by Renae Jones
“They don’t lie. They are not lying, they are just not saying all these things the Federation channels are obsessed with.”
He looked at her with pity in his eyes. “There are forms of silence which are their own lie.”
“The Federation laws don’t prevent silence, anyway.”
“No, they don’t,” he allowed.
Now she could taste the pity, it was so strong. What did he pity? Did he think she was stupid, misled, pathetic? She felt like a house cat, her fur already rubbed the wrong way, now with cold water dumped on her. She wanted to be a house cat, so she could hiss.
“And it is not silence if they talk of other things. Some vid channels talk about the things that make Xana great. Just not the Federation vid channel. It is obsessed with how horrible Xana is. There are no travel shows, are there? Or cooking? No, it is all crime. No wonder you are homesick.”
To her surprise, he nodded slowly. Fedni’s words were spoken in anger, but he seemed to be giving them a fair consideration.
She tied off her bag of branch snippets. She was no longer in the mood for all this fresh air and toil; she would finish it another day.
As she stripped off her gloves, Rasmus spoke again. “What vid channel do you watch?”
She shrugged. There were a dozen different vid channels with a healthy rounding of current events, information and lessons presented by a team of personalities to fit each caste’s tastes. “I like Diacor mostly, or Relblen.”
“Luxury caste?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “Yes, I am luxury caste.”
Of course she was luxury caste. This neighborhood was luxury caste. The off-worlder wouldn’t even have been able to buy here until the Federation dissolved those laws.
He nodded, and smiled. “I thought maybe, based on your gorgeous clothes.”
It was reconciliatory, but she just wasn’t in the mood. “Thank you. I will return, perhaps, to talk at another time.”
Then she dropped her shears and her gloves and her bag and furiously glided into her house, though she had already half forgotten why she was angry.
* * *
Fedni spent a frustrating afternoon window-shopping in the diamond district, staring at fashions she could barely afford even back when she was listed in “The Fifty Most Expensive Courtesans in the World” fluff pieces. Now, she would never be able to afford them again. Her favorite midweek outing had lost all satisfaction, but still she went.
On her way home, she was passed by Rasmus on the path from the train.
His long stride faltered when he recognized her, and he started to speak. Then he hesitated, his body language a parody of a man torn. She pretended not to see him, though she had memorized him in a short flick of her gaze.
He was wearing the deep purple collarless and sleeveless uniform of a doctor, and today he was clean shaven. She missed his scruff.
He turned back to walking, able to cover ground at an amazing pace.
She knew then he would be coming by her house. He would not want to leave their relationship at a loose end, floating in harsh words and confusion.
At home, instead of changing to something more comfortable, she changed into something less. She picked out delicate lingerie with corset, stockings, a lace bustle and a house gown. She recurled her hair, arranging it around her shoulders in an auburn fall, and reapplied her lip color.
She saw no point in making this conversation easy on him, whatever it was going to be.
Thus armored, Fedni settled in to watch a drama.
Rasmus knocked a sliver after sunset, a few minutes before the intrusion would be insufferably rude. She had started to give up on his appearance.
She answered the door with feigned disinterest. “Oh, hello.”
He blinked at her outfit, then glanced behind him. “I’m sorry. Were you expecting someone?”
She was surprised into laughing. “Did you wish to speak to me?”
“Ah, yes. I feel I owe you an apology.”
Ah, an apology. She would let him in for an apology.
She held the door wide. “Would you like to come in?”
He glanced again at her lacy lack of clothing, covering everything but leaving it all visible. She refused to acknowledge his look.
“Please. I won’t keep you long.” If anything, he was more polite when addressing a scantily clad woman. Her mother would approve.
“Don’t worry on it. I have no plans for tonight.”
The smart of yesterday’s words, aimed not at her but at her world’s media, had faded. She’d accept the apology, but it was hardly necessary.
Rasmus followed her to the kitchen. He watched her back with longing, and she watched him in the mirrored tiles set in a single line against the ceiling.
“As I said, I wanted to apologize. I mean, I do apologize. I think you are right that, as a Federation citizen, I expect the news to carry the worst of the day’s events. I do not entirely approve of the local news sources, I won’t lie about that. I do find it horrifying that no one speaks of some of the worst effects of your caste system, but I am sorry that that segment scared you, and I am sorry that the Federation channel omits positive segments on Xana so offensively.”
That was a far more thorough apology than she’d expected, or perhaps deserved. The man was a good apologizer.
She stood a moment, sorting her thoughts, idly running a finger along her bottom lip.
The fruit-sweet taste of amusement and the heavier honey of attraction distracted her in turn. She knew that taste well. He thought she was being cute.
She eyed him suspiciously.
No hint of his thoughts was on his face. He was watching her, yes, but with no inappropriate expression.
“I, too, overreacted,” she allowed. “I will apologize to you. I do still feel that off-worlders do not appreciate the many beauties of Xana, and this is a sore spot for me. But I think my anger in this case comes from the increasing prevalence of these awful stories, which is perhaps partially due to an increase in these incidents. So lashing out at the stories was childish. So that is my apology.”
She took a moment to be surprised at herself. Her, apologizing?
He smiled at her. “That is an important distinction, I think. A wise one.”
She glared at him, certain she was being mocked. She was many things, but none of them was wise.
His eyes widened slightly. She must look quite fierce, to inspire wariness. She needed to remember this expression for future use.
He changed the subject. “And, I guess you are right that I don’t appreciate the beauties of Xana as I should. I work as a doctor with the service caste. There are awful things on every planet, but here, I see the most awful, every day. I’ve decided to take time every week to learn something beautiful.”
“You have?”
“Yes, I have.”
It was obvious he’d decided that just as he was speaking. It seemed men and their grand proclamations were a universal phenomenon.
“What beauty shall you learn first?”
“What? I, um... Actually, I was hoping you could help me. Perhaps you have ideas? You seem to know much about beauty.”
Oh, that was brilliant. She was tempted to applaud for him.
Instead, she considered. There were waterfalls near Vetni, which he would be amazed by. Everyone was.
But nature was too easy. She didn’t think he’d understand the beauty of fashion, and works of art might suffer in translation, so she dismissed them, for now. What she would really like was an acknowledgment from him, from the New Earth Federation, that Xana had a beautiful culture, that there was much good even in the traditions they were dismantling. She wanted them to mourn the loss of the castes, the temples, her life, a fraction as much as she did.
She walked closer to him, taking his hand in hers. “I will show you, then, something beautiful.”
He smiled, and she tasted an odd blandness, like protein powder or cornstarch. He was placating her. “Yes, okay, please.”
“A courtship ceremony, then.”
He was surprised. “Really?”
Her lip twitched. “Yes, they are beautiful.”
“Of course,” he said, though his tone made it more a disagreement. “I’ll believe you, but I’ve never liked nightclubs. And I won’t do the drugs.”
She sighed. It made sense that he would know the ceremonies by the clubs―places where total strangers would be placed in a room together, high on aphrodisiacs and inhibition reducers. It was a recipe for cheap and easy sex, increasingly popular in a harsh economy and with the closing of the Temple of Flesh.
“Those clubs are an abomination. The ceremonies are hundreds of years old, brought to Xana by the first settlers. They’re an important part of our culture, and beautiful. They’re not all about sex, you know.”
He relaxed a bit.
“And after you learn this, when someone asks you about our culture, maybe you can come up with better than, ‘Xana is very colorful.’”
His lip curved. “I also said it’s busy.”
“I was not convinced.”
A thrill of pride teased her. This was her skill, her craft. Not the ceremony, of course—courtship was not something you bought in the overt negotiation of a liaison contract. But her beauty, her aesthetically pleasing grace, her careful memory, her knowledge of pleasure and her intuition of how to please him all had been honed by years in her trade. Learning the ceremonies had been a personal pleasure, and she was proud to be a rare person who knew all of them.
She could do things in a ceremony that would melt an off-worlder’s mind—and he would love every second of it.
“Please, have a seat.” She indicated a long chaise in her reception area.
“Now?”
“Yes. Unless you need to be elsewhere? I don’t see why not.”
He sat obediently.
“I need to prepare. I wasn’t expecting to do this.”
“Of course. Who would be?”
“And take off your clothes,” she instructed on her way out.
He blinked. “Is that necessary?”
She ignored his question and continued down the hall.
Fedni headed for her bedroom, pulling an expensive wooden box from her armoire. It was carved with flowers, lilies and daydragons and blue belltubes. Inside were exactly one hundred silk veils, each dyed in a slightly different color and pattern. Also in the box was a pot of honey glue, its heater and a set of delicate brushes.
Then she detoured for her kitchen. She filled the bowl of the small heater with water to keep the honey glue at the perfect slightly warm temperature.
Back in her receiving room, Rasmus sat tall and gangly, but somehow dignified. He carried himself gracefully, even in stillness. Where he sat in front of the amethyst paisley of her wallpaper, he looked like an immortalized Sky Lord. His repose was casual, his features aristocratic and his long body deliciously bare.
He smiled at her return.
“I will show you the ceremony of one hundred veils.”
“I don’t know the ceremony,” he confessed.
“That’s fine. Few do. I know it well, though.”
She lay out her box on a low table, neatly organizing silks by length and heft. She opened the jar of honey glue, as well, and broke the wax seal. When exposed to air, it slowly turned from a solid to a thick, velvety paste. Once it heated it would have the consistency of honey, as well as the taste, but would dry quickly with a strong bond.
While it heated, she talked.
“On my planet, long ago, arranged marriage fell out of favor. The temples had formed, and were taking over many of the roles of a family. And when marriage started to gain popularity again, courtship ceremonies were adopted as a way for couples to learn each other, and themselves. To understand if they would be a good match, without the assistance of their parents in the choosing process. Only a few were about sex, by the way.
“The beautiful part is in learning someone else, knowing them so well, and the way Xanian society encourages that sort of strong bond to other people. Procreation can happen without love, or even contact, but a permanent tie is good for everyone when between compatible couples. The process of finding those ties is a treasure, and beautiful.”
Rasmus nodded, looking out of place, a naked giant in her receiving room.
“And the ceremony, the hundred veils, will help you see the beauty in yourself. And in me.”
His mouth quirked. “I already know you’re beautiful.”
“You think I’m pretty. There’s a difference.”
He shook his head. “I think you’re beautiful.”
She ignored him to finish her preparations.
“Once we begin, you can call a halt or leave at any time, but you cannot speak.”
“No speaking? What is the ceremony, exactly?”
“It’s about our bodies.”
“But not sex?”
“It’s more about aesthetics,” she tempered. “And pain.”
Rasmus drew his eyebrows together, and she began.
She took up a long red strip, the longest of the silks, and dabbed a wide brush in the honey glue. Then she bent close to him, licking across his solar plexus. She followed with the brush, painting a small circle of the sticky as his chest rose and fell in calm breathing. Over that she lay the corner of the veil, holding her hand firmly to his chest.
Under her hand, the warm glue began to set, seizing the delicate fabric. When she concentrated, she could faintly feel the strong beat of his heart.
Then Fedni stepped back, sinking into a graceful plié to bow her head.
Rasmus’s taste was a little confused, but he hadn’t left.
Traditionally, the ceremony was also performed in silence, but she thought Rasmus might appreciate the scenic tour.
“The first part of the ceremony, the affixing, is about appreciating your partner. As I work, you should concentrate on me, the feel of my hands. You should watch me. You should smell my flesh. My motions are also scripted: I will bow, I will pose. You should think on the beauty of my body, or the beauty of the human form in general.”
“And no talking?”
She smiled. “No talking.”
The next veils were again the red of passion, affixed to the inside of his thighs. His cock, already stiffening, stirred at the whisper of her breath nearby. Poor man―if he was this sensitive, he would be near to weeping before she finished.
There were one hundred veils to fasten to body parts―his wrists, his shoulders, in a line down his back. There were one hundred poses for her to gracefully sink into, showcasing her legs behind the black lace of her overgown or her breasts cradled by the corset.
At first, Rasmus was a little tense. As he waited for her to choose the next veil, she could taste the sour candy of nervous amusement. He was well behaved, though, paying attention to her and her movements. After a few self-conscious false starts, she tasted arousal or even a more pure, simple pleasure as he took in the sight of her working.
By the last veil, his cock was thick in his lap and his arousal tasted warm and creamy.
She sank low in another curtsy, a final honor. Rasmus smiled slowly, taking in the picture of her body gracefully folded and precisely placed down to the carefully angled knuckles of her fingers.
Then he took a deep throat-clearing breath.
“Shhh,” she admonished, but he said it anyway.
“I look like a parrot with a horrible disease. Or a clown’s mummy.”
She rolled her eyes, loo
king up to be sure he saw it. His taste sparkled with laughter.
She shed her overgown, and his attention focused back on her. Good-natured mocking was completely forgotten. She slipped off her stockings, then removed her corset. It took a bit longer, carefully unsnapping the decorative metal clasps, but it all came off, leaving her bare.
Rasmus watched her carefully, and his breath was louder. Yes, he did resemble a bird of crazy fabric plumage, but desire slithered through her anyway. He was going to love this. And so was she.
She plumped her freed breasts for him, teasing her nipples to points while he watched. Then she slid her fingers lower, running a finger between the lips of her cunt for him to admire.
She was wet. She had meditated on her own body, while he had done the same. It was impossible to ignore the comforting stretch as she posed. It was impossible to miss the thrill of Rasmus’s burning desire each time she touched him. It was easy to remember the desperate, needy way he fucked when driven to the edge.
And she would drive him to the edge.
She lightly pressed the heel of her hand to her aching clit, barely resisting the urge to grind against it. She’d gone without sex for a while, and it was stretching her patience thin.
Rasmus’s eyes burned, dark and bright, staring intently at her hand.
He’d forgotten this wasn’t about sex. He’d forgotten there would be pain.
She smiled at him.
“The rest is about you. As I remove the veils, close your eyes and pay mind to the sensations of your body.”
He nodded.
She fell to her knees in front of him and ran her hands along his leg. She also paid attention to his body―the quiet strength of his calves, the soft rasp of the hair on his legs.
A short blue veil jauntily clung to his ankle, just behind the knob, on his pulse point. She folded it around her hand, then pulled sharply. It caught, then quickly separated from his skin.
“Ow! Ow. What—”
“Shhh,” she admonished.
“Sky Lords,” he muttered.
She hid a smile by bending to kiss the just-bared spot. What a baby. It didn’t hurt that much.
His skin tasted like honey. She licked wide, letting the glue dissolve under her tongue. She nibbled the spot, then licked again, finding the edge of the honey glue, cleaning it from his skin.