The Adorned by John Tristan

and in my hair. I looked down. Only the polished tips of his boots were in the sweep of my view—but I could still see the echo of his eyes.
    “I’m not used to this,” he said suddenly. There was a roughness in his voice I’d not heard there before. Then he laughed. “You’ll be trussed up worse than this, though. That I can promise.”
    He made good on his words. The outfit I would wear for my first display had been laid out for me: trousers of soft brown leather and a sort of half corset in the same shade, something between a belt and a girdle. My shoulders and back would, of course, be bare.
    I fingered the girdle dubiously. I had never worn such a thing as this, and it was strange to me in both design and fabric. It was raw silk, and lined with something like velveteen. It seemed too small to fit me, as did the trousers—too small and too tight. “I don’t think this will fit,” I said.
    Tallisk laughed again. “Don’t you think I know your measurements?”
    I suppressed a shiver and half turned away.
    He nodded to the girdle. “Put it on. You’ll see.”
    Slowly I stripped off my simple house-trousers and stepped into the strange new clothes. The trousers were snug, but they fit, hugging my calves. I struggled to reach behind me and tie the half corset. Tallisk came closer and took the ribbons in his hands. He drew them tight. I gasped for breath.
    He stepped back, and I turned to face him. His eyes were distant, as if he were looking past me. After a while, they sharpened, and he gave a brief nod: a craftsman, pleased with his work. He went to his desk and took out a flat wooden box; from this, he took what I thought to be an ornament. It was a white square, about the size of a baby’s palm. It was made of ivory, I thought, or whalebone, carved with a design of three interlocking diamonds. It hung on a black ribbon. Slowly he tipped it into my open hand.
    “What is this?” It felt cool and smooth under my touch.
    “It is my mark.”
    I lifted it to the level of my eyes. “Am I to wear this?”
    He nodded. “Around your neck. Turn around.” He fastened it with an expert bow, as he had the laces of my half corset. It settled in the hollow of my collarbone. One day this mark would be tattooed upon me: the signature, the last time Tallisk’s needles would touch my skin. I wondered where he would put it.
    I heard a soft cough from the doorway. Isadel and Yana were there, waiting. “Sir?”
    Tallisk nodded again. “He’s ready. We go.”
    * * *
    Yana drove the carriage Tallisk had hired for our little company.
    The early summer warmth was pleasant on my skin, but I was only in the sun for a moment; Tallisk quickly pushed me into the carriage. Isadel carried under her arm a parasol. My skin, so newly Adorned, would have to be protected while we made our rounds.
    “Where to first?” Isadel asked, when she’d closed the carriage door.
    “Meret.” Tallisk said. “We go to Meret.”
    Isadel made a face, but said nothing more.
    Tallisk shushed me with a gesture; my questions, it seemed, would be unwelcome.
    We rolled down Nightwell Street. I watched the city roll by, watched children point at our carriage. The road cut through a park, all careful greenery. A shallow lake gleamed in the sun. I saw two swans paddle by. A couple took time from feeding them to glance at us as we passed them by. They could not see us through the latticed windows, but I could see their curious eyes.
    Our destination was a small, low house, set a little apart from its fellows on the corner. It was built in a Surammer style, with a curlicued roof and narrow windows. The house was humble, but well kept, with creeping vines delicately arranged to grow on its trellises.
    Yana stopped the carriage; Tallisk did not wait for her to descend and let us out, but burst out of the carriage and went to knock on the door. I threw Isadel a questioning glance.
    “Deino Meret,” she said, in a near-whisper, “is Tallisk’s craft-master.