomen stiff and fragile in its fine musculature.

Yarrow removed a measuring tape, notebook and pen from the front of her apron, “Did you eat supper?”

Parisa shook her head then stilled as the tape went around her neck. “They arrived early… she told them I was not to eat.”

Her caretaker’s head was bowed low and out of view but the futile anger rose dully in her voice as the tape lowered to the smallest part of her waist. “You hungry?”

“Not really.” 

“You lost sum’,” jotting down the numbers in her notebook with a shaky hand, “one inch off the waist… twenty one inches now.”

“Is that… will he be pleased?”

Yarrow nodded with a solemn frown. She said nothing for a moment, simply staring at the numbers on the paper as Parisa reached for the measuring tape, already knowing that she could no longer bend to measure her thighs and calves.

It was not so much the excitement of being underweight that pleased her, for she did not understand the concept of weight, but rather the idea that he would be pleased by her.

She was, afterall, created for the sole purpose of pleasing the man that chose her. That gave her life.

Sorrowful eyes gazed upon the sharp bones sticking out of the creature’s back like the delicate wings of a bird as she wrapped the tape around each thigh, speaking aloud new numbers. Parisa straightened and opened her mouth reflexively as Yarrow leaned in to inspect each tooth, thumbing the faintly sharpening edges. Eighteen years of the same routine had left them moving with mechanical flow.

“Them teeths be comin’ in,” Parisa made a noise of reluctance at her caretaker’s words, “I know you don’ like it but we gotta get ‘em filed down.” 

She shut her mouth and ran a tongue over each tooth, already nursing the phantom aches that would result from the grating file against her teeth, blood spilling from her sensitive gums watery and bright red against her chin as the dentist cooed and hummed about the importance of not using any anaesthesia lest it poison her pure blood.

Yarrow gestured at the gown on the floor and began walking towards the bathroom. “I’ll see what I can get you after… heard some sunflower seeds will be comin’ this week.”

“Sunflower seeds?” With the gown held loosely against her chest, she followed close by her heels into the bathroom and hovered by the door watching as the old lady tried to reach across the  bath’s breadth, grunting and wearily trembling at the arms, her spine bent cruelly from the weight of exhaustion.

“Mmh, heard them others sayin’ ‘bout the woman… tryin find ways to keep that youth of hers.”

“Is that wrong?”

“Guess not,” Yarrow leaned back with a huff as Parisa intercepted and turned on the bath, she lowered herself onto the toilet lid wiping at the beaded sweat crowding her forehead with the hem of her apron. “Hell I’d eat shit if it’d take my growing pains away.”

“Yarrow.”

“Jus’ saying’.”

“Even the commander’s?”

“Now I ain’t that desperate.”

Their eyes met. Peals of giggles and laughter escaping them both muffled by the spray of water and hissing steam as it rose up her bare body. An assortment of scented oils and perfumes brought in from merchant ships decorated the walls; Parisa took her time consuming each bottle, popping open the caps and lifting them to her nostrils. 

Warm, woody, oriental, fresh, flowery; each scent that pleased him carefully chosen for special occasions or daily use.

Some bottles still smelled of the sea from which they had crossed during shipments; water and salt and cold suns. Such a simple smell of the sea elicited a yearning she could not quite place… a dull feeling that the world was much more than her room and the mansion.

Parisa shut her eyes to the caustic sting of the soap as she worked it into her hair and body with methodical strokes, the effort leaving her slightly breathless and dizzy.

Yarrow sat humming a folk song while squinting over the labels on the lotions with a frown, “Hormones are them feelings you get as a youngin’,” her voice penetrated the rush of water, “they make you feel all sorts of feels… I been chasin’ boys like a bitch on heat back then,” a rough chuckle, her heavy bosom swaying like pendulums as she leaned forward to reach for another bottle, “now i ain’t even bothered by them handsome folk, guess i got my fill.”

Parisa considered her words while silently reminiscing over the male that stood outside her window, his face upturned to her window. Speak to me. 

Was that hormonal? The need to have a human conversation with another? Or was it simply the desire for a connection of sorts, a friendship. “Can I get hormonal?” Wrapping a towel about herself, she stepped out of the bath with steam rising in tufts of pale clouds from her flushed dewy skin.

“No it’s different for yous… something else happen, i ain’t sure what though… guess you’ll just know when the mating time comes.”

As Yarrow spoke of raging hormones and the new aches in her knees, the creature wore a sundress laid prostrate on the bed then sat patiently waiting for her hair to dry as her caretaker ran a brush through until a quantity of fair curls formed, dressed without powder, and threaded by a blue riband at the back of her head. Silver hair fell over her shoulders in several ordered locks as she stepped out of the room, walking a few steps behind Yarrow.

“Did they leave yet?” She questioned as they descended a short flight of stairs that led to the second floor where his children and wife slept. 

“Heard ‘em leave while you was washing up.”

All was silent as they walked down the hallway. 

Her steps slowed imperceptibly as they passed each room, leaning back in the slightest to prolong the sight of servants moving about the rooms in quiet apathy as they aided each other in making the queen-sized beds, dusting dressers, arranging toys and colourful books left astray on the floors.

They spoke to one another with a carelessness she could only covet.

“Parisa.” Yarrow stood at the hallway’s end, a look of disapproval plain as day. 

Parisa hastened her steps, careful not to stop and stare for too long as they descended the final flight onto the main ground. The mansion could only be described as opulent and decadent. Her mistress had chosen most of the heavy oaked furniture, tapestries, carpets and decors. 

Without much knowledge of the outside world, Parisa could only assume that the costs were high during purchase and maintenance. 

Stepping into the dining room, Parisa halted at the sight before her.

Bread. 

So much bread– a variety of grains, plaits and cobs, buns and cakes, soda breads and flatbreads… the heady scent of baked pastries still hot and steaming from the ovens pervading the air, finding her with wants.

Three crystal jugs brimming with juices of different flavours so cold condescension had beaded along their walls, rivulets of cold forming as it dripped and pooled in a circle beneath.

A look of annoyance crossed Yarrow’s face at the sight.

She cursed beneath her breath, already calling for the maids on-duty but Parisa did not hear her voice over the display before her.

Parisa began to reach for a plate, rules forgotten, in a blundering moment of wanting to help clear the table, when Yarrow’s calm hand alighted on her elbow with a firm squeeze. 

She stilled with one hand on the rim of a plate, fine china cold beneath her fingertips, still holding a half-eaten blueberry muffin, and half-turned to face Yarrow’s solemn stare. 

Parisa blinked in mild confusion. When it hit her, she began to stammer abashedly. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t going to eat it.”

Yarrow smiled grimly, “I know, child–”

“Honest, Yarrow… I only want to help.”

“I know.” She repeated, “there’s people for that, why don’t you go and get sit as I bring your food around.” The hand did not lift. 

Slowly, Parisa released the plate with a flush and soft apology then stepped back, hands clasped before while averting her gaze to the floor as maids streamed in without so much of a glance in her direction. They left with armfuls of pastries and spreads, drinks and fruits, plates and cups until all was bare. 

“Your food should be ready.”

Nodding vaguely, Parisa made her way to the corner of the large dining where a velvet red cushion had been placed. Carefully adjusting her dress above her knees, she knelt onto the softness and waited patiently for her meal.

“It ain’t much,” Yarrow handed her a silver tray with an aluminium cloche atop it shielding her breakfast from sight, “but I couldn’t get more without that damn chef noticing.”

“Your thieving will get you caught one day,” she scolded lightly, unable to hide the deceptive joy in her voice as she lifted the cloche to reveal a small bowl of yoghurt and half a banana sliced over it. A saucer with daily vitamins beside it.

And at the very centre lay the forbidden gift.

Parisa tried and failed to contain her smile at the sight of the bright red fruit. 

Swollen and fleshy and brimming with a unique sweetness she could already taste at the back of her tongue. 

“Thank you for the meal,” she said, looking up at her caretaker with gratitude, “and the strawberry!”

“Hush now, eat it first–”

“I’ll eat it last.”

Yarrow arched a brow, “what if one of ‘em walk in on you? Want us both to be whipped?”

Reluctant but eager to savour the fruit, Parisa ate it slowly, her jaw working delicately over the fruit as it turned to mush, a burst of sweet savoriness clouding her mouth. She swallowed and sucked her tongue for remnants of it.

“I almost forgot,” Yarrow walked out of the room, leaving her to eat.

Parisa ate the plain yoghurt unhurriedly, her mind trailing off to the memory of her teeth biting into the strawberry. Raw sugar slipping down her throat, slow as dripping molasses. She ate silently, sitting back on her heels when the ache on her knees made it uncomfortable to continue. By the time Yarrow returned her bowl was cleared, vitamins swallowed dry and the cloche returned back to its previous state.

She eyed her caretaker curiously, noting both hands held something behind her back. “What is that?” Her eyes widened at the taunting grin, “Yarrow… you didn’t steal–”

The old woman waved a dismissive hand, “I ain’t stealing nun but food, you should know that by now.” 

“What is it–” Parisa stilled as the parcel was presented. A narrow box wrapped in golden lace with a blue bow atop. 

“I ain’t gotta clue.” 

Reaching for the parcel, the creature lifted it to eye-level and turned it about as if she could somehow see through the wrap. 

“Well?” Her eyes lifted to Yarrow who gestured at the parcel, clearly curious to see what lay within. “Go on and open it.”

Prolonging the moment, Parisa lifted it to her ear and gave it a shake as the corners of her mouth tilted into a sly, taunting smile. 

Yarrow’s eyes narrowed.

“Okay, okay.” Setting the box down, she carefully undid the bow then the wrap, cautious not to tear the piece of paper though it would be disposed of immediately after.

“I’ll be six feet under by the time you’re–”

The box opened as both heads leaned over, peering down at the content