Since the occurrence had been singular, one might reasonably regard it as an anomaly. Yet, Princess fervently hoped it would not recur, though she remained, like myself, ever prepared for its possibility. As fate would have it, the moment returned during evening prayers while the sun’s praises were sung. Once more, I became the chief inhabitant of her form, wielding control over her muscles. Unlike our previous experience, the transition into my essence was smoother. In one moment, Princess sang with grace, and in the next, a brief stumble accompanied by a guttural noise escaped our lips. Yet she recovered swiftly, as though nothing had transpired. I doubted anyone took notice—except, perhaps, for her two sisters, whose questioning gazes lingered.

  Other nearby guests could sensed a subtle dissonance, but the sanctity of dusk prayer was not one to be interrupted lightly. Despite the unease it brought, there was a strange comfort in once again inhabiting flesh in the world. Unlike Princess, I had never been trained in solfeggio; her trained voice’s pitch and melody were beyond my imitation. My performance was such as a tone-deaf drunkard at a tavern, or what I imagined one would sound like if they had such a lovely voice. However, amidst the chorus of a hundred voices, my monotone notes should matter little to the whole.

  “Are you feeling alright?” Rascal grabbed our left arm and asked once the chant was over. “Did it happen again?”

  The ceremony concluded, and as each departed to their evening’s pursuits, the sisters returned to the mansion for a spell of leisure, now that their Master Dubart had departed. With a modicum of practice, I had managed to walk more naturally in this body, though I lacked the comfort of a mirror to predict how Princess might respond.

  “Forgive me, Rasc… Riatna. I indulged in an overly generous supper, and my stomach protests,” I offered a plausible excuse, hoping it would suffice.

  “If you say so…”

  Rascal’s expression betrayed doubt, for her feelings were ever worn plainly upon her face. She should be the simpler of the two to deceive. Yet if she harbored suspicion, I resolved to steer clear of Fermina, whose discernment ran deep. Speaking of that delightful creature, she feigned a sneeze from behind us.

  “Oh! Yes, right,” Rascal exclaimed after the obvious cue. “Say, Aufelia, if you don’t mind, I’ve wanted a portrait of me drawn for the longest time! Fermina has been saying that you picked up art and are on the lookout for models. It’s been a little boring lately, and I feel we’re not spending as much time together as we should.”

  “We are speaking of a fully clothed portrait, I hope that is clear,” Fermina uncharacteristically interjected, approaching from our right and placing Rascal between us. “Something fit for public display.”

  “Of course, I meant with clothes on!” Rascal protested, her tone hovering between jest and alarm, tightening her hold on our arm. “What are you even talking about? Do you think I would ever pose nude? You’d need a heck of a lot of candy to get me to do that!”

  “Riatna! Language!” Fermina’s sharp rebuke made Rascal wince. “And do not even joke about that. Who ever heard of a proper Lady undressing for… candy? Oh, Riatna. And Aufelia, I am not saying that you may not ever attempt a more… let’s say, daring depiction of the human form again; my hope is that you realize that there is a time and a place.”

  Rascal frowned, an expression both playful and defiant, as she responded, “I was only kidding, Fermina; liven up! I wouldn’t actually do it.” Then, abruptly, she stopped in her tracks and pulled us to face her. Princess was half a head taller than her younger sister; Rascal was unfortunately short for her age. “Wait, ‘again’? You actually painted someone nude before?” She could hardly moderate her tone to make it barely inaudible.

  “No gossiping!” Fermina admonished, forcing Rascal to stand upright and release her grip.

  “Says the one who was talking to the maids about what I was doing,” Princess’s voice crackled with sardonic wit. For an instant, I believed she had regained mastery over her lips, only to realize that it was but her voice, reverberating within the confines of my mind, as we passed by the reflective glass.

  Rascal’s insatiable curiosity would not be contained for long. Seizing our arm anew, she took it hostage, subtly allowing Fermina to drift ahead, slowly but surely. I might have warned that poor angel that Rascal was guiding us down a separate corridor, had I not resolved to speak as little as possible. As Fermina wandered ahead in solitude, Rascal and I veered left toward the western wing and entered a vacant, yet meticulously maintained, chamber.

  “Phew! We can finally talk!” Rascal stretched her limbs in a manner most unladylike, yet I could easily empathize. Though I was grateful for the gift of a functioning body, I had never before donned attire that prioritized style over comfort. A tightly fitted gown with two layers, an open back, gloves, and a delicate shawl seemed an impractical ensemble, though it was the very choice Princess had deemed appropriate for this evening.

  “Fermina shall be displeased that we abandoned her,” I remarked, more out of consideration than trepidation.

  “She’ll be fine!” Rascal dismissed, waving her hand as if brushing aside a fly, before turning back and collapsing onto the bed in a star-shaped sprawl. “She just talked to me and told me, ‘Hey, you should tell Aufelia you want to be a model for her,’ so that’s why I said it, but it’s not like I’m doing anything else most of the time. I can pose if you really want me to.”

  “Thank you for your generous offer, but I have no further interest in that particular activity,” I declined gently, knowing her enthusiasm for the idea was tepid at best. “My artistic attempts have proven… less than satisfactory. Perhaps another time,” I added, softening the refusal. “Thank you again, Rasca… Rascal.” There was no turning back at this point.

  “Huh,” Rascal simply exhaled. Empty air. “How bad can you be? Remember you used to draw birds and stuff?” she lifted her head slightly. “I kind of want to see,” she added, her voice pitched higher than usual as her gown constricted her in that position. “Please?”

  I had not known that Princess used to draw—whether birds or any other subject. I had presumed to know all there was to know about the sisters, but the longer I dwelled within this borrowed body, the clearer it became how little I truly understood of their lives beyond me.

  “If you insist, but if the result resembles a scarecrow, I shall not endure any complaints!” I jested, falling into the familiar rhythm of banter with Rascal.

  Her laughter echoed, and I offered her my hand to help her rise. Helping someone up—me, of all people! The absurdity struck me as I realized that I had no reason to refuse this request. Princess herself should harbor no objections, and Fermina had decreed that we were not to evade Rascal. With the rest of the day ahead, my only task was to draft a will ensuring that the sisters would inherit sufficient funds for me to indulge in shopping. Surely, Princess should appreciate that I was keeping myself occupied in a manner both dignified and harmless.

  Although I knew the path to the art room, I allowed Rascal to lead the way. Upon entering, it was precisely as Princess had left it—a canvas poised before a stool, facing the center of the room. Amusingly, a lone black stocking laid on the carpet, forgotten by some absent-minded soul, its owner never having returned to claim it.

  “You drew this, right?” Rascal asked, her curiosity piqued as she studied the rough sketch of Raiya. Princess had outlined the figure and begun rendering the hair in paint. “It’s not so bad. Say…” Rascal tiptoed closer, resting the back of her head against Princess’s shoulder—a gesture that, despite myself, I found comforting—and looked up with mischief in her eyes. “What is this I’m hearing about you taking nude painting?” her wry smile was full of childish malice. “Is this what you were drawing here? Someone was here with you, posing?”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Momentary madness,” I borrowed Princess’s words. “I was bored,” I shrugged.

  “Oh, you’re not getting away this easy!” she giggled. In the gloom that had settled over Highsummit Manor due to recent events, this spirited young Lady returning to her former self was a welcome reprieve. “You’re going to have to tell me everything, Aufelia!”

  Rascal’s hunger for ‘juicy details’, as she referred to them, was insatiable, but her company was rarely a burden. Few interactions with her were unenjoyable. She positioned herself precisely where the maid who had disrobed had once stood, while I prepared a fresh canvas, still marveling at how strong and dexterous Princess’s body was as I set to painting.

  I concocted a little tale, one Rascal would surely find amusing, about my supposed motives for summoning a model. I fabricated a story of intrigue, suggesting that the maid was scheming to steal away the cook’s aide—who had been supplying me with tartarian shortcakes. The act of making her undress in a place where just about anyone could walk in, I argued, was more a political maneuver, laden with suspense, than any genuine artistic pursuit. It was, in essence, a warning. The next time she dared cross me, I would hide a knife under her pillow—a common trope in tales of subtle threats and whispered assassination.

  I made certain that my fabrication was painfully obvious, lest any misunderstanding arise, yet Rascal was doubled over with laughter the entire time I spoke. Occasionally, her mirth compromised the pose she was holding for me, but I could not bring myself to mind. Her joy was contagious, and it made me profoundly happy. I had always yearned to jest with this spirited youth, to engage in lighthearted banter, but in the past, I could only muster carefully measured words, spoken with agonizing deliberation. Despite my best efforts, I had never succeeded in delivering a joke with any semblance of humor. Worse still, when Rascal noticed I was trying to amuse her, she would force a laugh at my pitiful attempts, and the disappointment would sink me into a mire of frustration.

  Once her curiosity had been sated, Rascal demanded an explanation as to why Princess—me, for the time being—had refused to bathe with her, only to then go in alone. I deflected with a quip about avoiding underwater flatulence, and she laughed it off, which I took as a sign that she had forgiven Princess for the perceived slight.

  These were merely two examples among many. Our conversations meandered through tangents, and I found myself delighting in her company. This lively girl was more entertaining than even the freshest of books, and I mostly contented myself with listening. I had never before conversed with—or heard—someone speak so much in a single sitting. Eventually, after prolonged interaction, I would inevitably grow weary and need to request rest, regardless of whether I was conversing with a powerful magian whom I might never have the chance to meet again. Rascal, with her undying optimism and peculiar outlook on life, was a refreshing presence. Her naivety, while occasionally worrisome, only evoked in me a primal urge to protect this precious, innocent happy girl from the cruelties hidden in Ekidash.

  Princess’s hands were remarkably easy to use. They did not tremble, nor did they tire after mere moments. They bore none of my deformities—no knots, no warts—and the fingers responded to my every command with an agility that was nothing short of astonishing. Had I possessed such hands while drawing sigils and oaths in my chamber, the task would have been infinitely easier. On occasion, I would run out of paint and need to… reload? What is it called when a palette is refilled? However that is called, it was a necessary action, but even then, not one drop of paint fell where it should not have. The nimbleness of Princess’s fingers allowed me to multitask with ease, to perform complex maneuvers, and to shift positions while painting and conversing with Rascal, all with scarcely any demand on my concentration.

  “How did you suddenly become so funny?” Rascal asked, now more composed, doing her best to maintain the pose of a dignified young lady, her small hands clasped together before her, chin held high.

  “Am I the funny one? You should look at your face. Good thing that I am here to immortalize it!”

  “If you do anything to my face on that painting, I’m going to let you have it!” she falsely threatened. “But Aufelia, seriously… you’re a lot easier to talk to right now. You almost remind me of… of someone else.”

  How regrettable that I was unable to admit how deeply her compliment touched me. Instead, I applied a few final strokes to the canvas and declared it finished. “There! It is done… for now. We should take a break.”

  “About time! My feet are killing me!” she exclaimed, shaking out her legs as she made her way towards me. I was not entirely pleased with the result, but I supposed it would suffice for the time being. I turned the easel to allow her a better view.

  “Well?” I could not help but feel a touch of anticipation for her opinion, as embarrassing as it was. I felt like a child, eager to hear praise for a first attempt, even if it was a lie.

  “A-Aufelia…? You painted this?” Rascal was strangely puzzled, frowning.

  That was not the reaction I had hoped for. True, I expected to improve with time as I learned to better control Princess’s muscles, but even with my lowest expectations, I had assumed that the figure of Rascal in a pretty dress, illuminated by candlelight, was recognizable.

  “You do not like it,” I was unable to conceal the disappointment in my voice. I glanced at Princess’s hands, still smudged with paint, and felt the dull ache in our thumb and index finger.

  “This is incredible! I am keeping it! Can I keep it? Can I? Can I?” Rascal began bouncing excitedly.

  “There is no need to pretend,” I sighed, knowing she was trying to spare my feelings. With Rascal, it was the first reaction that mattered. Her initial response had been one of confusion and concern; everything else was a facade. I had hoped that as Princess, I would not have to endure this charade any longer.

  “Pretend? Who’s pretending? This is… the best painting I’ve ever seen!” For a moment, I almost believed her act. Almost.

  It was not a large painting—perhaps half a stride by three sevenths. We called for a servant, who washed his hands and carefully carried it for us. Rascal did an admirable job of treating the painting as though it were a precious artifact, insisting we handle it with the utmost care. It had to be left outside our room, as when we knocked, Fermina was already in her sleeping gown and did not wish to be seen by a male servant. Once he departed, Rascal and I carried it inside ourselves.

  Fermina did not seem upset that we had slipped away without her noticing, and she greeted us warmly upon our return, curious about what we were carrying. Rascal, however, forbade me from revealing the painting just yet and instead insisted on making a spectacle of its unveiling. She guided Fermina to sit on her bed, then hurried about the room, lighting every candlestick she could find. Once the room was aglow, she positioned Fermina in a corner and turned the painting over, slowly spinning it so that the image of Rascal’s upper body could be revealed.

  “Aufelia painted this! Can you believe it?” Rascal gushed with her distinctive cheer.

  Fermina examined the painting, then looked at Rascal with a warm smile before turning to Princess, who I had wearing an abashed and expectant expression. Even a polite compliment from Fermina would mean the world to me.

  To my surprise, Fermina’s lips curled into a sly smile—something I had not seen her do before. “Very funny, Riatna,” she said, her tone dripping with playful disbelief. “I did not see Lord Revier at the sun’s prayer or supper this evening, but he is known to be… somewhat eccentric at times. I assume this is his work?”

  ‘Lord Revier’ was a charitable way to refer to Malvus Revier, the formerly landed—thus no longer a Lord—Baron of Oak. Though I was not fully apprised of recent events, I knew that his title had been rescinded due to internal conflicts in the duchy over mismanagement of funds. Since then, Malvus Revier had wandered from court to court, including our own, seeking audiences with anyone who would listen, hoping to rally support for his son’s claim to his former lands. After ten years of fruitless efforts, the last I had heard, he had still not succeeded. Though he may not have been a great steward, Malvus Revier was, at the very least, a magnificent painter—and, according to rumor, a fearsome swordsman, a seddeveri. He had introduced himself to me in my chambers and had greeted me many more times upon his subsequent arrivals, often choosing to spend his Summers with us.

  Fermina had just compared the work she held in her hands to that of Malvus Revier. A simpering smile crept across my face, and it stubbornly refused to leave.

  “No! It wasn’t Lord Revier!” Rascal annoyingly whinged, stomping. “It was Aufelia! I was there! She did it from start to finish!” she pointed at me.

  “That is a very nice story,” Fermina said, her tone still teasing. I did not recognize this playful side of her. She patted Rascal’s head, further irritating her. “Or would be if not for the fact that even without a background, a painting like this takes several sessions to finish. Most of those will last longer than what you, my dears, were gone for. There is no way a painter can draw you like this in a single evening, I am afraid,” she explained.

  “But she really di-ee-ee-id!” Rascal’s voice wavered as she bounced up and down in frustration, her tiny frame trembling with dissatisfaction.

  “It is alright if you don’t want to tell me,” Fermina giggled at her little sister’s tantrum. “Take it to the art room tomorrow before Lord Revier notices it is gone. He is working on the lower body and may want to add more details. I know you wanted to show it to me, but you should have asked for his permission.”

  Rascal growled and threw herself to bed.

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