It was the night on which the favorites of the King and Queen were run on the Bridle Path, along with the favorites of the more powerful members of the Court.

I stood at the door of the Bridle Path Hall where the glittering chariots were lined up, the various lords and ladies already mounted in them, and ponies stamping their booted feet ready to pull them, and the poor slaves chosen to be runners waited in line as well.

Rosalynd and Elena were instructing the grooms as they prepared the slaves, adjusting coiffed hair or braided hair, brushing the bushy locks of the boy slaves, and warning each and every one to run fast and hard.

“There is no escaping the paddle,” said Rosalynd to the little thing closest to her, “and if you pass the royal banquet table without putting on the very best show, you’ll find yourselves hung upside down in the gardens for the night.”

The little thing was Sybil, stunning dark-haired slave already well trained as a pony in the Queen’s Stables, but she seemed at quite a loss now, stripped of all her fine harnesses and ruthlessly exposed except for her boots.

Nothing chastens quite like the Bridle Path, I thought.

Behind her came the tall and supremely lovely Blanche, Tristan’s most attractive slave, and Tristan in his finest Court dress was already in the second chariot, ready to drive Blanche hard with the paddle for the frantic run of her life. Blanche had been run countless times and accepted her fate with downcast eyes, hands clasped to the back of her neck beneath her long hair, breasts heaving anxiously, though she was otherwise quite still.

Long ago, the girls had all had their hair braided, and we boys who had been run had had our hair combed back with oil.

But all slaves were ornamented now or they did not appear in the garden, and all lips and nipples were rouged or gilded, and hair was luxuriantly free.

Lord Stefan, behind a gorgeous gold leather mask adorned with rubies, stood waiting in third place. In the third chariot some distance away stood Dmitri, regal as ever, his blue eyes fixed on Stefan, though Stefan stood motionless with only the smallest twitch to the edge of his handsome mouth.

His punishment and training had been a great success, all knew. And several other members of the Court had since gone down on bended knee to Queen Beauty asking to accept “the Discipline of the Mask.”

Of course Beauty, gracious and loving in all things, had said she wanted to ponder the matter, but that she fully understood their wishes. She and her closest advisors would give immediate attention to this idea of the “Discipline of the Mask,” and she would have a decision very soon.

Was Stefan to become the first Disciple of the Mask? He was the lone such disciple tonight to be run on the Bridle Path.

I had my old memories of course of having been whipped along it near every day for the pleasure of Queen Eleanor (though she herself never whipped any slave on the Bridle Path; that was not for her) and always at what we called Festival Night. Now every night was Festival Night.

Stefan’s sometime slave Becca, now the Queen’s slave once more, who had seldom before been subjected to this ritual, stood waiting in fourth place. Dmitri had turned her into a gorgeous nymph and part of her bright shining hair was swept up and back into a thick silver buckle fitted with star garnets to reveal the special favor from the Queen with which she was now blessed. If Sybil pleased the Queen tonight, she would hereafter wear the buckle with the star garnets. And there were two other girls down the line so honored already.

Sweet Princess Lucinda, garbed in puce velvet, was already in her chariot to drive Becca. She flashed a loving smile on me when I caught her eye. A tall willowy figure with the most girlish smile, she would do an excellent job of it, of course, as she rode the chariot with the Queen’s crest. It was her keenest pleasure outside of presiding over the Queen’s Stables, and she drove one of the Queen’s favorites almost every night. She was one of those imperturbable mistresses who saw to every punishment with great efficiency and unbroken decorum, never raising her voice.

I saw no end of sumptuous breasts and lavish pubic hair, of shapely legs turned out in tight boots, or downcast eyes and wet cheeks. Most cocks were erect and glistening, balls oiled to shine in the light of torches and lanterns, and gilded nipples everywhere twinkled like stars.

Then there were Dmitri’s three darlings, Bertram, Kiera, and Barbara, all wearing his newly chosen signature jeweled buckles of gold and malachite. Would Stefan win such a buckle tonight?

Kiera and Bertram had run the Bridle Path many a time, and were only a little anxious, but Barbara was crying copious tears. She’d never been to Court before, ever. And though Dmitri could not return again and again to personally paddle all of his slaves along the path, he would double back to whip Barbara himself. I knew the terror she was experiencing now at the mere thought of his disapproval, how she trembled at the mere sound of Dmitri’s steel voice.

I remembered how Dmitri had come to love her when he first saw her, and he had already created in her a slave of dignity and infatuating submission.

It seemed to me Dmitri’s beauties lived in a delirium sustained by his capacity to frighten them and shame them which was as exquisite as any music ever played by horn or harp. His groom Fabien had been coming along as a household disciplinarian as well. Fabien’s style mirrored Dmitri’s style, and grooms of such personal will and force always fared well in the kingdom.

Dmitri did not so much as look at the others. The test for him tonight was Stefan, and his eyes were fastened to Stefan, but surely he was quite certain Stefan would not fail. Fabien stood against the wall watching Stefan also, as he’d apparently been told to do.

My eyes moved down the long row, casually inspecting others I knew by name and some I knew only by face and form.

There was juicy and curvaceous Cressida, another pony from the Queen’s Stables, with her flaming hair, crying softly as the grooms rubbed more rouge into her nipples and obviously coaxed her to stand up straight and proud. She had become fast friends with Sybil, in the stable yard at recreation. And the Queen favored them as a pair. But now Cressida was a quivering lily without the security of her customary bit and harnesses.

Then came Penryn, the sturdy and boyish slave of Prince Richard, who had never been brought up from the village before and was plainly very afraid. Prince Richard, who always cut a fine figure, was kissing Penryn and stroking his mop of yellow hair—a rare bit of mercy for a slave whom Richard drove relentlessly to be “as perfect” as any slave at Court, though Penryn spent most of his days in the village with his master, and was paddled in the Punishment Shops twice a day.

What was a special humiliation for most village slaves was daily life for Penryn because of Prince Richard’s duties, and he lived to please Richard, often subjected to the worst humiliations if he failed. Whenever I spied Penryn on the Public Turntable I turned to watch, and I was never disappointed. The tender whipping master of the Punishment Shop called Penryn his favorite “dumpling.”

After these and some others stood my own slave Valentine, sobbing bitterly, a precious gift given me by Dmitri who had bought Valentine from the village booksellers for the price of a precious volume of Horace.

Valentine had been bought for the village when he came to the kingdom. And had never dreamed he would become the slave of a prince. I found him sensitive and inviting in all ways, and loved that he cried unceasingly like an overflowing fountain. Blond hair, very pretty mouth. Almond skin. After the long boredom of belonging to a village scholar, he had found the ways of the Court terrifying in the beginning, cleaving to me when I walked him on a leash as if great peril might at any time befall him, but I had enjoyed training him, wiping his tears, pinching him, and making him jump, and he was polished enough now to be brought along with me when I went to dine alone with the Queen. Tonight, if he did well, he’d be bound to a cross in the gardens after and allowed to doze before adoring eyes. If he failed, he’d be hung on the stable wall with the bad slaves and punished and teased all night.

I wouldn’t drive the boy myself on the Bridle Path tonight. Elena was doing the honors as the ride in the chariot thrilled her and the husky boy pony pulling the chariot was one of her favorites, part of the King’s team—a punished pony who’d been promoted to a permanent pony on account of his great stamina.

At the very end of the present line—it would in the course of the night see many additions—stood César, the tall proud pony whom the King so loved.

I adored César. I was intrigued by César. I felt that his life story in the kingdom told us volumes about the minds and hearts of all slaves and that César ought to be studied in depth by those aspiring to be great masters and mistresses.

César had lived for two decades in the village stables, one of those slaves so attuned to pony life that no one ever thought he would be good for anything else. “Workhorse,” “plow horse,” those were terms used in the past for César. But the King, quite fascinated with César, had forced the slave to new heights.

Anyone could see why, and I certainly did, as César was not only extremely tall and powerfully built, but he had a face like a marble statue, just that perfect and just that large. He was one of those beings who looked splendid with his hair swept back from his forehead—indeed he had beautiful eyes and a beautiful forehead—and his hair was always brushed that way and with the forelocks gathered into a long thick braid to lie on the rest of his wavy mane as it fell to his shoulders.

But without the safety of his harnesses, and the butt plug and the horse tail, and without the comfort of the bit in his teeth, César was afraid.

This was the slave I’d drive tonight, and I went to him now. I walked back into the huge shadowy enclosure. Like all the structures of the new kingdom, it was a finely constructed building, and it was hung with many lanterns, and its soft earthen floor, so good for the slaves’ horseshoed boots, was swept immaculately clean.

I gave my handsome Valentine a kiss as I passed and then stood by César.

“What’s all this weeping?” I asked. He towered over me, standing there with his hands behind his neck, and his face was as beautiful as that of a woman, with his soft tearing blue eyes. “Come on, answer me, César,” I said. I poked him under the chin with the handle of my paddle.

“My prince, I’ve never . . . I . . . what if I fail?” Voices are very important when it comes to slaves, and César had a low, cultured, pleasing voice. Rumor had it that he had been a scholar in his early youth and much the prodigious scholar at that, yet he had taken to the pony life lustily and with utter abandon.

“Nonsense,” I said reprovingly. I poked at his chin again making him lift his head. “You’re not afraid of failing. You’ve been pulling carts for twenty years, and the King’s fastest chariots for some ten months. You’re in splendid condition. You could probably outrun the pony pulling the chariot tonight that carries me.”

“Oh, no, my lord,” he said, fighting his tears. “Your chariot tonight will be pulled by Brenn, the King’s new favorite, and he’s stronger even than I.”

“More nonsense,” I said. “He’s as strong as you, yes, but he’s not the King’s new favorite pony, and you’re to stop sulking at once. You put on a bad show tonight and Brenn just might become the King’s new favorite, don’t you realize that?”

I remembered him and when he came. He was not of royal birth, but of good gentry, sent to Queen Eleanor as a gift by parents who found his wit and verbal precocity annoying. She had scant interest in such slaves. Princes and princesses had interested her, and little else. And one look at this giant of a white-haired slave and she had condemned him to the village stables with a wave of her hand.

Of course he was not bigger than King Laurent. But he was as big, and that is saying something. And he was not merely beautiful, but he was pretty and fetching, and many at the Court had groaned to see him go.

But César had been happy in the stables. The grooms adored him. They hadn’t seen a pony of his size since Laurent, who’d only lately gone home. And his hair was near white, and they loved this, and the villagers always stopped to watch him trotting past.

As he’d been an outright gift and not a tribute, the Queen had never bothered to ask about him again, and César himself had never wanted to leave. There have always been ponies like this—in particular, strong, muscular men of exceptional stamina who come alive in bit and harness and crave no other world.

Then King Laurent had discovered him, and marveled at his exquisite face and the smoothness of his skin. “Why is this jewel buried in the straw of the village stable?” he asked. And César had become a royal pony, elevated to the glamour of the new Bellavalten overnight. Now the King wanted more from César, and his courtly service to the King was beginning in earnest.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you,” I said. “You’ve been hiding all these years, hiding. You’re terrified of the solitary exposure, of running with your head up, alone and without a team, and in fear of the inescapable paddle and hearing the Court cheer as you go past, you, César, inspected and admired for your own merits.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, even though I still prodded him with the paddle handle. I gave one of his nipples a hard twist, and watched his chest muscles twitch.

“Oh, it’s humiliating, all right, for a proud steed,” I said. “I know.”

I gave him a good hard crack on his powerful hindquarters and he jumped.

“But this is what the King wants!” I said. “And therefore you must want it.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, stammering and shifting his weight. He had always been very polite, well bred. When the King had discovered he was educated, he’d sent him books to read during his recreation—something that would never have occurred to anyone at all ever in the old kingdom—and César had enjoyed them, often curling up under an oak to read Ovid rather than jostle with the other ponies at rest in the yard. There was a special place in his stall for his books. Yet he had become a leader among the new Court ponies, teaching them many things, and the grooms came to him all the time with questions because there was nothing César didn’t know about being a pony. I knew the King’s taste. César and the husky and pretty-faced satyr, Brenn, were his favorites and one would not replace the other in his heart. Brenn was being trained to great versatility from the beginning and César must learn to be flexible and pliant as well. It thrilled me to think of how the King would turn César inside out in the months to come.

“Listen, the King loves you both,” I said, now pressing close to him. “You’re suffering over nothing when it comes to Brenn. Befriend him. That is what the King assumes you will do.”

“Yes, sir,” he said again. “Brenn is my friend. Brenn’s been kind enough to me, has been since he came. I won’t try to outrun him tonight, sir. I won’t do anything to displease you or the King.”

I squeezed his hard bottom. The paddle would barely faze him. His skin was alabaster smooth but tough.

I saw Elena hurrying towards me, looking quite tasty in her new black satin gown. The ladies of the Court were displaying new fashions inspired by the Queen. Breasts were often half bared, and waists were high and skirts full. Elena looked perfect in this new style, and wore ropes of pearls about her neck, given her by the Queen.

“They’re ready to begin,” she said. “They were all waiting on that strange wild-eyed Lexius and he is at last there.”

I heard the trumpet sound for the first chariot and its passenger to whip the first slave onto the path. Sweet Sybil. I couldn’t see from here. Though there must have been thirty in line, I knew things would happen now very fast.

Quickly, I went to Valentine and kissed him and embraced him. “Now you make me proud tonight,” I whispered in his ear. He was crying as always but he answered me in the most gentle voice.

A groom came down the line, wiping noses and cheeks and making what last little adjustments might be needed to the slaves’ boots. He was slapping cocks here and there, and pinching nipples to make them hard.

I headed to my chariot and climbed up and made sure of the reins. Brenn stood there, in full practical harness, arms strapped to his back, boots planted firmly on the earth.

“You ready to keep up with César tonight, Brenn?” I called out and Brenn gave me a vigorous nod.

He’d only been in the stable for three days, and yesterday after much training, he’d pulled the Queen alone in her smallest and most delicate chariot on her regular evening drive. The Queen had been completely delighted. She had had him turned out completely in red harnesses and had adorned his cock with red ribbons and golden bells. Brenn had shed a world of tears but was perfection to her and King Laurent.

When they returned to the castle she had given the reins to me to take Brenn back to the stables, and there I’d watched as Georgette unharnessed him, teasing him about being the only little colt among so many fillies.

She loved paddling him. She’d thrown him over her knee and asked him over and over again as she spanked him, “How much does the Queen love you, tell me! Tell me more.”

Poor Brenn had sobbed and given the only acceptable answer, “I want to please her.” After that I walked with the groom who paddled him back to the King’s Stables for recreation. I had always hated those driving paddles and the humiliating spanks when a slave is merely being moved from place to place. But I knew that most slaves needed this. Slaves had to be maintained. Discipline had to pervade every moment of their lives.

Brenn’s form was perfect. In the recreation yard, César had beckoned to Brenn to come join him and they lay on the green grass together, César reading his little book, and Brenn with his head on César’s chest as he slept—and César playing idly with his black hair. But still, César was jealous. I knew this. I understood it.

Again and again the trumpet sounded as one slave after another was pushed onto the path.

I had a clear view of Dmitri lining up his chariot beside Stefan and I could see even from this distance that Stefan was as compliant as before. The mask looked so pretty. I wondered if we shouldn’t do more with masks. But then the words came back to me, “the Discipline of the Mask.” If it already had a meaning, well, then, we should develop that meaning, shouldn’t we—of a highborn lord or lady within the kingdom submitting to rigorous slavery through the Discipline of the Mask. And surely the Queen was already contemplating this. She’d be asking our advice on it soon.

Dmitri and Stefan moved up to first place. The slave pulling Dmitri’s chariot was Bastian, another of the King’s own team. I wondered if the slaves hated this particular duty as they wore such plain brown harnesses with only a little brass here and there—nothing like the full dress when they pulled a carriage or chariot for the King.

Suddenly the trumpet sounded and Dmitri swung the paddle driving Stefan onto the path. I couldn’t see if Stefan’s cock was at attention, but I had seen it earlier and it was splendidly huge and red.

Off they went, Stefan marching with knees high and shoulders back, smacked again and again as they moved off and around the curve.

I listened attentively and could hear the distant roar of the crowd around the royal banquet table soon enough.

There were many slaves ahead of us now but César was brought forward and stationed to my right. He was now weeping frantically, and the groom again wiped his face.

César’s backside was barely pink from whatever discipline he’d had that day. But his skin was tough, tough from years of the paddle and the strap, and I knew I had to paddle him hard to make the slightest impression and that I was prepared to do.

The leather paddle was long and broad and just the right weight. In the old days these paddles had been strapped to the arms of the lords and ladies who drove their slaves, but now we merely held tight to the handles. And there was a spare paddle in every chariot in case somehow one’s paddle was dropped. I never saw anyone drop a paddle.

With a little time to kill, I jumped down and went up to Brenn. He was weeping as copiously as César. I checked his harnesses to make sure nothing was chafing. He wore a butt plug with a small decoration of flowers like all the ponies, and a long plain horse’s tail of black to match his hair.

“Now what’s all this sobbing?” I asked, but that only made him cry more. “You and César make a splendid picture. And I want pride now, not weeping.” He did his best to straighten up.

I checked the bit between his teeth and it was perfect, soft, but good enough size, and of course connected properly to the reins.

“You set the pace,” I said. “And César won’t dare to outrun you.” I kissed him and his eyes closed and then he glanced at me and I kissed him on his eyelids. “You’re a lovely colt,” I said. “Just the most beautiful.” I rubbed his hair.

I went to César.

“Now, I’m going to pound that backside of yours,” I said, “but you keep to the pace set by Brenn, you understand, no matter how hard I whip you.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“And let me tell you a little secret. When you find yourself running before the royal dais, when you hear the cheers of the Court, you’ll love it. You’ll stick out your chest and pick up your knees like never before.”

I didn’t wait to see all the tears that would gush after that, but got back in the chariot and took the paddle in hand.

Up ahead I saw Valentine spanked up to the starting line by Elena, who was a vision of sweetness in her black gown as she held the reins of her chariot in her left hand.

When the trumpet sounded, Valentine hesitated, but the paddle sent him scurrying forward and they were soon off, pounding down the path, Elena swinging the paddle lustily and Valentine running as if for his life.

A memory came back to me of being driven along the path in the last year of my time with Queen Eleanor—by the cold Lady Elvera who had been Laurent’s mistress of those years. She was as sedate then as she was now. I knew she’d be at the banquet table on the dais. She always was. And I reflected helplessly on how very different everything was now.

Lord Gregory was forever seeking these days to draw her into his little world of grumblings and forebodings and bitter complaints: too much laxity; too much pampering; not enough maintenance of the hard and fast rules; not enough silence, isolation, hard punishment, and the like.

Lady Elvera tolerated him but she was more than content. She had the remote severity of the old queen.

We were nearing the starting line.

Only one chariot was before us, carrying the Grand Duke André in all his predictable splendor and, standing beside him, his precious slave, Princess Braelyn, who had been serving him for a year when Laurent and Beauty had come. She had a warm ruddy complexion and a wealth of reddish-blond hair. It was gorgeous as it fell down her back. The Bridle Path was nothing new to her. But I wondered what it meant to her to see so many new faces, new slaves, new courtiers.

We pulled up right behind them and I heard the Grand Duke, in his soothing voice, tell her that she must put on a special show tonight or she would disappoint him, but this was all the usual banter. He adored her.

When the trumpet sounded, he spanked her with a force quite remarkable for such an elderly man.

Off they went and we were in first place. I could hear César’s sobs and I told him firmly to be quiet.

“Close your lips, as if you have a bit between your teeth!” I gave him a hard spank, but it was like hitting granite. Nevertheless he jumped as he always did, and he did quiet down. Veteran ponies can be remarkably sensitive to blows delivered by particular persons while becoming insensible to the endless whacking of drivers and grooms.

At last the trumpeter lifted his horn. There came the clear musical blast, and with a great hard blow I went after César, pounding him at least a good six times before we’d moved but a few yards. The reins were tight in my left hand.

Brenn ran as fast as he could, and César effortlessly kept up with him, and what a splendid pair they were.

Over and over I pounded César’s hard backside, determined to make him feel something, and on he ran.

Suddenly we were nearing the royal dais and I could see the King had risen to his feet. He gave a cheerful wave to his favorites and blew them kisses, and a great roar went up from the crowd like a breaker on a wintry beach.

On the other side of the track was another dais, on which many were gathered, privileged to be directly opposite the King and Queen. And they too were roaring and cheering.

I paddled César harder than I’d ever paddled a slave in my life. He was running beautifully and so was Brenn. How that hard little butt plug must have jiggled inside Brenn’s backside. I had no idea what it meant to run like this with a horse tail phallus or a plug inside me. My world had been made up of quieter things.

The royal pavilion was soon behind us. On and on we went past the countless smaller pavilions and tables, the waving arms and the eager faces, and finally we were in the last few yards before the new stables for the end of Bridle Path and the grooms waiting to attend both slaves.

As soon as I jumped down from the chariot, I took César in my arms. He was utterly broken down. I told him to embrace me and he did put his head on my shoulder and sobbed.

“You were magnificent!” I said.

A groom appeared and told us that César had to hurry, that the King wanted César rubbed with gold and mounted on a cross in the garden for the rest of the night.

Desperately his powerful hands clutched my shoulders.

But I pulled back and wiped his face quickly with my linen handkerchief and told him to do exactly as he was told. This had never happened to him before, being bound to a decorative cross in the gardens, and I knew he was afraid.

“In a few moments, you’ll be strapped firmly in place,” I told him, “just as firmly as ever you’ve been strapped to a chariot or cart, and then you can close your eyes and drift.”

“Drift, my lord? What does it mean to drift?”

I laughed. “To doze and dream,” I said. “Now go.”

Brenn had been completely unharnessed and thrown over a huge overturned barrel to be scrubbed and bathed. He lay still with his eyes closed.

I waited until they had thoroughly dried him and then, unhooking the collar and leash from my belt, I went to him and told him to kneel for the collar. I snapped the leash to it, and told him he must walk before me, as the ground here was too rough for his knees.

“The Queen wants you for her pet tonight,” I said. “They want to show you to their new guest, Lexius. Have you ever heard his name?”

“No, my lord,” he answered. He was still winded and tired but clearly very at ease.

“Well, you will find him very pleasing to please,” I said. “Your bottom’s not red enough. But I won’t spank you till we reach the garden.”

“Yes, my lord,” he said.

“And how was it for you, your first time pulling a chariot on the Bridle Path?”

“I hope I pleased, my lord,” he said predictably enough. “I was running as fast as I was able. I knew César would run fast.”

“You did well,” I said.

When we reached the soft grass and carpets of the gardens, I ordered him down on his knees. I found a deserted table beneath a huge oak, somewhat out of the way of all the festivities, and I turned him over my knee and spanked his pretty quivering backside hard with the paddle I still carried till he was the perfect shade for the Queen’s taste. After César’s granite bottom, it was nice to be paddling a slave who flinched and sobbed with every blow. But he was as perfect as any slave who’d been here for months or for years.

I put him down on his hands and knees again and pulled him along. He followed at my heel without the slightest urging. Puppy or pony, he was excellent.

When I reached the dais, Beauty had a dish of cool wine and honey ready for Brenn and she watched with a smile as he lapped it up.

“That was all done very well, Alexi,” said the Queen to me, “and my little Brenn was perfect, but I do long to see him smacked along the Bridle Path soon too. Perhaps tomorrow night.”

“As you wish, madam,” I said. “I’ll drive him writhing and crying along the path with pleasure.”

Brenn was hearing every word but gave no sign of it. I felt I knew Brenn’s soul, knew the erotic delirium in which he was existing.

Lexius and the King were taking their leave.

“Where is Eva?” I asked. “I don’t see her.”

“I don’t know,” said Beauty. “Sit here beside me, Alexi. Thank you. I think the King will be busy with Eva and Lexius tonight.”

I smiled. “That ought to be a splendid encounter,” I said.

“Yes, and Dmitri’s gone to be with them too.” She put down bits and pieces of meat for Brenn to gobble.

“And what did you think of Stefan?” I asked under my breath.

“Oh, he was remarkable!” she said. “And he looked splendid. Dmitri drove him mercilessly but he never broke pace or form. I think perhaps the mask might come off soon. But then maybe again, he’ll always wear it. Seems masks are most interesting to the Court and in the village. I’m giving much thought to the uses of masks.”

I was not surprised.

“Come,” she said. “Let’s take a little walk through the garden.” She tugged Brenn’s leash as she rose and I took her hand. “I want to see some of the games. I haven’t paid enough attention to the games.”

That’s our precious queen, I thought. I wished I could kiss her, take her in my arms and cover her in kisses, but I could not do such a thing here. But maybe later on tonight, I would be alone with her, if the King and Dmitri and Lexius and Lady Eva were busy as the hours passed.

If I hated anything in the kingdom, it was the King yanking me out of bed after Beauty and I had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. He thought nothing of gently hurling me to the floor. Of course he was always in good humor when he did it, but there was a certain mockery in his voice when he said, “Out of my chambers, little monkey, and now.”

Beauty roused me from my reverie. We were making progress slowly, surrounded by bowing courtiers on all sides.

“What do you think, Alexi?” she asked. “Is it splendid or not?” She gestured to the great teeming gardens around us.

“It’s splendid, my queen, more splendid than I ever imagined it could be, and that is the truth.”

“And you, my dear Brenn, what do you think?” She pulled him so that she might kiss him. “Is it all as splendid as you imagined?”

“Magnificent, my queen,” he said. “I never in my wildest longing dreamed of such a paradise.”