Cameron To Candy

On the second Wivesday of the month, the Paddlewick Proper Literary Society assembled as they always did, full of wine and occasionally more sharp opinions than polite company allowed for. This month’s selection had been particularly dubious: a so-called romance “based on true events.”

The subject was Travis Tithe, son of the legendary Sir Taylor Tithe, royal tailor to the Queen of Cleavendale, and his pursuit of Kasey Bustleton, heiress of Cleavendale’s richest family. The Bustletons' patriarch, Braxton, unimpressed by Travis, had demanded the traditional proof of worth. Travis was sent on a quest so perilous it bordered on cruel: to retrieve the Brassiere of Everlasting Support, one of seven relics born when high gods were turned into garments during the cataclysmic event known as The Great Unraveling.

That part, as far as anyone knew, was accurate. The relic had been overseen by the Wraith Queen, and when she tempted Travis with her daughter’s hand and a kingdom besides, he declined. His loyalty to Kasey shone through, and the Brassiere reacted to that loyalty, binding itself to him. Candy had heard this version before, and Marcus himself had even met Travis once, back before Travis had claimed the brassier, describing him as “nice enough” and “down to earth.”

But the novel… well? Pocket pigs, living mannequins, a mysterious golden eye, and slave-maids in scandalous outfits had made their way into the tale. “Author’s license,” the Society agreed, though not without sighs. There seemed to be more smoldering looks and heaving bosoms than plot points, but that was expected in trashy romance novels. The real point of contention was stranger still: did Travis have to wear the divine bra to use its power?

Candy, Verna, Maeva, and even Clarisse sided with the sensible. The glowing golden thread-markings stitched across Travis’s arm were proof enough of binding. The relic’s support was divine, not physical; it flowed wherever he stood. When he and Kasey wed, it would bind to her as well, linking them for life, and possibly further.

But Tilda would not be moved. She argued for the third time that evening: “It has straps. Straps are meant to be worn.” I’m just saying. “

She imagined Travis, mid-twenties, solemnly fastening cups and hooks to ready himself for battle. She waved away questions of why no one had ever seen it on him, or why the markings existed if it required strapping on. “The gods must have made it that way,” she insisted.

“No,” came the counter. “The gods didn’t make it. One was made into it. He was made into it.”

That detail always made the room pause. It had been Girdan Everstay, god of loyalty and bearing, who unraveled into the Brassiere. Why a male god had become a bra was anyone’s guess. “Cosmic irony,” Maeva suggested. “Or perhaps the Cone has a sense of humor.”

Clarisse argued perhaps he’d been wearing one when the unmaking hit him. You know, that was just how he rolled. She had heard men in Cleavendale and Bellefemme do it. The suggestion sent a ripple of scandaled murmurs through the room.

Either way, the Society’s debate circled back again and again, straps versus scars, until the wine ran low and tempers ran warm.

As the debate wound down and the cordials slipped to their dregs, Verna Plumettle clapped her hands for order. “Before we adjourn, darlings, one note. Next month’s meeting will be postponed.”

There was an immediate chorus of protest. Tilda flopped back on her cushion like she’d been spanked by fate. Maeva arched a brow. Clarisse clutched her ribbon pillow tighter. Candy just narrowed her eyes.

“Why?” Maeva asked, clipped. “We always keep to the schedule.”

Verna spread her hands, all contrite hostess. “Because our shipment was stopped at the gate. Declared contraband.”

Tilda perked up instantly. “What book was so scandalous?”

Verna gave a rueful little smile. “Consorts of the Court. It’s a Bellefemme print.”

Maeva sighed. “Of course it was.”

Candy tilted her head. “Consorts?”

“Reverse harem,” Verna explained, savoring the phrase. “There’s a queen at the center, cultivating her court of men. Each consorts different; a story teller, would be warrior, worker, one a pampered little thing, but all hers. It has political alliance, intimate intrigue, and delightful slow-burn tension. Eh, anyway, I’m probably not describing it well enough. I’ve only heard summaries, but it’s very popular across the border.”

Clarisse’s cheeks glowed. “So the queen… chooses?”

“Every one,” Verna said. “And they are written beautifully. I hear the men are well written so you really root for them when the spicy stuff comes… Bellefemme loves to put men on the runway before it puts them in the bed, if you get my meaning,” she said with a wink.

Tilda let out a low whistle. “No wonder the Ministry wouldn’t let it through.”

Candy leaned forward, braid sliding, expression more thoughtful than usual. She still had no romantic interest in men, none of the blushing over chests and gazes that seemed to captivate her peers, but the idea of a woman in command, choosing her own household, directing loyalty instead of receiving orders… that was a kind of power she could appreciate. She hid the flicker of intrigue behind her cup, but it lingered.

“So how do they decide?” she asked, sharper than intended. “Do the guards thumb through the pages themselves, or does it get passed up to the Ministry for judgment?”

Verna shrugged, a dangerous little sparkle in her eyes. “Officially? The Ministry. Unofficially? Depends on which gate sergeant wants a story while on duty.:”

A ripple of laughter, half-nervous, passed around the circle. Contraband was no joke in Paddlewick. Still, the thought of two stone-faced guards leafing through Bellefemme romance novels was hilarious.

Tilda tipped her glass. “I’d pay good copper to see Hardtock and Birchley reading it.”

Verna smirked. “Don’t forget Clauseleaf!”

That was enough to set the room murmuring. They collectively picture it…

At the South Gate, Sergeant Hardtock stood like iron with the book in hand. “I am glad the author allows young Suzo to train,” he said briskly. “Lad sounds capable. Discipline matters.”

Corporal Birchley shifted, clearing his throat. “Yes, Sarge. And… well… I admire that the author doesn’t, um, overly sexualize him. Given his age it would have read badly, like some high school girl's fantasy writing.”

Clauseleaf, the sentient purple birch tree rooted next to the gate, rustled, leaning over the crate where his copy of the book lay open. “Hey, no spoilers! I can’t reach the pages. You have to turn them for me!”

Birchley dutifully bent, flipping the leaf-thin paper forward.

The fantasy faded back into the parlor, where silence held for a heartbeat. Then Candy snorted. Verna broke into helpless giggles. Clarisse wheezed into her ribbon pillow. Maeva tried to hold her composure and failed.

“Too ridiculous,” Tilda gasped in laughter, at last, wiping her eyes. “Far, far too ridiculous.”

And yet the laughter carried an unspoken question: in the Cone, was anything ever too ridiculous to be true? A year ago, she’d have said so. Then she was transformed into a woman, more or less, her cousin in law now worked under a cow therian, and a talking a purple tree had been deputized…

So, who really knew anymore?

Before disbanding for the night, the group decided on a workaround. Rather than not meet at all, they would write their own short story fictions and read them at next month's gathering. Candy had been a scribe and bookkeeper, so she knew her way around a quill, but she'd had not dabbled much in fiction. This could be interesting. She wondered, since it was just this small group, and it was just fiction after all, would a story about a man turning into a woman be acceptable?