THE NIGHTMARE NETWORK - Warriors of Love

Here's a major change to the start of a chapter. "Odalisque" Chapter 31 begis thus:

Chapter 31

Lessons

My living room was untidy – footwear and clothes scattered over the furniture and floor. Having kicked off my shoes, the deep pile rug was springy under my bare feet. Lisa-Louise was deep in conversation with Barguin, they spoke too quietly for me to hear more than a murmuring sound punctuated by giggles. My mistress and body slave were taking turns to sip from a large glass of red wine.

It was shortly after lunch, Lisa-Louise had yet to re-harness me. She had told Barguin – in a voice loud enough for me to hear – not to tidy the room, adding that Tuerqui would clear it up later. It was in line with her insistence that it was my inner being that enslaved me, rather than the presence or absence of a harness. Before sinking deeper into conversation with my body slave, she had tossed me the wine bottle, telling me to uncork it.

The label marked it as some kind of berry – but a dirty thumb print obscured the first half of the word. From the colour and smell, I thought that it was elderberry, but couldn’t be certain. The vintage was year two of the reign of King Gavin. Used as I had become to Surrey dating, I lacked any idea as to how old that made it – indeed, the king’s name was known to me only as an enemy that Berenice’s troops had defeated, and left me unable to place his realm.

There came a timid knock – Barguin, rising slowly and walking a little unsteadily, admitted a slave to my room. The newcomer carried a pile of folded garments in which grey and white predominated. In spite of recognising the clothes as schoolroom uniform, my eyes were not for her burden – but for she who carried them. There was something about her that stirred me before I knew what it was.

“Mistress, Mrs Clay has sent me on behalf of Miss Miles,” she said with a curtsey. “If it pleases your highness, Miss Miles says you’re to wear these things for your lessons.”

Now that even Mrs Clay’s stitch slaves called me Tuerqui, being addressed as your highness seemed both strange and wrong. But there was something about this particular slave speaking thus that added to the incongruity. The slave’s face was almost as familiar as my own – or at least an older version of the same features. Glancing at her thigh, I read the name Tipsi.

As "Margaret Again" Chapter 6 this has transformed into this:

Chapter 6

In which I encounter Tipsi and a cursed ruby, begin to attend Miss Miles’ schoolroom lessons, and receive my first sword.

An acrid taste lingered on my tongue after a recent, and none too appetising, lunch. Lisa-Louise having neglected to re-harness me, the soft fabric of a long skirt tickled at my toes. Footwear and clothing, scattered over furniture and floor, cluttered my living room. Shoes kicked off, a deep pile rug sprang under my bare feet.

Although, strictly speaking, my body slave, Barguin addressed her observation and question to Lisa-Louise: “It’s a bit of a mess in here. Would you like me to tidy up?”

“No, don’t bother, Barguin. Join me in some wine. Tuerqui can see to the mess later.”

“Tuerqui? She looks more like Princess Margaret in that floor length skirt.”

“It’s her inner being that enslaves her – not the presence or absence of harness… or clothing. Isn’t that right, Tuerqui?”

“Yes, mistress, it is.”

“There! You hear the slavery in her voice, Barguin?”

“Yes, I do, Lisa-Louise. All the same, I think you should harness her. It isn’t right for a slave to dress as a princess.”

“All in good time, my friend. There may be more hurry with the wine.” She held the bottle for Barguin’s inspection.

“A vintage fermentation,” Barguin replied, “it must have waited years for us to drink it – not all that urgent, I would have thought.” Then, looking more carefully at the label: “Although, for all I know, year two of King Gavin’s reign might have been a week ago last Sorday.”

“I don’t suppose, Barguin, that you even know who King Gavin was.”

“No, I don’t. Never heard of the blighter.”

“He was the king of Dawzet, which must mean something to Tuerqui.”

“Yes, it does, mistress. I was betrothed to Crown Prince Fredric of Dawzet, mistress, before I was enslaved. Maybe Gavin was his father.”

“His uncle, Tuerqui. He died, as they say, without issue… a bit of a poof, maybe… so Gavin’s brother inherited the throne.”

“You know a lot of history, Lisa-Louise.” Barguin sounded impressed.

“A whole lot of history, Barguin. There’s no use in listening to political conversations unless you know what they’re talking about.”

“Anyway, the wine… On second thoughts, maybe it is more urgent than harnessing Tuerqui. I’m a bit parched.”

Stretching languidly, Lisa-Louise tossed the wine in my direction. My reactions a little slow, the heavy object bounced with a muffled thud on the rug at my feet. Fortunately, it came to rest unbroken. Dipping my knees, I retrieved the bottle.

“Uncork it, Tuerqui,” a command from Lisa-Louise, not a request.

“Yes, mistress,” I replied, pleased to be commanded.

Retreating to my kitchen, I returned with a corkscrew and two glasses. Lisa-Louise had invited Barguin to drink with her, but had not extended such an invitation to me. Mindful of my place as a slave, it struck me as more fitting that I didn’t sip wine with my mistress. Treasuring my place as a slave, I delighted in restricting myself to serving.

“Tuerqui,” Lisa-Louise said, “you may return those glasses to the kitchen. Bring us just one large glass. It’ll be cosier to share.”

“Yes, mistress,” I replied, hastening to obey.

The label marked the wine as some kind of berry – but a dirty thumbprint obscured the first half of the word. From the colour and smell, I thought that it was elderberry, but couldn’t be certain. Sinking deeper into conversation, my mistress and my body slave took turns to sip from the large glass I’d fetched them. They spoke too quietly for me to hear more than a murmuring sound punctuated by giggles.

At a timid knock, Barguin rose slowly, and walked a little unsteadily to admit a slave to my room. The newcomer carried a pile of folded garments in which grey and white predominated. In spite of recognising the clothes as schoolroom uniform, my eyes were not for her burden – but for she who carried them. There was something about her that stirred me before I knew what it was.

Turning to me, the newcomer curtsied. “Mistress, Mrs Clay has sent me on behalf of Miss Miles. If it pleases your highness, Miss Miles says you’re to wear these things for your lessons.”

Now that even Mrs Clay’s stitch slaves called me Tuerqui, being addressed as your highness seemed both strange and wrong. But there was something about this particular slave speaking thus that added to the incongruity. Her face was almost as familiar as my own – or at least an older version of the same features often lingered in my mind’s eye. Glancing at her thigh, I read the name Tipsi.