Cameron To Candy

Candy almost had more time behind her than in front of her concerning the completion of the ministry list. At least the one based on her marriage date. The reality of this has started to weigh on her. So, she signed up for one of the many classes she was expected to pass prior to the year's end, the one for the Curtsey Count System (CCS).

The CCS was part of the overall metrics that the ministry tracked for women. In fact, it started as early as five years old. Fortunately, the minors were not punished for low scores. They merely weren't privy to some special rewards. The CCS was largely hated by the women of Paddlewick, however, as it seemed to be tied to extra petty results. For one, if a woman's score was below a certain point, she was last in raffles for public spaces, such as the good portion of the bath house, or front seats at concerts. But worse yet was the dessert. If one got a score under sixty-five percent, it meant no desserts for the week! A petty but poignant reminder to follow the system.

The Civic Obedience Hall smelled like lavender floor polish, if the lavender had been grown in a high-stress environment under the threat of being whipped if it didn’t sway in the wind in the proper way.

Candy stepped inside, shoes squeaking on wax tile. She spotted the instructor, a woman with a steel bun and a clipboard that looked like it graded souls, and forgot to curtsy. The clipboard practically glowed red. She winced and kept walking. She took her seat as the instructor stood to step out. There were still a few minutes before the start of the class.

Two women were already seated on hard Ministry benches, arranged like offenders in a gallery of failed posture. Candy sat beside one who looked like she'd been born in a corset and raised on lemon juice. The one behind her had frazzled hair and a strained expression on her face.

She tried small talk. The first girl looked at her with disdain, then turned her attention to a book she’d brought.

“Huh,” can you believe that chick?” Candy asked the second girl.

“Shhhhh! They don’t like us to talk in these classes without being called on!” The girl admonished in a quick and strained voice.

“Uh…” Candy looked around. “The class hasn’t started yet… and the instructor isn’t here right now.”

“They’re always watching,” the girl, now quite pale, whispered in response.

“Okay,” Candy thought, “This woman needs to relax a bit.”

That’s when the doors burst open.

A peach-colored blur tripped across the threshold, tangled in the strap of her own satchel. Her headband flew one way, her shoe another, as she crashed to the ground, and rolled across the classroom like a pink tumbleweed.

“Sorry! Hi! Oh, I love the sconces! They’re 18th century, right? Don’t mind me! I’m fine.”

“Are you okay?!” Candy asked, shooting up from her desk, looking over with genuine concern.

The girl scrambled upright, standing at what Candy would guess 5'9, maybe even 5'10, collected both her dignity and her shoe, and grinned at Candy like they were old friends.

“Yeah, happens all the time. I’m what my Papa calls 'upright impaired'. I’m Beatrix!” she chirped, dropping onto the desk beside Candy. “I think I’m supposed to be here. I got a scroll that said, quote: ‘Final Tier One Opportunity Before Escalation.’ That’s bad, right?”

Candy stared. “You’re here for curtsy infractions? Are you... a trouble girl, too?”

Beatrix shook her head. “No, I’m a good girl! Or I try to be. I’m mostly here for falling... and also gluing. One time, I tried to curtsy while holding a freshly painted gratitude plaque, and I glued my knees to the top of the table. Papa was furious. He says I'm single-handedly funding the kingdom's correction bench maintenance budget. But this time it wasn’t my fault. I stopped to curtsey to a ministry official, but I slipped on a banana peel. I swear it was right out of a newspaper cartoon! The guy didn’t even ask if I was ok. He just went right to giving me a ticket! Can you believe it?”

“Yeah, I had something like that happen once…” Candy said, recalling the incident with the flying chocolate and the smuck ministry officer who'd called it assault by dessert. “So…You’re not married?”

“Oh heavens no,” Beatrix beamed. “Can you imagine the damage I’d do with wifely household authority? I’m just here so Papa doesn’t get fined again. If I pass the class, they’ll waive the last series of fines.’” Candy tried not to smile. She failed. Beatrix leaned in conspiratorially. “Are you married?”

Candy hesitated. “...Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“It’s complicated, but yeah, I’m married. It’s a forced marriage. I’m from the trouble girl program.”

Beatrix nodded, like that made perfect sense, and it did, more or less, in their world.

“Let’s survive this together,” she said brightly. “Unless I fall into a hymn stand again.”

Candy laughed. “Well, I don’t see any hymn stands, but there’s a bunch of ministry-printed etiquette pamphlets.”

“Yeah, that’ll do!” Beatrix cackled.

From the front of the room, the clipboard snapped shut. The instructor had returned.

“Welcome to Curtsey Training,” said the instructor. “My name is Matron Gloriana Spinestra Whipcott. When I call your name, please say present." She went through the room, marking those in attendance.

"Candice Elwood."

"Present," Candy replied. "Though everyone calls me Candy, if that's alright, Ma'am."

"Noted," the instructor acknowledged, then quickly moved on. When she was satisfied all was in order, she continued to the next step.

"Please stay seated during the written exam: Curtsy Theory and Situational Eye Contact. No fidgeting. No sighing. Any sarcasm and tone infractions will be noted. Now, stand facing the flag and recite the Paddlewickian anthem.”

Beatrix stood instantly. Her foot caught the bench. She tipped sideways like a sapling in a stiff wind, arms windmilling. Candy caught her halfway down.

“Thank you,” Beatrix whispered, grinning as she straightened.

“I like you,” Candy muttered. “You make me look graceful.”

***

The lecture had begun the first stage in the Curtsey class. The Curtsey Count System (CCS) was a quarter of wives' metrics, and helped determine their current status in society. While Candy had been required to follow procedure, the score technically hadn't fed into her scores yet, and wouldn't until the year mark of her marriage. She'd need to be ready.

The instructor paced once, slow and deliberate, heels clicking like punctuation marks. She stopped beneath the banner of the Civic Obedience Hall and lifted her clipboard.

“Today’s focus,” she said, “is the Curtsey Count System, CCS. This is about elegance and accuracy. Curtseys are measured, categorized, and counted. They reflect your standing, your awareness, and your willingness to meet expectations.”

She tapped the board. A chalk diagram was there of a woman sketched in clean lines, knees bent at varying depths.

“Think of curtseys as existing on a scale,” she continued. “Or, if that word troubles you, think of it as a ladder. Each rung is more formal than the last. You do not leap rungs. You climb them, deliberately.”

Candy shifted her weight. Beatrix leaned forward, fascinated. The nervous girl looked like she was about to pass out.

“At the base,” the instructor said, “is the Courtesy Dip. Barely a bend. Ankles close, eyes lowered briefly. Used mostly for politeness toward neighbors, shopkeepers, and men of equal civic rank to your household. Anything more is performative. Not doing so is considered inconsiderate but not technically required. You will get bonus points for it, though.”

She marked it with chalk.

“Next, the Acknowledgment Curtsey. Deeper bend, hands placed, head lowered until permission to rise is implied. This is for officials, instructors, and clergy of high gods. Most of you fail this one by rushing.”

The frazzled woman behind Candy swallowed audibly.

“Above that,” the instructor went on, “is the Formal Household Curtsey. This is used for your husband in public settings, or for men whose authority supersedes his temporarily. High ministry positions, nobles of upper standing such as the Duke of Featherton. Knees bend, spine straight, pause held until addressed. The count matters here.”

Candy muttered, “Of course it does.”

Beatrix elbowed her, gently but with feeling.

“There are ceremonial curtseys,” the instructor said, “which you will learn later. Those involve full drops, extended holds, and situational modifiers. You are not ready. Do not attempt them. I will know.”

She turned, eyes sharp.

“You will also note,” she added, “that context changes expectation. A curtsey given on Rodday is not the same as one given on Wivesday. Mood, location, witnesses, all of it matters. This is why you have a glossary.”

She held up a thin booklet.

“Terms, examples, diagrams. If you do not understand a word, look it up. Guessing counts as negligence.”

A hand shot up. It was Beatrix.

“Yes?” the instructor asked, already tired.

“So,” Beatrix began, earnest as sunshine, “if you’re halfway between the Courtesy Dip and the Acknowledgment one, like if you mean respect but not, um, a lot of respect, is that allowed or do you just pick one and hope?”

The room went very still.

The instructor considered her. Then, surprisingly, she nodded.

“That,” she said, “is a real question. And the answer is no. Halfway is not a category. Indecision reads as defiance or incompetence. Choose the higher form if unsure. Over-respect is forgiven. Under-respect is corrected.”

Beatrix nodded vigorously, scribbling notes. Candy raised her hand, slower, more cautious.

“Yes,” the instructor said, suspicious.

“If someone tells you afterward you picked the wrong one,” Candy asked, “does that retroactively count against you, or is it just a note for next time?”

A pause.

“Correction is logged when issued,” the instructor said. “So yes, it counts against you. You will get partial points, however. Twenty-five percent less deducted from your scores if you curtsey but incorrectly.”

Candy lowered her hand.

Beatrix leaned over and whispered, “The ladder analogy makes sense. I’m bad at ladders too, but at least I know which way is up.”

Candy snorted before she could stop herself.

The clipboard clicked once.

“Miss Elwood,” the instructor said without turning, “that sound was unnecessary.”

Candy straightened. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” the instructor replied. “Now. Everyone, take a ten-minute break. When I return, we will take the exam.

As she left the chamber, the other girls began poring over their notes. Beatrix, on the other hand, proudly announced, “I brought snacks!”

Candy glanced sideways. “Oh?”

With cheerful disregard, Beatrix rummaged into her bag and pulled out an actual glass jar: plump green pickles floating in brine. “Would you like one?”

Candy hesitated. “Well, yes, but… there’s no men here.”

Beatrix frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Oookaaaay…”

She twisted the lid once. Pop! The seal broke, with Beatrix cradling the jar nonchalantly. “So…” she started, taking a pickle, “you only eat pickles when men are around?”

Candy flushed deep red. “No! No, I mean… I didn’t mean… I just meant that, uh, it’s hard for, you know, the jar thing…”

Beatrix stared blankly. “The jar thing?”

Candy stared at the floor, shoulders slouched. She sighed. “Nothing. I’d love a pickle. Thank you.”

Beatrix leaned forward, handing one over. She was already chewing, brow knit in thought. It wasn’t judgmental, just the honest confusion of a woman who’d never needed a man to open a jar for her in her life, or anything else for that matter.

Candy took a bite and chewed slowly, watching the other girls stretch and fidget. The moment hung in the air like a dislodged idea that was getting too big for its britches. It occurred to her that it might make sense. Beatrix may be a disaster in heels, but she was tough enough to survive all her accidents. She didn’t look it, but she was oddly strong; perhaps in more ways than one.

“So,” Candy began, “Where are you from?”

“Oh, I’m in Bailiwick. I just came into town for this class.”

“Ah… gotcha," was all Candy managed to reply with. Bailiwick was one of the cities that circled the capital and thus had some status. However, it was known as the least notable of any of those cities. It was a place where people of stature started as they climbed the ladder of success, or conversely, where they ended up on the way out of influence. Few stayed simply because they liked the town.

“My Papa's a general,” Beatrix continued, a bit of pride in her voice.”

“Oh? What’s his name?” Candy asked.

“His lordship, General Alaric Thimblewhip.”

“Wait, seriously? Thee General Thimblewhip? The arms master?”

“Yep! That’s him. You know of him?”

“Oh,” Candy said, choosing her words carefully now. “Yeah, by reputation. My cousin said he was the best instructor in the military. Fair, even keel, talented. He’s the only one who ever beat my cousin in knife throwing.”

“Awww, high praise,” Beatrix beamed. “I’ll tell him you said that. What’s your cousin's name?”

“Cameron. Cameron Alister. But wait, I heard he’d retired. Forcibly.”

“Well, sort of,” Beatrix replied, dragging her words. “The truth is, it’s my fault. He’s been put on leave from active duty until I get under control or I marry and become another man’s problem. I keep causing too much damage when I have accidents. I’m trying though, I really am!” She looked a little pained as she said it.

“I… believe you,” Candy answered, patting her back in sympathy.

“He’s doing a bit of consulting work though. He’s the military liaison overseeing a scry-orb project the Halberdine-Conuter Consortium is developing for the ministry.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “It’s not a secret but still don’t spread this around. They’re creating floating scry orbs. The idea is they can fly around cities so the ministry can see what’s happening in real time. You know, to keep everyone safe.”

Candy felt her stomach drop. The color drained from her face. Magic spying devices so the ministry could see everything from above. They weren’t watched enough already? She’d pray to the goddess of privacy that project never panned out. But Beatrix seemed to not see the harm.

“Oh, wow. That’s quite a thing,” she managed to grind out, a few seconds too slow for polite conversation. “So, uh," she said, slowly, searching for a new topic. "The instructor seems familiar. Do you recognize her from anything?"

Beatrix's face lit up at that. "Oh, oh yes! I almost forgot! Matron Gloriana! She was the one who the Whanderwack paddled in the square the week he was born! Remember her yelling 'I will allow this!' or something as she got her arse smacked?"

"That was her? Wait, no, it's the wrong name, isn't it?"

"No no! She married recently, new last name."

"Oh gods, okay, do you have a scrypad with you? Find the clip! I've got to see that again!"

Beatrix fished around her purse and eventually pulled out a flat crystal rectangle known as the scrypad. A few moments later a video was playing. It was one of six days of chaos after a mage had attempted to create a paddle that would spank women for elderly or tired men. It had, of course, sprouted legs and arms and run amok in the capital, randomly spanking anyone it came across with one of two magic paddles it stole from the Paddle Makers' Guild. Matron Gloriana Willoughby-Crimp (as she was named then) attempted a parley, badly. Well, it was more of a chastisement, and it did not go well for her.

The video played: “You are a rogue implement!” Gloriana declared, pointing her disciplinary ledger at the Whanderwack. "You must stand down in the name of order and the Queen!"

As could have been predicted, the paddle paddled her. She was bent over its lap, so much lap as a paddle had, and her dress raised up revealing her black thong. The crowd gasped. She gasped. Then she cleared her throat, and between swats, she yelled, "Matron Gloriana permits this once! Ow! Ow!!" in an attempt to save her dignity, which rather did the opposite.

Candy and Beatrix laughed uncontrollably. "Oh gods. Gods. I can't breathe." Candy weezed between gales of laughter.

“I’ll give her this,” Beatrix managed, “that’s a pretty well toned arse!”

"Play it again!" Candy demanded, wiping a tear from her eye.

***

The room was dead silent save for the furious scratching of quills on parchment. As time neared the end, one by one, each woman stood and walked to the front to turn in her paper.

No one spoke. Beatrix held her pen like it was holy. Candy just crossed her arms and braced for the worst. The instructor finished grading them, then stood to pass them back.

Candy’s landed neatly in front of her.

Question 1: ✔️

Question 2: ✔️

Question 3: ✔️

Question 4: ✔️

Question 5: ✔️

Bonus Question: ✖️

(“You used sarcasm in a reflective space.”)

She sighed. “Figures.”

Beatrix’s test fluttered down like it had been embarrassed to be seen with her.

It looked like it had been marked up by a furious calligrapher. There were hearts drawn in green and angry Ministry sigils glowing in red. One question had a frowny face. One had a single word scrawled beneath: “HOW?”

Beatrix squinted.

“Ooh, I got two right!”

Candy leaned over. “Which ones?”

“The one about street encounters,” Beatrix said proudly. "And the one about royalty. That’s almost a pass!”

Candy smiled in spite of herself. “You are going to fall during the spoon test.”

“Probably onto the spoon test.” Beatrix agreed.

The instructor snapped again. All conversation died.

“Prepare for Module Two,” she said. “Practical Application: Tiered Curtsy Demonstration." A low groan rippled through the benches and died immediately. “You will respond to spoken scenarios,” the Matron Whipcott continued. “You will perform the appropriate curtsey, correct tier, correct depth, correct hold. No embellishment. No improvisation.” She tapped her clipboard. “Hands empty. Feet grounded. Balance is your responsibility.”

Beatrix whispered behind her hand, “That feels targeted at me.”

Candy didn’t respond. She was already trying to remember which knee bent first when the floor was stone instead of wood.

To be continued...