Liar’s Dice (Yellow) > Chapter 1: Chained Melody
“I was always taught to respect my elders, and I’ve now reached the age when I don’t have anybody to respect.” –George Burns
A pair of fine silver spectacles, fitted with the smallest of reading lenses and buffed with the finest of cloth, slid down the thick and gnarled nose of Maraude Morrist, Madam of the House of Morrist. Sweat poured fresh from her wrinkled brow, her graying hair falling free of its savage pinning from the exertion she endured. Running down the hallways of the House of Morrist was preferable — perhaps even hand-scrubbing the chamber pots within the whole of the House was preferable! — to the difficulty she faced just a hand-span in front of her. Luck, however, was with Madam Morrist, for she was anything but timid, and problems tended to flee in terror before her presence. Problems were wise, indeed.
“Straighter then, missy! Ye’ll never get th’ waist ye want slouchin’ like a guy!”
Madam Morrist’s hands seized upon a pair of loose cords as they slipped from her grasp, causing Melody, the young woman in front of her, to stifle a gasp. The cords trailed up and into an ornate golden brocade work of art, complete with hidden nips and tucks to make any woman sigh with pleasure — in the shape of a corset, and the girl was already fighting to breathe in the wake of Madam’s prior attentions. The old woman sighed, her broken teeth and wicked lips twisting into a mocking grin that did nothing to augment the questionable beauty of her face. “Girls these days ha’ got nothing worth tying, if ye ask me.”
Melody glanced down from atop her fitting pedestal, and Madam waited on her haunches for a longwinded and noble apology — her favorite kind. In the end, she found an utter lack of shame in the strong and proud line of the girl’s perfect chin, and the look she suffered was anything but meek and mild — it was in direct defiance of everything a lady ought to be. It seemed she would not get to enjoy this after all. “Say what you will, Madam Morrist, but nothing will take the sting out of your hands until the job is done. Kindly finish it so that I might have the opportunity to take my last breath before I die.”
Madam Morrist felt the need to laugh, and did so with a gusto that left the dressing maids and the butler unsteady in their positions at the rear of the room, and left Melody guarding her delicate breath even closer in order to tolerate the stench of Madam’s breath at close range. The impertinence of youth always nettled Madam to no end, and perhaps it always would. The entire city of Banewick knew well to keep their children apart from the woman, lest she visit her so-rumored “witchy” powers upon their hopeless offspring. How little imagination they had, when it came to what they thought she could do! Melody, to her immense disappointment, had little choice but to brace herself, and it brought Madam no end of pleasure to remind her of it.
“What do ye know of Death, pretty? Only yer mind could tell ye.” She punctuated the statement with a sharp tug on the cords, continuing her way up the length of the girl’s corset with slow and deliberate movements. Her agile mind seized upon two incompatible desires at once; the first, to beat the foolish child into a newfound respect for authority, and the second, to mind her temper, as far as it remained feasible to mind. The little crotchety voice in the back of her mind, which served as her conscience, reminded her that every moment spent at Melody’s side would bring her one step closer to her deepest desire. The second thought, as always, won out over the first.
Melody was prepared for the tug this time, and maintained her composure over the old woman’s attacks. “Only a witch could know what lies inside my mind. Are you confessing, then?”
“Confessions are for priests, lovely, not for headstrong gits like ye.”
Having finished the last of the lacing, Madam relinquished the tied cords, feeling the joints and bones in her hands and fingers shift in ways that they should not comfortably manage. The job that Melody had asked of her was complete, to the best of her ability — and what an ability she had! Stepping back from the girl, she took a moment to look over her work. Whatever Melody was or wasn’t, it was plain to see that she was the most beautiful creature this side of the River Tross, and that meant success, as far as Madam was concerned.
“Now every man, woman and child within a hundred miles will want to marry ye, for what ye’re worth. I hope ye kept yer dowry in plain sight.”
“If any man can look at you and not tread on his coattails as he flees, Madam, I will be right happy to accept his courtship.” Melody’s hands slid to her cinched waist, and in that moment she appeared to Madam as nothing less than a goddess on high, speaking down her retribution. The eyes that had seemed beautiful before now radiated with a mixture of stored anger and tears of distress, lest she still find herself unworthy in the eyes of her suitors. Her hair, a sable mane of pins and curls, left her pristine face open and haunting to anyone who chose to look; wretched, as far as Madam was concerned. “Somehow I fear for the worst.”
“Nonsense, missy.” Madam threw back her head and laughed again, relishing the tortured expression on the girl’s face. “What man wouldn’t love a charming grandmother like me? Ye’ll be worth every wrinkle and wart.”
Melody appeared unconvinced, and Madam shook her head, dusting her sweaty palms on the hem of her simple black robe. “Come along then. Ye’ll only be Miss Melody Morrist for a few more hours now, if I play my cards right.”
Madam turned her back, heading for the parlor of the House. There was so much yet to be done before her granddaughter’s suitors began to arrive, and she was not going to scrimp or pause on anything that might free her from the insufferable child’s company! Once the girl was out of her hands, the real witchery, and the running about the house without a stitch of clothing on for the first time in years, could begin.
Melody Morrist followed a short length behind, thinking only of the moment when a big, strong hero would appear at her door and carry her away, back to the home she loved and the life she’d known before the Madam changed everything about it that mattered. A bird could carry her away, or a mouse could chew through the door latch; but a hero would be even better.
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