Chapter 56 Chapter 55: The Ointment
The ruins of my previous clothes lay in a bloodstained, torn pile on the floor, a grim testament to the day's horrors. I found my com amid the fabric carnage, a tiny, cool rectangle of normalcy. The screen glowed, informing me it was late. I was late. A flicker of panic rose, another thing they had taken from me, my punctuality, my control over the schedule. But I smothered it, replacing it with a hard, cold resolve. I would not let them win. I would not hide in my room, trembling. I was going to keep to the itinerary, no matter what. I would present a face of unbroken composure, even if it was the greatest performance of my life.
But first, I needed a break from this world. I needed a friend. My fingers flew over the screen, typing a message to Silver, a lifeline cast into the void, knowing it wouldn't reach her until I escaped this gilded prison, but needing to send it all the same.
A lot's happened here in such a short time, I typed, the words a vast understatement. I really need to share, miss you, can’t wait to see you (Heart)x3.
Sending it felt like a small, defiant act of self-care. Then, I turned to the costume of my next act.
I followed the intricate instructions from Marcel and his team, my movements mechanical. Each step, the precise application of cosmetics, the careful arrangement of hair, felt surreal, so utterly trivial and petty when the world outside was burning, when the memory of a man's dying breaths was still hot in my mind. Why go to so much trouble to look fine when everything felt so profoundly broken?
But when I was done, I had to pause. The reflection in the glass was not that of the terrified, blood-smeared woman from the garden. It was a princess from a fairytale world, one where violence never touched the court. The dress and bodice were a masterpiece, seeming to melt onto my form in a twilight purple, the exact, melancholic hue of the sky just after the sun dips below the horizon, when the last trace of warmth bleeds into the depths of night. And at its centre, nestled in the dramatic cleavage sculpted by the tight bodice, was an amethyst dream stone the size of my fist, catching the light with a deep, inner fire.
The transformation was complete, and it was its own kind of weapon.
A quick glance at my com. I was only thirty minutes late. If I rushed, I could still make a grand entrance and salvage the evening's facade.
I swept out of the master bedroom, my new dress whispering against the floor, and stopped short. There was a clam in the living area, positioned near the door. He was as still as a statue, his porcelain skin gleaming softly in the lamplight. The sight was both a comfort and a painful reminder of loss.
He turned his head with a soft, precise whir, his dark eyes focusing on me.
"Nanda Stone," he said, his voice a calibrated, respectful tone. "I am Don-jon, at your service. I am Chup-chup's replacement; he was my mentor." He paused for a moment, a flicker of what might have been genuine emotion in his monotone voice. "I hope to fill his shoes."
My shoes dangled from my fingers, a pair of clean, classic pumps with a discreet yet treacherously high heel. Just looking at them made my stomach clench. The memory of my raw, bloodied feet on the cold garden stones was still vivid, and the thought of forcing my swollen, bruised flesh into those elegant prisons filled me with a profound sense of dread.
Hobbling down the grand staircase, I made my way to a low sofa in the antechamber. I sat with a weary sigh, the delicate fabric of my twilight-purple dress pooling around me. I took a deep, steadying breath, bracing myself for the inevitable pain, and was just about to wrestle my foot into the first shoe when Don-jon spoke again.
“Nanda Stone,” his voice was soft, yet clear in the quiet room. “I would like to help, if I may.”
I offered a tired, grateful smile. “Thanks, Don-jon, but there's no helping here. This is just something I have too, do. The price of looking the part.”
“Don-jon has ointment,” he insisted, his head tilting slightly. “Please, let Don-jon try.”
Seeing the earnestness in his placid ceramic face, I relented. What could it hurt? I carefully peeled off my sheer tights, wincing at the sight of the dark bruises and angry red blisters that mapped my ordeal. I sat back and watched as Don-jon moved to the doorway. To my surprise, he didn't leave. Instead, a nearly seamless panel in the doorframe slid open with a faint hiss, revealing a small, well-stocked security cupboard. It seemed the Sylvan architects had thought of everything for their chaperones.
He returned brandishing a jet-black bottle with no label. “If I may,” he said, kneeling before me with a surprising grace.
“Do your worst,” I said, trying to sound light, to amuse him. It was a desperate bid for a moment’s respite, a final calm before the storm of pain I knew I’d have to endure to make it through the night's ball. In that moment, I felt like a twisted version of a fairytale princess, waiting not for a fairy godmother, but for a porcelain-faced servant to perform a small miracle.
The substance he poured into his hands was clear, with the consistency of a light oil. It released a sharp, medicinal scent of cloves and aniseed, underpinned by something else, something distinctly alien and earthy that I didn't recognize. His touch was surprisingly gentle yet firm as he began to massage the ointment into my aching feet. His knolled fingers, cool and smooth, worked with a precise, circular motion, starting from my arches and moving outwards.
At first, there was only the strange sensation of the oil and his methodical touch. But then, a subtle change began. A cooling sensation seeped deep into my tissues, not a surface chill but a penetrating relief that seemed to push back the inflammation. The throbbing ache receded, replaced by a gentle numbness. When he finished, my whole feet felt cooler, lighter, and significantly less swollen.
With a sense of cautious hope, I pulled my tights back on and then, tentatively, tried the shoe. I slid my foot in, expecting the familiar pinch and protest. It was still there, a dull reminder of the day's trauma, but it was nowhere near the sharp, incapacitating pain I had braced for. It was manageable. It was a miracle.
I looked at Don-jon, truly seeing him for the first time, not just as a replacement, but as an individual. "Thank you," I said, the words imbued with genuine, profound gratitude. "That's... incredible."
A palpable, rustling excitement filled the air in the harem, for want of a better word. The vast, opulent chamber, usually a place of quiet repose, was now thrumming with a nervous, competitive energy. As we walked through, it was as if every Polli housed within its silken walls was preening, adjusting her veils, and practicing a demure glance, all making herself ready to be seen by The Emperor. Each one hoped to be the chosen one, his next wife, her fate hanging on a single glance. We moved among them like ghosts, our purpose entirely separate from theirs, mere stars passing through their constellated night, bound for a different kind of spectacle.
The entrance to the main hall was a jarring transition from that simmering anticipation to stark, militarized control. There were many more guards on this night, their polished armour and blank, ceramic faces forming an impassable cordon. They did not merely look; they manhandled. Their fat, articulated fingers, though made of the same polished material as their bodies, felt unnervingly organic as they swept over the curves of my body, probing and pressing with impersonal thoroughness. Scanning with scanners.
I knew, intellectually, that they were clams, none gender, birthed and trained for security. But knowledge did little to soothe the primal violation. It felt like a slow, public undressing. Their sensors traced the line of my spine, the dip of my waist, the swell of my hips, and most humiliatingly, the tight bodice that barely contained me. The logic was absurd, -what deadly weapon could I possibly hide in this second skin of twilight-purple silk, a dress I was nearly popping out of? It wasn't a search for contraband; it was a reminder. A demonstration of their absolute power to touch, to probe, to assert dominance even over a diplomatic guest. Each cold, precise touch was a brand, searing. through the fabric and into my skin, a stark message that in this place, my body was not truly my own.
I had missed the grand entrance, the fanfare, and all the calculated pomp of The Emperor's arrival. A small part of me was grateful for that, at least. From my vantage point at the top of the sweeping staircase, I paused, my hand resting lightly on the cool balustrade. Below, the great hall seethed with a glittering, perfumed chaos of Sylvan elite. My eyes scanned the crowd, seeking the familiar anchor of my own party, a tactical assessment to minimize the time I would have to spend adrift in a sea of hostile or curious strangers.
I found them near a towering obsidian pillar. Lord Vincent was, predictably, at the centre of a loud, gesticulating conversation with a Nate who had the sleek, well-fed look of a high-ranking dignitary or a supremely successful businessman. Ciel and Jode flanked him like scholarly bookends, their expressions a study in polite attentiveness. And, as always, Saul was there. He seemed to have a preternatural ability to blend into the architecture, a spectral presence in the periphery. I could have sworn he could manufacture his own shadows to lurk within.
But as if on some unseen cue, his head lifted. Those keen, ever-observant eyes found mine instantly, as if he had sensed my gaze from across the hall. Our contact held for a moment, a silent, weighted exchange as I began my descent.
He had been leaning against the pillar with an air of casual lethality, but he straightened as I neared, his movement fluid and deliberate. He spoke before the others even registered my presence, his voice low enough to be for my ears alone.
"No one expected you to come," he said, his gaze flickering briefly toward the boisterous Lord Vincent. "We all would have understood."
His words were a simple acknowledgment of the day's trauma, an offered reprieve. I met his eyes, my chin lifting slightly. "I know," I replied, my voice steady despite the tremor I felt inside. "But I had to come. To show my face. To show no fear."
A faint, almost imperceptible nod. "I understand," he half-whispered, the words carrying a soldier's respect for a necessary, if difficult, tactical decision.
The moment was broken as Lord Vincent's voice boomed across the short distance. "Nanda! So good of you to come! I was just telling Vort here about your ordeal earlier in the Gardens." He gestured expansively, drawing me into their circle. "Vort," he announced with theatrical flourish, "has a business that makes and exports, simply, the best perfumes in the known world."