Cameron To Candy

“Hey,” Candy said, trying for casual, “I, uh, heard you got a public correction the other day. Is that true?”

Mona’s cheeks flushed a warm pink. “Oh, that. Yes, well, it was a minor issue…” she said, eye fogging over for a moment in recollection of the events of the previous Rodday...

Two days earlier…

The market was loud in the way Mona liked best, busy but friendly. The sound of boots on stone, carts creaking, vendors calling out prices that everyone already knew by heart. It was a good afternoon for errands. The air was cool enough that Millie wasn’t fidgeting, warm enough that Mona didn’t feel rushed.

Millie skipped at her side, clutching a little paper flag she’d been given at the ribbon stall. It trailed behind her like a banner.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Mona said, smiling. “You’ll trip if you don’t watch where you’re going.”

Millie corrected immediately, slowing her steps. “Sorry, Mama.”

“That’s all right. Thank you for fixing it.”

They moved on, the basket gradually filling with soap salts, dried apples, and a new stitching needle Mona had been meaning to replace. She checked the little leather purse at her hip out of habit, counting silently. Everything looked fine. Comfortable, even.

It was when they passed the pastry cart that Mona hesitated. The buns were still warm. She could see the steam when the baker lifted the cloth, could smell the sugar and spice. Millie noticed at the same moment, her eyes widening.

“Mama,” she said carefully, not whining, just hopeful. “May we?”

Mona considered. They’d had a long walk. Millie had been good all afternoon and there was still a little room left, she was almost certain of it.

“One,” Mona said, already reaching for a coin. Then, after a beat, “We can share.”

Millie beamed. “Thank you!”

They ate as they walked, sticky fingers carefully wiped on a handkerchief Mona kept just for such occasions. Millie chattered about a friend from school and whether her teacher liked blue ribbons more than green. Mona listened, nodding, half‑present.

It wasn’t until she felt the purse again, lighter than it should have been, that the cold realization settled.

She stopped walking.

Millie took two more steps before noticing. “Mama?”

Mona opened the purse fully this time. Counted. Recounted. She had gone over. Not by much. Just enough to matter. Her stomach sank. This wasn’t the first time she’d lost track. She’d told herself she’d be more careful. She hadn’t been.

“Mama?” Millie asked again, quieter now.

“I made a mistake,” Mona said honestly. She closed the purse and straightened her shoulders. “We’ll be all right.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Her husband, Leonardo, spotted them from the far end of the square, his pace unhurried as he approached. He took in the basket, the pastry wrapper, and Mona’s expression, all in a single glance. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Mona,” he said.

She turned to face him fully, chin lifted, hands folded neatly in front of her. “Husband.”

He glanced at Millie, then back to his wife. “Did you stay within your allowance?”

Mona swallowed once. “No, Sir.” There was no anger in his face; only concern, and something steadier beneath it.

“Oh, Mona,” he said, disappointment heavy in his voice.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she said clearly. “I’m ready to be corrected at your will.”

Millie’s hand slipped into Mona’s dress pocket, small fingers curling into fabric.

Mr. Laso nodded once. “Come with me.”

The correction bench stood near the center of the square, as most did. As they approached, the tone of the market shifted. Voices lowered, then resumed in that careful way people used when pretending not to watch.

A mother nearby placed her hands lightly on her daughter’s shoulders. “See, sweetheart? This is what happens when wives make mistakes. They’re corrected so they can do better.”

The little girl frowned. “Is she a bad girl?”

“Oh no,” the woman said quickly. “We don’t know that. Everyone makes mistakes. The difference between a bad girl and a good one is trying, and letting your husband help you learn.”

A few teenage boys lingered at the edge of the square, curiosity poorly disguised. One laughed under his breath. A vendor snapped a towel at them sharply. “Move along. This isn’t for you.”

There were whisperers too, as there always were.

“Is that Mona Lasso?”

“She always seemed so put together.”

“Well. Maybe she needed putting back together.”

Mona heard none of it directly. She didn’t need to. She knew the sounds, the hush, the rustle of skirts, the careful coughs. None of it mattered.

She guided Millie to stand where she could see clearly.

“Mama did something she wasn’t supposed to,” Mona said calmly, kneeling briefly to meet her daughter’s eyes. “So Papa is going to help me fix it. You watch how I behave.”

Millie nodded solemnly. Mr. Lasso flagged a ministry official down and asked him to stand next to Millie until they were done. The officer, a Captain Ramsbottom, offered a cheery smile and a tip of his cap.

Mona positioned herself as she had been taught. Posture perfect. Breathing even. When she counted, she counted clearly, without rushing, without tears. Each number was spoken with intention. Each was a promise. Mr. Lasso was invited by the standing guard to select an implement. He chose a white oak paddle with three holes drilled into it, the air flowing through helped speed the paddle, and increase the impact.

The first swat landed. It was in some ways the most jarring. Granted no damage had occurred yet, it hurt far less than others that would come, but the shock of it to the body was always notable.

“One Sir!”

Mr. Lasso put a steadying hand on the small of Mona’s back and took stock. Her posture was amazing; it always had been. Her quite grace had attracted her to him in the first place, all those years ago. Mona was in her early thirties. She’s always had a bit of a mothering personality. It was probably from having two younger siblings she’d helped care for.

They’d only had the one child so far, Millie, but they still hoped for another. The pregnancy had been mild, and she’d glowed all the way through it. And afterword, when the pregnancy weight started to come off, like many Paddlewickian women, a bit of the fat stayed on her buttocks and breasts, filling her out quite nicely. Her rump was the perfect heart shape. The thought titillated Mr. Lasso for just a moment before he remembered where he was, the solemness of the occasion, and the presence of his daughter. This wasn’t for him, and this time not even for Mona, it was for Millie to see how a proper Paddlewick marriage worked. She didn’t have to watch it all, but being present prepared her for the future.

“Four Sir! Five Sir!” she called out, clear and controlled. Her posture was perfectly maintained. She’d perfected staring at nothing in particular while receiving her corrections. This was good, as she had avoided catching the gaze of the awkward teenage boys there to catch a show, the judgmental looks of matrons judging her, and all the other onlookers.

Millie watched dutifully. She saw her mother's perfect posture, her compliance to Millie's father, and the way he grounded her with a steady hand. She heard some of the whispers from the crowd. The jeers, the judging, the assessing. Though Paddlewick’s philosophy was be corrected, then let it go. The correction was not forgotten, but it did alter and absolve the maladaptive behavior, and was generally not to be spoken of again. But still, it could be embarrassing for a daughter to have her mother corrected publicly.

“Hey,” Officer Ramsbottom said to Millie, sensing her apprehension, “I have a niece your age. She loves watching clips of Sir Melon. Have you seen him?”

Millie looked up, eyes full of hope and all the rest of her filled with nerves. She nodded.

“I thought you might have.” I have my scrypad here, actually. Would you like to watch some with me?”

Millie hesitated, then smiled and nodded. Officer Ramsbottom activated his scrypad and images of Sir Melon, the bizarre Cleavendale knight who also happened to be a sentient watermelon with vine legs and a red cape that inexplicably blew continuously, regardless of wind levels, popped up. The pair watched and laughed together at old clips of the melon trying to drink hot coco without any hands.

Meanwhile, Mona’s correction had progressed.

“Thirty Sir! Thirty One Sir!” The paddle smashed across her bottom, sending a wave of throbbing pain throughout her cheeks and backside. The clothes helped dull the impact, but after thirty the damage was building. She’d definitely have a bruise when this was done.

“Forty-three Sir!” she called out, her hands gripping the bench, knuckles whitening.

And so it went.

“Forty-seven Sir!” She’d gone into taking controlled breathes. Mr. Lasso had noted it and was waiting a few extra seconds between each swat.

“Fivifty Sir!” she yelped out, doing her best to keep a steady voice. When it was finished, she stood straight again, smoothing her dress.

“Thank you for correcting me,” she said firmly. No sooner had she said the phrase then a slight glow showed through her dress, just for a moment, at arse level. One of the magic abilities worked into her particular marital tattoo was that it glowed upon the correct completion of a correction or maintenance ritual.

When said ritual was complete, they walked back over to where they’d left their daughter, then crouched in front of her.

“Do you understand what happened?” he asked gently.

Millie nodded. “Mama did a bad thing.”

“She made a mistake,” he said. “And then?”

“She was corrected.”

“And now?”

Millie looked to her mother.

Mona smiled softly. “Now Papa has forgiven me,” she said. “And we won’t speak of it again. That’s how forgiveness works.”

Millie nodded. “Yes, Mama.”

As they resumed their walk, Mona took her daughter’s hand again, willing her steps to stay steady. The ache beneath her skirt pulsed with every motion, sharpest at first, then softening into a deep, familiar warmth. It hurt, but the pain settled into something quieter, something grounding. The glow that followed reminded her she had been seen, guided, cared for. Her back stayed straight. Her smile remained practiced. She began to drift in a fog.

Beside her, Millie swung their hands gently.

“Mama,” she said after a moment. “Someday I’ll be married too, right?”

“Yes,” Mona said, voice calm. “Many years from now.”

Millie squeezed her hand. “I hope my husband will be nice.”

Mona looked ahead as the market swallowed them back into its noise and color.

“I do too, sweetheart. And don’t worry. Your Papa won't let a man not right for you court you. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Millie considered this. She had no idea how accurate Mona’s statement was. In the future, Mr. Lasso was indeed extremely selective with Millie's suitors, to the point of exasperation for the poor young woman. She’d overhear him once, many years from then, while hiding up on the staircase. Mona was asking him to reconsider one young man that Millie liked, who’d recently requested courtship and whom Mr. Lasso had promptly dismissed. He would say, “No man in the Cone is good enough for my Millie. She’ll have to settle one day, but it wont be for that scraggly little sh…”

“Mama,” Millie said, after a moment of thought. “Do you think—”

“Now Mille,” Mr. Lasso cut in, kindly but firmly, “your mother is glowing.”

Millie looked between them. “She is?”

“Yes,” he said. “And that means she needs a little quiet right now, so she can process her forgiveness properly.”

In Paddlewick, this state was well known. After a correction or maintenance, a wife’s body released a flood of endorphins, part chemistry, part conditioning, part ritual reinforcement. The sensation was called the post-glow: a calm, floaty softness that encouraged bonding, compliance, and emotional reset. It was considered healthy, and often cited as proof that the correction had been properly received.

Mona was well within it now.

“I know you have questions,” Mr. Lasso continued gently, steering them toward home, “and we’ll answer them all. But that will be later. Right now, let’s give Mama time. How about we get you home, hmm? Maybe a nice tea.”

Millie smiled without hesitation. “Yes, Papa.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close, his other arm wrapped around Mona’s waist, keeping her steady at his side. Mona felt held, guided forward, thoughts drifting softly as the evening settled in.

They walked the rest of the way home like that, quiet and together, noting the cool air, the evening mist coming in, the soft sound of feet on the cobblestones. Her senses were muted in a way, but a thought made its way through the fog of Mona’s mind: the oral apology would need to be given within twenty-four hours.

...To be continued?