Chapter 8
She spent the night in a nicer guest room, with lights and wine and a good meal. Martin had left her side shortly after they had all emerged from conclave, but she'd found herself newly exhausted, overwhelmed by her freedom from the timeless dark.
The next day, time dragged by slowly, and she filled it with research in the Abbey archives as she waited for Martin's word. Oracle Anise hovered nearby, and her presence deterred any of the Overseers from lingering near her. Callista paged through tomes of commentary on the Strictures, beginning with the Litany on the White Cliff. She drank in the exhortations, the commandments, the horrific punishments meted out to the citizens of Whitecliff for their heresy. It was harrowing, stirring work, and she was swept up into it. All thoughts of accountability or the vagaries of men left her, and she was left only with the fear of what lay beyond the cities and beyond the light of progress, anger at those who would leave the righteous vulnerable by their actions, and a profound sense of isolation.
When at last she closed her books and blinked at the stark lighting of the room, it was only because there were voices in the hall. She strained to pick out Martin's, but it was absent.
Instead, it was a tailor, sent to collect her for her uniform fitting. She put her research materials back and smoothed her jacket over the firm lines of her corset, the motion clearing her cobwebbed, wary thoughts away and leaving only a background unease. Anise accompanied her and the tailor as far as the room that had been set aside for his work; then she took up a station by the door, and Callista was alone with the man.
He was a stranger, and before reason could interrupt, the thought filled her with deep foreboding. He was harsh, too, and thin, and she hesitated when he asked her to strip down to her underthings. But when it was done, he worked quickly, efficiently. He took measurements and wrote them down in a small book, and asked her a few brief questions about what her duties would be, so that he could make sure the garments allowed for them.
When he was done, he left her to dress. She fastened her trousers, then hesitated, standing there with her arms uncovered. She went to the window, and peered out into the street.
The cobblestones were slick with rain. Stormclouds had rolled in while she'd read. She spread her fingers against the glass, feeling the radiating chill. It was the Month of Nets, but the season hadn't warmed as it should, and she shivered.
The rains would be good for the planting, though. She reminded herself of the years she'd spent out beyond the city walls, where she had been safe and where she had watched crops grow from the soil and watched fish be hauled in from the sea. It was a curious consequence of cities, she decided, that made men hate the unknown. Her family had always had a healthy wariness of what might lie beyond the townships they lived in, but never the desire to burn it all to ash.
A knock sounded at the door only a few moments before it creaked open. Flushing, Callista turned, only to see Martin slipping into the room. He was alone, and she let out a breath, but still crossed quickly to where her jacket was draped across the back of a chair.
"Good, I caught you," he said. He was still wearing his dusky blue uniform. "I was hoping to get you alone. I have a meeting with Burrows in a few minutes, and I need you to do something for me."
"What is it?" she asked, gathering up the coarse fabric of her jacket and shrugging into it.
He closed the space between them. "The notebook," he said. "I want you to spend some more time working on it. I'd hoped to have a better sense of what was in it before Burrows sat me down, but couldn't find the time. Everybody seems to be taking it from me," he chuckled.
She watched, over her shoulder, as he came to stand just behind her, trapping her between him and the back of the chair. His voice was pitched low, and she glanced around, searching for any place a silent listener could be hiding.
Her gaze fell on the door. Anise.
She closed her eyes and took a breath, then straightened, focusing on the space in front of her. It was easier than looking at him.
"I'm afraid of your men, you know," she said. "They're not happy about my existence. If one of them were to- the notebook may not be safe with me."
Martin was silent for a moment, then sighed. "We need to make progress," he murmured, voice ghosting over her ear. "That passage you found about Attano and the Empress- I've made some headway, but I want your eyes on it. I need to know what happened three months ago if I'm going to handle Burrows with any amount of skill. Go to my office, the one you're familiar with."
He pulled a key from his pocket and held it out to her, at the level of her waist. She plucked it from his palm. "Burrows and I will be speaking in the formal conference room. You'll have time and comfort to work, and nobody should bother you there."
"Of course," she said, taking a deep breath. "And I have easy excuses at hand if anybody does."
"You're preparing for my move to the High Overseer's office," he said, and she nodded. "The notebook and my work is in the sideboard in what will appear to be my notes on a speech on the second Stricture. Keep those notes and references out as you work. Again, an excuse."
She nodded, slowly.
"It will be perfectly safe." He paused, then canted his head to get a better look at her face. "Has somebody threatened you? You seem more nervous than usual."
"I've been reading about the Siege of Whitecliff," she said with a weak laugh. "It's... harrowing reading."
"It is," he agreed, and offered a faint smile before straightening again.
"I'll feel better," she said, "when we have a system for this."
"I'll feel better when the whole thing is cracked, and I only need it for occasional reference," he said. He clasped her shoulder, tightly. "I'll see you when I'm free of all these obligations."
He offered her a final, confident smirk before he left the room. Callista watched him go, then took a deep breath, checked that her clothing was impeccably arranged, then followed him out into the hall. He was already long gone. She nodded to Anise.
Would the woman follow her into Martin's office?
"I have some private work to attend to," she said, softly.
"I'll accompany you to where you'll be doing it, then," Anise replied. "But no further."
Callista frowned.
"Currently, I'm here for your protection - not your observance," Anise said, then laughed. Her laugh was strange but sweet. At the end of the hallway, an Overseer hesitated, then moved a hand in what Callista was beginning to realize was an unspoken recitation of a Stricture, useful in dangerous situations.
"They're afraid of you," she said, wonderingly.
Anise nodded, and made a shooing motion. Callista set off towards Martin's office, Anise following at her elbow.
"Oh, very much so," Anise said. "Our orders are so separate and they understand so little of what we do that they think us witches. I've always thought," she added, voice lowering, "that they wouldn't think men who live in the dark and see the future are witches, but who knows?"
Callista nodded, weakly. Witches. The Oracles certainly did seem that way. They were the ones who looked up into what was surely the Outsider's realm, or at the very least part of the Void. They used the stars hovering in the expanses of emptiness to tell the future. By Abbey doctrine, it seemed strange, dangerous.
And, of course, Benjamin Holger had said nothing of an Order of Oracles within his ranks.
"So you really do stay in the dark all the time?"
"Yes. When we can't - when we're in cities, for instance - we keep our eyes adjusted to the dark through various means. It helps with our observations of the stars."
"The red cloth?"
"Practical. The eye treats red light as if it were darkness. In red light, I can see as you do; but if the lights go out, I will still be able to see, and you will be blind."
"They use red lights on the newer whaling ships, don't they?" Callista asked. "At night, for the same reason?"
"I wouldn't know."
As they climbed the steps towards Martin's office, Callista heard the distant dysphonic sound of an Overseer's music box.
"Are they cleansing the place?" Callista asked.
"Yes. And they'll begin painting the funerary urns tonight, too, and arranging them amidst empty copies, the better to hide the earthly remains of those who came before us. Transition is a dangerous time. Borders are not as firmly set. Men are more easily corrupted, more easily turned to violence. Everybody will wear their masks tonight."
"Even Martin?"
Anise canted her head. "Do you think he will?"
She considered. "Only if he gains by blending in."
The words were out of her mouth before she could consider the wisdom of offering that insight up to the Oracles, and Anise's answering smile - not so kind this time, nor so sweet - made her heart tighten. The Oracles were not gentle women. They were closer to Martin's ilk; the High Oracle had said so herself.
Every scrap of knowledge Anise had offered her had been for a reason. To put her at ease? To bring her into a false sort of confidence?
They'd reached the door.
"Well," she said, reaching for the key Martin had given her, "thank you for explaining the painted kettles."
Anise didn't move. There was no reassuring shrug and her smile was only faint and polite.
Callista swallowed. "And thank you for the escort." She slipped the key in the lock, turned it, and quickly shut herself inside the office.
Her mind raced. The vast majority of the Abbey - and those who followed its every directive - were a frightened set. She had never truly counted herself among their number, despite her own fears. Their paranoia was of a different, all-consuming sort.
But the Oracles didn't seem to fear, and something about Anise's readiness to escort her made Callista wonder if what she feared was even reasonable. Yes, an Oracle had some protection against the Abbey from her status, but she and Callista otherwise weren't so different. If Anise was safe, perhaps Callista would have been safe as well.
It made an unsettling amount of sense that Anise would seek to build up that fear in her. Fear made men malleable. It was power.
Callista looked at the latch, then took a deep breath and walked once around the room.
She pulled down a book on Holger's Device that looked new, then went to the sideboard to pull out Martin's notes. The notebook was invisible, until she set all the work down on Martin's desk and began to page through. There was a book among the notes, the work inside attributed to High Overseer Tynan Wallace. The first few pages were scathing, terrified, violent tracts on the dangers of deception.
Beneath them, Martin had carved a nook out of the remaining text.
Callista glanced to the windows, the door, and behind her, to the crack she had peered through. All seemed unmanned, but she made a show of paging through the loose sheaves of notes. Her hands were not as quick as she imagined Martin's were, but she managed to, at last, lift the book by Tynan in such a way that she could pull the notebook from its hiding place and set it out as if it were simply another reference among the pile, and had always been there.
She left Tynan's work open to the third page.
There are two types of liars, it said. The first is the liar of necessity. They lend their tongue to iniquity in defense of themselves. Make no mistake; this is not to be forgiven. Many a man has lied bitterly to avoid blame, or embarrassment, or even real harm, but there is no excuse for the warping of the truth, the replacement of memory with falsehood, the misleading of good men.
Callista swallowed, unable to pull her eyes away.
The second is the liar of delight. They lie because it is in their nature; to speak the truth betrays them, and leaves them vulnerable. They are the most dangerous of liars. They are the conmen, the politicians, the true agents of the Outsider. They lie because there is something ill-formed inside of them, and the truth burns their lips and tongue. They will lie because it pleases them, even when there is naught to gain.
These two species may work in concert or against one another, for there is nothing inherent in their duplicity that allies them. This is to the good man's advantage. Liars may be played off against one another. While some are wicked enough that they may weave stories extemporaneously together, many more will falter, will slip up, and will reveal themselves or bring themselves to ruin.
The brand and whip, likewise, are expedient truth serums.
She shut the book, feeling her breath rising up hot and uncontrolled within her. She settled a hand against her throat and closed her eyes, swallowing once, twice, trying to force it down.
Martin was perverse. He was mocking the whole Abbey. She imagined him over the past few days, securing his votes, using what was in his little notebook to cajole and threaten and destroy.
They would all know that he was a liar, and he would take up the mantle of High Overseer speaking out against the Lying Tongue?
Circumspection momentarily forgotten, she covered her face with her hands and pulled at her hair. She breathed deeply through her mouth, pushing aside the panic. Anger replaced it, momentarily, followed by a deep disbelief at just how confident he was, how audacious, how ridiculous.
She went to the sideboard again, this time for a shot of whiskey.
It burned her throat and left the hollows of her cheeks tingling, but it sorted out the mixed emotions quickly and stilled the fluttering fear in her chest. The High Oracle had said it herself - Martin was like her, and was well suited to his office.
Her eyes went back to the desk, and the small, unopened notebook. Thaddeus Campbell had kept many secrets of his own. Wickedness and lies were a requirement here.
And a requirement of hers was that she assist.
The liar of necessity. That was her role. She poured another generous glass for herself, then returned to the desk, settling into Martin's chair. She opened the notebook, moving by vague memory to the page she had read before, the page concerning Attano and the missing heir. The coded words seemed to dance before her eyes, refusing to settle or cohere.
She took a more measured sip of whiskey, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and began the work anew as she had started the first time; she copied it out.
For hours she sat and paged between what Martin had already broken and the few notes he'd left about how he'd done it, and the weighty page that danced with blood and conspiracy. The code on this page was more meticulous, more strongly constructed. In time, Martin might have such a book of his own, if he ever trusted committing the information inside to paper. Would his cypher be so convoluted? Or would it be brutally simple?
What sort of High Overseer would he be, beyond one who would protect her for as long as she had influence?
The meaning unfurled only in fits and starts. She moved between pages, trying to grasp context. A large sum of money - upwards of twenty thousand gold coins - had been taken from Campbell's own private coffers to fund the hiring of Daud.
Burrows had supplied thirty thousand.
But Campbell had written, beyond his cypher, in a shorthand that made untangling details nearly impossible. When she came to the section about the Lord Protector, it was next to unintelligible. Attano out of Dunwall was all she could make out, still, and it taunted her. Was it simply the opportunity that Burrows and Campbell had been waiting for? Or had Attano gone on that mission specifically to leave the Empress vulnerable? Had he been bribed? Tricked? He couldn't have done it fully willingly, or else he wouldn't be in Coldridge, but it would be dangerous to approach Burrows with any of this if they didn't understand the whole of it.
The office was growing dark when, by a fluke of luck or a trick of the light, or perhaps just the crossing of her eyes, the last bit of shorthand unfurled itself.
Attano out of Dunwall. Daud to kill Empress.
Then later:
Ship back two days early. Attano unable to stop Daud. Useful scapegoat.
Callista exhaled, shakily, and sat back.
Only a few lights had come on as dusk descended. She blinked against the dimness, and straightened up in her seat, massaging at her eyes tired from squinting. Somebody knocked at the door.
She quickly opened up Tynan again, slipping the notebook into its spot. She straightened up the papers on the desk, and, biting her lip, she rose and took her notes to the fireplace that still smoldered. She waited until the bright orange curling at the edges of unburnt paper were all gone, replaced with black char that crumbled to ash, before she went to the door.
As she approached, she watched the lock turn.
Martin opened the door. Callista relaxed. She smiled, politely.
"I thought you might have fallen asleep," he said, holding up his duplicate key and shutting the door behind him. His finger flicked against the latch.
"You don't announce yourself?"
"Not at the door to my own office." His gaze danced around the room.
A liar of delight, she thought, clasping her hands together and watching him closely.
"And what do you think of my sermon so far, Miss Curnow?" he asked, pitching his voice oddly as he moved towards his desk. As she watched, he bent to check a cupboard for something or other, very naturally - and moved it just a hair so that she could see that her observing spot was covered.
"It's- very effective," she returned. She watched as he straightened and turned, then caught sight of her whiskey glass. He glanced to the bottle, now notably more empty.
"I thought I smelled drink," he said with a soft chuckle. "Did it help?"
"A little," she said. "It calmed me down." She glanced to the door. "Is Oracle Anise-"
"Gone, for now," he said. He beckoned her over, and she came close to his desk. "Any notes?"
"I burned them."
"Then tell me what you found out," he said, opening the cover of Tynan and extracting the notebook for himself.
"Corvo is just a scapegoat," she said. "He knows that Burrows and Campbell hired Daud to kill the Empress. He wasn't supposed to come back as early as he did."
It all came out in a rush, and she straightened compulsively once it was out, watching Martin for any sign of reaction.
When it came, it was more subtle than she would have predicted. He didn't grin, or laugh, or even swear. Instead, he simply opened the book and turned to the appropriate page. He tapped the paper.
Then he smiled, faintly.
"Details?"
She began simply reciting what she remembered, but soon circled the desk and stood behind him, reaching past him to point out passages. He listened, rubbing at his chin with his leather-gloved fingers.
When he turned at last to look at her again, setting down the notebook, she could feel his breath ghosting against her cheek. She swallowed and pulled back.
"Good work," he murmured. "Very good work. I'm quite indebted to you."
She cleared her throat, straightening her jacket. "What now?"
"Now we wait until we have a chance to use what you found." He quirked a brow. "You couldn't have thought we'd simply reveal it all and send him to trial?"
"It certainly would have been nice."
Now he smirked. "I'd want to pick his replacement, first. And find Lady Kaldwin. Burrows is a stubborn, self-controlled man. I wouldn't put it past him, if he were in Coldridge in Corvo's place, to go to his grave without revealing her location. Or to have a system set up so that she would be killed or worse should he be out of contact with her captors."
Callista shuddered. "I understand."
"That's enough of conspiracies tonight, I think."
She nodded, gratefully. "Anise said that tonight they'll be setting out the- the painted kettles," she said, trying not to let the fear in her bones mix with the whiskey in her stomach. She retreated around the desk. Martin's eyes followed her.
"I suppose I never did explain that bit of lore to you," he said.
"Will you be wearing your mask, like all the others?"
"One last time, for old time's sake?" he asked, laughing. Slowly, he rose from his desk and went to another cabinet, opening it to reveal his mask. He lifted it from its stand and turned back to her. The way he moved the mask caught the light in strange ways. "I suppose I could. It would be the traditional thing to do. But what about you, Miss Curnow?"
She frowned. "What about me?"
"That would leave you alone, the only unmasked creature in this whole building. You'd be a target."
Callista felt the shivers long after she'd already sagged against the desk. Martin watched her from afar, then came close enough that she could smell his aftershave, gently looping an arm around her shoulders and helping her straighten.
"It's superstitious nonsense, Miss Curnow. Nothing will come for you."
"You want to scare me," she hissed.
"You've been reading Tynan and the Litany on the White Cliff. You're vulnerable. I appreciate your dedication to educating yourself, but most Overseers are led through the fear as young boys, in a structured environment. It's an environment meant to terrify and test, yes, and not all of them emerge on the other side- but it's structured. It's practiced. You're simply hurling yourself into the dark at full speed, with only me as your protection and guide."
"And Anise."
Martin's mouth thinned into a hard line. "I wouldn't trust Anise to guide you, or protect you."
"I think," Callista confessed, fighting the urge to lean against him and settle her head against his shoulder, "that she was stoking my fears. She told me she was escorting me to keep your rivals at bay, but that only made my fears of being attacked stronger."
"From what I understand, that's the Oracle way," he agreed. He gave her shoulders another squeeze, then pulled back - only to cup her cheeks in both hands. He searched her face.
"I have been remiss in my duties," he said. "I've left you floundering these last few days. I apologize, Miss Curnow. But tomorrow I will wear red, and you will be untouchable."
She swallowed, reaching up to touch his hands, lightly.
"I promise," he murmured.
Heat coiled in her belly, and her heart began to pound. But she made herself nod, hoping he would release her.
He didn't.
"Tell me what you need now, Miss Curnow," he said, voice firm.
"I want to feel safe."
"And what makes you feel safe?"
Her thoughts raced. She pictured her uncle, her mother, her brother - all unattainable things. Her apartment was gone. Her uncle's was still locked down. The room upstairs was small and filled with her terror.
She thought of sitting with Martin in the dark, his hand around her throat.
She considered asking, for half a second, what his goal was. Anise was driving Callista towards paranoia. Martin was laying out groundwork for her to come to him for- what? Control? Pain? The way he spoke to her at these times made him seem wholly consumed by her, caring and concerned, in control and willing to help.
It bound her to him, tightly.
But the alternative was to be borne up on storm swells and carried out to see on riptides. She would keep her head above water. She would do as she needed to do to stay in control, and she would watch the ropes tethering her to the shore to see if any rotted or caught on sharp stones.
"You," she said, "at times. You make me feel safe."
"Like in the dark?"
"And when I was bent across your desk."
He hummed, low in his throat, eyes narrowing. He inspected her. "I appreciate your trust in me," he said. "It is a great tool. Without it, my methods wouldn't work."
"I understand," she said.
"Do you still trust me? After I abandoned you?"
She laughed, weakly. "I understand the necessity of work, Martin. My uncle hardly abandoned me when he went out to sea with the Lord Protector."
He smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. Do you still trust me?"
Callista searched his face. This was dangerous for him if she didn't trust him. She could take these perversities to his enemies. Perhaps they wouldn't care, but perhaps they would.
She nodded. "I do."
Martin let his hands fall. He stepped back, then walked in a slow circle around her.
"Everything I say, you will obey," he murmured. "Every word of mine is a command. If you question me, the work- the game- stops. That is your power."
"There's a way out."
"There's always a way out," he said, smirking.
Callista shuddered.
"Get down on your knees," he said, and turned away from her.
She stared at his back. He went to pour himself a drink. Her legs felt frozen, and a question, a release, bubbled up in her throat. Her uncle had been very clear, when she was young and considering where she might earn her living, that no matter where she went, a man in power over her might try to use that to take from her what he wanted - and that if it was possible, if her life wasn't at stake, that she should resist. To be used by an employer would spell the death of her career as a governess.
And she had lived by that for years, avoiding the advances of older men, of tutors, of everybody except those who couldn't touch on her work - men at the docks, slaughterhouse workers, and masked faces during Fugue Feast.
But she'd never faced anything quite like this before.
Martin held ultimate power, but she had her own few touchstones of it. Slowly, she breathed into those places of strength, and lowered herself to her knees.
It was all done in the time it took for Martin to pour himself a glass of wine and turn around.
He moved to the seat behind his desk, the one Callista had sat in for hours, and settled in. He propped his ankle on the desk and lifted his glass to his lips. Callista met his eyes, and he smiled.
"I'll teach you to be bold as well as brave soon enough," he murmured, "but you might get to it before me. Come here, Miss Curnow."
She made to stand, and he raised his hand.
"On your knees still."
She had paused in an awkward crouch, and her knees throbbed half from the exertion of remaining upright, and half in time with the flare of shame and excitement that came at his words. Swallowing, she knelt again, then attempted to shuffle forward. It felt strange.
Tentatively, she put her hands on the fine rug as well. Martin inclined his head, and watched, unerring, as she crawled to him around the bulk of his desk.
Her throat felt dry, and everything else in the world fell away, leaving only the tension hanging between them. She reached his chair. He sipped at his wine, then set it aside on the desk and picked up Tynan instead.
He opened it to the unmarred pages, eyes skimming over the words, gloved finger marking his place.
"Tynan was a brutal, violent man," Martin murmured, not looking at her. Callista trembled, unsure if she wanted his attention or release from it. "He was also simplistic. A good Overseer, and a powerful High Overseer, but as a teacher... I find him boring. He was pious, too. His piety turned all his dark impulses into cruelty. It is a common story."
He sighed and closed the book, looking down at Callista once more. "Still, he's respected, and his ashes are even now being dressed up to protect him. My speech tomorrow will draw on his work, as will this sermon I'm writing. And when I quote him, I expect you to give no hint of your own transgressions. No looks of shame, no overwrought agreements that point to guilt. You will be still, and steady, and strong. Understood, Miss Curnow?
"You will do it for yourself, and, more importantly, for me."
"I understand," she managed, her voice cracked and tight.
"Good," Martin said, then held the book out to her, spine-first. "Put this away, then."
She lifted a hand from the rug, and he pulled the book back, tsking faintly. "Open your mouth, Miss Curnow. Let's give old Tynan one last bit of respect, and let him restrict your tongue for a bit."
Callista couldn't stop her whimper. His words sounded sinful, dark and utterly wrong. It sounded sensual. She searched him for any sign of arousal, but, like when he'd spanked her, she found none that she could be certain of.
She parted her lips, an inch at first, then wider, until Martin could wedge Tynan's treatise between her teeth. Inside its covers rested Campbell's notebook, and she closed her eyes a moment as she adjusted to the taste, the weight, and the meaning.
Martin withdrew his hand. The book dipped down, pulled by gravity. She lifted her chin and tightened her jaw, and only then opened her eyes.
Martin was gathering up his notes, and paid no attention to her.
Her body thrumming, breath coming in harsh rises and falls that jetted through her nose, she slowly turned on her hands and knees and crawled to the sideboard. He'd left it slightly ajar for her, she realized - or had she failed to close it earlier? She could catch the side of the cabinet door with the edge of the book, and she nudged it open until she could crawl forward and slide the book onto the shelf.
As she widened her jaw to release the spine, she touched the binding with her tongue and nudged it forward.
She was about to close the cabinet door with her chin when Martin's shadow fell over her. He bent down, close to her, and tucked his notes on the shelf as well. He paused, and she looked up to find him eyeing the damp spot on the binding.
He chuckled, softly, then shut the cabinet door for her. Without a word, he returned to his seat.
"Come here, Miss Curnow," he said, and she swallowed.
There was something very different about this time. The last two encounters, she'd been passive, receptive. She'd let him act upon her. Now, he was still very much in control - but he demanded her participation, not just her acceptance. She rolled the taste of the book's binding around her mouth a moment, then turned and crawled back to him.
"Up onto your knees proper," he said, when she was close enough that she could have bent to lick his boots.
She rose up, straightening, and he leaned forward in his chair. He caught his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face up, then brought his wine glass to her lips.
"Drink. This is the sister to the Tyvian red you brought me that second night. I like it a little better, I think."
Callista parted her lips, and closed her eyes, unable to meet his gaze as he tipped the rich red liquid onto her tongue. The flavors bloomed in her mouth, thick with plums and a mineral tang, and she swallowed only when she feared she might choke on the volume he'd poured.
He pulled the glass away, and she opened her eyes to find him watching her, closely. She could feel her shoulders rising and falling, her heart hammering against the cage of her corset.
"Well?"
"It's very good," she said.
He smiled indulgently, then finished the glass and set it aside.
"And how do you feel?"
Her brow furrowed.
He leaned forward, and pressed his fingers to her temple. His thumb smoothed out the lines on her forehead. "Should I guess, and you can nod or shake your head? I want to know what you feel right now, Miss Curnow."
Slowly, she nodded.
"Is it only the two of us in this room, and is the room the extent of this world?" he purred.
She nodded.
"Do you feel... held? Connected to me?"
She nodded again.
"I feel-" she began, then stopped and swallowed down another breath.
He waited.
"I feel like I'm a different part of myself," she said. "A simpler part."
"A braver part," he supplied, and she nodded. "But you look tired, Miss Curnow. The exertion of only obeying, and not worrying or calculating, is strange, isn't it? I want you to stand up. I'm going to give you a reward, for how good you've been."
Callista stood, her knees creaking. One arm slipped around her waist, reflexively.
He didn't move to pull it away- but he did look at her, sternly, until she did.
"The first time we- indulged, you enjoyed that?" he asked, and his voice had grown thicker, deeper. "Or was it too much?"
"It was- cathartic," she whispered.
He couldn't help his smirk. "That was the intention, yes. But did you enjoy it?"
Callista considered. She turned over the narrowing of her world, the sharp flares of pain, the certainty, against all reason, that she was safe. "I did," she admitted, cheeks burning.
"Then go around to the other side of my desk, Miss Curnow, and place your hands flat on the table."
She tried for just a moment to read his intentions, his desires. He gained something from this, but she still couldn't fathom it. He enjoyed her obedience, of course, and her submission, but there was something else. He seemed to be clinging to this game of theirs as much as she was, even if he was better at mastering his tone, his gaze, his carriage.
She went to the other side of the desk and bent over, eyes never leaving his.
"Do you enjoy this?" she asked.
He sat back in his seat, brows raised in contemplation. "I enjoy the peace it gives you. I enjoy seeing your trust in me in action. And- yes, I enjoy doing this."
Seeing your trust in me. Yes, that sounded true enough. She nodded.
He watched her a moment longer, then stood and circled around her. She waited for the fall of his hand, the sharp blow that would signal the beginning. Her breath coiled in her throat, beneath the pit of anticipation that had lodged itself there, and she closed her eyes and bit her lip.
If he made her wait much longer, she might give in to begging.
But his hand finally came down, and the sharp crack of it striking her ass filled the room. It was louder than it was painful, but she gasped all the same, rocking forward.
His gloves were off; she could feel the difference even through her trousers.
He fell into the cadence of the other night as if it were second nature. The fear and overwhelming weight of her life was far from her this time, though, and she drank in the physical sensations as if they were honeyed wine. Each blow made her move, made her skin sting, made her body ache. Each sent spirals of shock up to her spine, and made her breath catch.
And each made her belly tighten with something a lot like lust, and which she refused to name.
His hand dropped lower, until he was striking her thighs, as well, and she bent closer to the desk, proffering them up to him. Her chest touched the wooden surface, and her hands slid along it until she could grip the edge. Before, she'd kept herself as upright as she could while still balancing herself. Now, she pressed herself to the unyielding plane of the desk, letting it support her, and letting it push back against her with every strike.
He was being harsher this time, pushing her beyond the stinging and throbbing until some of the blows were hard enough to leave bruises. He was probing at her limits, where the not-lust fell away, and her soft responsive noises turned to strained whimpers.
His hand came down one final time, jolting her against the wood hard enough to send the wine glass wobbling. She stared at it as it slowly steadied, still upright.
It was easier to think about than the way Martin's hand was sliding over her hip, and then the sudden heat and weight of him as he bowed over her.
His hand travelled up her side, around her front, passing lightly over her breasts - until it found her throat. His fingers curled lightly around it, and he guided her up off the desk until her back was flush against him. He was hard, his hips pressed firmly, unmoving, to the aching, throbbing curve of her ass. He pulled her head back, and she trembled, arms stretched out, fingertips barely grazing the table.
He gasped for breath, and she looked at him from the corner of her eye. His head was bowed, his brow furrowed. His eyes were closed, but he seemed to know she was looking. His hand tightened. His hips remained rigidly still.
His grip was tighter than it had been in the dark the other night, and she twitched, stretched taut, not sure if she should be afraid. Her hand found his, and she curled her fingers against his knuckles.
She opened her mouth to form a question, and his hand went slack. He released her. He stepped away, reaching up to run a finger beneath his collar. She watched as he smoothed his hair back, as he straightened his uniform.
"Is- that it?" she managed when he didn't turn to look at her. Her voice was hoarse and thick. She peeled herself from the edge of the desk, and began righting her own clothing.
She could still feel the weight of Tynan in her mouth, if she thought about it. She tried not to.
"Yes," he said, then cleared his throat and circled around the desk, putting its bulk between them. "You should get some rest, Miss Curnow. The installment ceremony is tomorrow morning."
He sat, and looked up at her at last. His expression was bland, carefully composed in its seeming ease.
She should have felt embarrassment, or shame. Instead, it sent another pang of longing through her. To distract herself, she tugged at the red band around her arm, loosening it.
Martin inhaled sharply.
She glanced at him with a quirked brow, as if to ask if he really thought she'd leave him now, and then settled the fabric around her throat.
His hand shook against the desk, tapping faintly, before he pulled it from the wood and focused on putting his glove back on.
"What are my duties, tomorrow?"
"Wear the uniform they bring you. Stand quietly to the side. You won't be a part of the main ceremony, so you have no duties to perform, or words to say. Though-"
"During Tynan, I'll comport myself. You don't need to worry. You've given me- a lot to think about, on his work."
She watched him for any sign of trembling, of flushing, but he had himself nearly mastered; she couldn't see any response.
"After," he said, "you'll accompany me to whatever meetings I have. I want you to start tracking those, by the way. Arrange them for me."
"Of course." She clasped her hands before her, pinching at her thumb to ground herself. "And tonight?"
"Isn't for you. Stay in your room - the building will be locked down."
Callista nodded, slowly.
"Go on, Miss Curnow. I'll see you in the morning."
She searched him for any sign of regret, or excitement, and found only that same composed blandness. He was already reaching for a folder set on the far corner of his desk, barely disturbed by their activities. He didn't look at her.
"Your key?" she asked, desperate for some last bit of connection. She reached for her pocket.
"Keep it," he said. "And you'll get another for my formal offices, probably tomorrow. Go on, Miss Curnow."
She nodded. "Of course. Thank you. For- everything."
That made the corner of his mouth twitch, though whether it was from satisfaction or shame, she couldn't tell. She didn't linger to find out. She curtseyed, then left the room, and made her way - without an escort - to her room.
