"Why should I believe you?"
All three of them stared. The doctor blinked like I'd coughed in his face. Rebecca's brows went up a millimeter. Stacy's ears tilted forward, tail flicking once, a cat hearing the exact tone of a challenge it likes.
"What!?" they echoed together.
I didn't flinch. "Why shouldn't I be defensive? You were ordered to train me for the kingdom, right? I've played Asset before. Didn't like the ending."
"Don't be so defensive, kid," Rebecca cut in before Stacy could chirp something reckless. She didn't move closer, just eased a hand against the chair back like she was keeping the room upright. "She wants a daughter to pamper, not a weapon to polish. And the doctor shouldn't even be in this kingdom anymore, so don't waste your worry on him. I'm only a maid."
The doctor sniffed. "Semi-retired," he corrected under his breath, which told me Rebecca wasn't wrong.
Stacy stepped in, her tone gentled but still unapologetically bright. "We weren't ordered to do anything with you. My husband was. There's a difference." Her ears softened at the edges. "What's the point of making your life more miserable than it already was? You've lived five years of hell. It's time someone pampered you for a while."
That pushed a tiny cool breath through my ribs. I didn't let it show. "You can say anything. Anybody can lie and stab later."
"Oh, come on," Stacy whined—actually whined—then hopped once in place like her body could bounce my suspicion out of me. "Let me pamper a daughter for once. Rebecca, help me out here."
Rebecca gave her such a flat look that if it had a surface, you'd skate on it. "Tone down the hopping."
It was ridiculous. It was also funny—this grown-up cat girl with blood on her aura throwing a tantrum in a guest room. The corner of my mouth tried to misbehave.
"You already have a daughter," I said instead, one brow climbing. "Why not pamper her?"
Stacy's ears dipped. "She's a big daddy's girl and never wants to be with me."
"That's because you want to train her or drag her into something active," Rebecca said, completely unsympathetic. "Let me remind you: she isn't fond of being active.'"
I blinked. "You're… an active person?"
"Yes!" Stacy brightened like a sunlamp. "I love training and running around." Her tail made a pleased S-curve in the air. She really was an airhead. A lethal, enthusiastic airhead.
"Huh." I rolled my shoulders carefully. "In my previous life, I liked the outdoors and working out." I let her see a sliver of that. "We might get along. I'll still see if I can trust you completely."
"That's fine," she said, beaming. "I'll make you call me Mother' in no time."
"We'll see." I glanced down at my forearms. "What happened after the Duke pushed the primordial blood? I mean, I can see I got some lovely tattoos—and my vision's sharper." I flexed my fingers; the marks pulled and settled. "What did I actually survive?"
"They're not tattoos," Stacy said quietly, pointing to my arms. "They're curses."
My attention clipped back to her face. "Cute."
"Curses with benefits," Rebecca murmured, for once not entirely dry.
Stacy nodded. "I'd rather show you than explain with an audience." She turned slightly. "Rebecca, Doctor—please give us the room. I trust you both, you know I do, but this part isn't for anyone else. Rebecca, could you also ask the kitchen for food? Something warm and easy, and… a lot."
"That works for me," the doctor said, already rubbing his eyelids. "Call me in a week or more if needed." He paused in the doorway. "Preferably more."
"Go," Rebecca told him, then to me, "I'll bring up food." She didn't add if you're still in the mood to eat because she was smarter than that. She closed the door behind them, and the room exhaled.
For a moment there was just the lamp's low hum and the soft brush of fabric when Stacy crossed to me. She took both my hands, palms up, cool fingers careful over the black-and-red lines that coiled there. Up close, the markings had depth, like ink poured into the grain of wood.
"They might be curses," she said, meeting my eyes, "but for you they're blessings. Let's start with the blood. You were injected with the blood of a nine-tailed primordial fox."
My mouth went dry. A light tilted through my skull.
Bright overhead glare.
Hand turns a syringe.
"Hold her," someone says, and the strap bites.
burn
"I survived that?" I asked, voice flat on purpose. "I felt myself go."
"You did die," Stacy said simply. "But the blood recognized you. You were the rightful host, so it dragged you back. The curses are the negative effects. Your eyes changed. Your hair, too." She released my hands gently, like she was giving them back.
"My eyes and hair…" I lifted my tail forward and blinked. It was no longer completely black; instead, red threaded through near the end like ember-glow. Something warm moved along the bone when I touched the fur.
"Here," Stacy said, offering a hand mirror.
I took it and braced for the usual hit. The girl in the glass blinked back, black hair shot through with red like sparks in soot. Eyes: black sclera, red irises, pupils narrowed slightly—fox slits, but not inhuman enough to belong to a monster. Just enough to make most people forget how to breathe for a second.
I rubbed my face and felt the pressure of teeth against my lip. I opened my mouth. Two six-centimeter canines extended like a vampire's party trick. I had to admit: they looked lovely on me. "How," I said dryly, "am I getting a wife with this face? I look terrifying."
Stacy blinked. "Wife? Don't you mean husband?"
I set the mirror on my lap and met her eyes. "Hello. I was somebody before. No way in hell somebody is going to—" I snapped my fingers for a word and didn't find a polite one. "Yeah. No."
"Right, right." She tapped her lips with a claw and nodded like she was filing it next to no broccoli. "Then you're like Rebecca. She prefers women. I don't really care either way; I married your adopted father because I loved him, not his category. He won't be against it, and you aren't the heir to the house. I'm sorry if that's a problem."
"I don't care about being heir." I flipped the mirror closed. "I like my freedom. Give me a title, and I'll die of boredom before a blade finds me. So don't worry about me fighting your daughter for the family name."
Her ears perked. "Your sister will be delighted. She thinks paperwork is a disease." A flicker of pride crossed her face and was gone. "Back to the curses. Positives and negatives—you should hear them from me."
"Go on." I leaned back and found a position that didn't make my shoulders complain.
She gestured to my left arm. "Left is lightning. It makes pain ten times worse than normal." She raised a hand before I could snort. "But it also makes your growth ten times better. "You'll climb fast, whether it's based on stats, attributes, or any other measurement that some priest prefers."
I looked at the thin scars around my wrists—ghosts of buckles I didn't let my brain name. "Ten times the pain, ten times the growth. Fair trade if I'm the one choosing."
Her mouth twitched. "Right is fire. It makes your leveling crawl at a snail's pace. But skills, arts, anything learned? You'll pick them up twice as fast. If it takes someone ten years, you can do it in five. Maybe less." She glanced at my arms again, and her expression grew complicated—jealousy and pride making a little storm. "I'm… a little envious."
"A curse that's a blessing." I rolled the words around. "Balanced like a bad joke that works."
"Exactly." Her tone hardened a notch. "One thing: never tell anyone the details. The colors are obvious, but the effects are your secret. Understood?"
"Will do, ma'am," I said, giving her a lazy little salute. I hadn't planned to tell anyone anyway.
"Good." She exhaled, and a coil in her shoulders loosened. "Let's get you food before you pass out. Then sleep. Tomorrow—" her eyes brightened—"fun."
"Fun," I echoed, suspicious. "Define it later." But as we walked, I noticed something quietly traitorous in myself: the more she spoke like that—open, a little chaotic, absolutely certain about taking care of me—the less the old panic had room to crawl. I didn't trust her. But a stubborn rock can still sit in the sun.
We left the guest room. The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax and warm linen. Sconces threw soft light over framed sketches—landscapes and beasts, all done with a sure hand. The floorboards had that solid, forgiving give under weight that only old wood knows. A string quartet drifted up from somewhere far below, or maybe it was just kitchen clatter turning musical in my tired ears.
By the time we reached the dining hall, the smell was a blanket: roasted meat, butter, herbs crushed under a knife, yeast and heat, and something sweet.
My stomach growled loudly enough to get an answering echo from the ceiling. Stacy bit her knuckle to hold in a laugh and failed. "Sorry," she gasped between giggles, "but—"
"Laugh it up." I pressed a hand over my traitorous gut. "I smell the kitchen from upstairs. Blame your house."
Rebecca was already there, sleeves rolled to her forearms, hair back in a no-nonsense knot. She'd overseen an assault. A long table, groaning with choices: a roasted bird glistening under honeyed glaze; thick stew with root vegetables and mushrooms; a casserole that steamed cheese and onion into the air; fresh bread broken into rugged halves; bowls of salted greens; a mountain of rice; platters of sliced fruit; little dishes of pickled things; and a tray of sweets that sparkled like bait.
"We didn't know what you like," she said, deadpan. "So we made everything." Her eyes ticked to the chair at the head of the table, then to my face, measuring whether I'd try to climb the table instead of sit at it.
"Huh," Stacy said.
"Huh, what?" Rebecca asked, already reaching for the ladle.
"Huh, as in: look down."
They both looked—and blinked. The chair scraped faintly. A ten-year-old girl with fox eyes and hungry hands was already seated, cheeks puffed, shoveling food with a mechanical efficiency that would have impressed any quartermaster. My hands moved faster than my thoughts when food was involved. Old habit: eat when you can. You don't know when they'll remember you.
"I think we should teach her some manners," Rebecca said, dry as salt.
"It's fine to let her be," Stacy chuckled, leaning an elbow on the back of the chair beside me, watching like she'd discovered a small, agile animal with endearing habits. Her smile stalled. "Okay, I take that back. Don't eat the bones."
I paused, a crisp, clean snap between my teeth. "Why?" I said around a mouthful. "They're good."
Rebecca squinted. "How are your teeth even handling that?"
"She's special," Stacy said, and for once the word didn't feel condescending. "Kitsuna, spit out the bones. Please."
I swallowed. "But they're delicious."
Stacy stared. Rebecca stared. I stared back, hopeful. The face I made must have been illegal somewhere.
"Fine," Stacy surrendered. "But don't do that in front of other people. They'll freak out."
"I'll try my best," I said, which was not a promise, and reached for another piece of meat. The skin crunched under my teeth. Juice ran across my tongue in a way that made my muscles briefly forget they hurt.
"How long was I asleep?" I asked between bites.
"A month," Rebecca said, sliding a bowl of stew closer. "The doctor said your system needed to reset after what it pulled, pulling you back."
A month. The number had weight, but it didn't crush anything. I filed it, neat. "Explains the hunger."
We ate. Or I did, and they watched with the kind of quiet that sounds like approval when you've had too many meals under observation. The stew burned my tongue in a way that wasn't pain, exactly—more like a reminder that I was alive. The bread cracked under my fingers, warm and yielding. The greens were salted just right, like someone cared. It felt obscene and normal at the same time.
"About trust," Stacy said eventually, when the first wave of animal need had receded. She'd waited, which I noticed. Her ears were in listening mode again. "You don't have to give it to me today. Or ever. I'll still make sure you eat and sleep and laugh at least once a day. That's the offer."
I chewed and swallowed. "You really want to pamper someone that bites bones?"
"Especially that someone." Her tail flicked. "I'm very stubborn."
"Same," I said. "Stubborn rock."
"Good." She lifted her water. "Two rocks are difficult to push over."
I almost smiled. "Poetry."
Rebecca cleared her throat. "As your maid," she said, "it is my duty to inform you that if you continue at this rate, we'll need to double the kitchen budget."
"That's on you," Stacy told her solemnly. "You said, 'Make everything.'"
Rebecca ignored her. "After you eat, you should sleep. The doctor was right about muscle damage. Tomorrow you can walk the gardens. No training." She looked at me to see if I'd argue.
Bright light.Hold her.Don't move. The old commands tried their keys on old locks. My mind shoved the bolt across, firm. "I'll walk," I said. "And not train." I didn't say much. "For a bit."
Stacy's ears flicked as if she had heard something unspoken. "We can spar with spoons," she offered, mock-solemn. "Very safe. Very slow."
"Idiotic," Rebecca added.
I snorted. The sound felt pleasing in my chest. "We'll see."
We drifted into smaller talks. Not the empty kind. The one with texture. Stacy asked me which sports I liked when I was my true self. I said that I enjoyed running, lifting, and any activities that kept me moving and quiet. She volunteered her favorite hill to sprint at dawn and promised to show me the path that had the meanest incline. Rebecca, the traitor, mentioned a bakery that opened before sunrise and made little buns filled with sweet bean paste. Stacy audibly wrote "bakery ambush" in her mental notebook.
At some point I realized I wasn't scanning the door every thirty seconds. The realization itself tried to spook me. I told them to sit. It did.
When I finally leaned back, full in the way that makes your bones feel heavier and your thoughts lighter, Stacy made a pleased little sound and pointed to a plate of small glazed sweets. "Dessert?"
"Yes," I said immediately.
She laughed. "You really are my child."
"I said maybe." I reached anyway. The glaze cracked like thin ice. The pastry left sugar on my tongue.
We let the quiet be quiet. No lab hum. No drip counting seconds. Just plates settling as they cooled, the house breathing, Rebecca's practical presence, and Stacy's tail drawing lazy question marks in the air.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Rebecca slid a cloth toward me without looking. I took it and pretended it was my idea.
"Thank you," I said. It came out easier than it had any right to.
"You're welcome," Rebecca said, which is how you know someone's not keeping score.
Stacy stretched, arms over her head, like a cat in sunlight. "Tomorrow, we'll get you clothes you like. If you hate dresses, I will buy you pants. If you hate pants, I will buy you weapons. If you hate weapons, I will faint and Rebecca will catch me."
"I won't," Rebecca said.
"See?" Stacy grinned. "Safe. Furthermore, we'll test your senses in the garden. I want to see how far you can hear the kitchen from the far hedge."
"Challenge accepted," I said before my caution could tackle my mouth. "But I'm not calling you 'Mother.' Not yet."
"I'll settle for 'Stacy' for now." She winked. "It'll be Mother' by the end of the season."
"We'll see."
We rose. My legs held. Not gracefully, but they held. Stacy neither offered an arm nor refrained from doing so. She hovered at the edge of reach, the exact distance between smothering and abandoning. It was… impressive. Annoying. Useful.
We headed back toward the guest room. The hall felt warmer on the return, like the walls remembered me now. A maid passed carrying linens and dipped a precise bow; I fought the urge to step out of sight. I didn't need to hide. The thought tried to argue. I ignored it and went silent.
At the doorway to my room, Stacy paused. "Sleep. If you wake in the night, the kitchen is yours. "Bones," she said, lifting a finger, "are only for private consumption."
"Understood." I gave her a look. "No promises about spoons."
She made a delighted noise. I refused to call a chirp. "Good night, Kitsuna."
"Night."
Rebecca appeared as if conjured, set a covered plate on the side table—just in case—and vanished again with housekeeping's specific magic: being everywhere and nowhere, seeing everything and nothing you don't want seen.
I sat on the bed. The sheets reminded me. I eased onto my side and stared at the white ceiling. It stared back, kind and blank.
Strap buckle.
Count down from ten.
Ten—burn
I breathed in, held, and breathed out. The memory slipped away as easily as a hand slides off glass. I was a stubborn rock. Stubborn rocks do not roll unless they decide to.
I touched the marks on my forearms. They were warm and patient. Lightning on the left, fire on the right. Pain and growth. Slowness and skill. Curses that weren't, if I carried them on my terms.
My eyelids got heavy. I let them.
If I dreamed, I didn't remember it. If I woke, I didn't announce it. When morning came, I would test the garden path, smell bread from a ridiculous distance, and pretend not to like the way Stacy's ears perked when I agreed to race her to the far hedge.
For now, I slept—full, warm, alive.
I woke to the promise of breakfast drifting under the door and a traitor stomach trying to sing. A smile did something dangerous to my mouth. I rolled out of bed, stretched until my back popped, and padded barefoot to the door.
In the hall, Stacy waited, tail swaying, wearing an expression that said, "I will absolutely pretend this wasn't a stakeout." Rebecca stood beside her with a tray like a shield.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning," they chorused.
Stacy's eyes crinkled. "Ready to be pampered?"
"Bring it," I said.
We went to the dining hall again. The smells made my bones clap. The table was once more a small country of food. My stomach made a sound only whales should be allowed to make.
"I'd guess anyone would be hungry if they haven't eaten in a month," Rebecca said mildly, pretending she hadn't been waiting to say it.
"I was asleep for a month," I repeated, testing the number now that it was morning-shaped. I nodded to myself. "Right."
"Talk later," Stacy said, sweeping a hand toward the spread. "Eat now."
I looked up—no, at—the table. Then at them. Then I wasn't where I'd been a second before. I was in the chair again, a small demon gusting through a feast.
"Huh," Rebecca said to the air where my confusion had been. "She's fast."
"She's hungry," Stacy corrected, laughing. She watched me with pure amusement until I took a bone between my teeth again. "I take it back. Don't eat the bones."
"I agree," Rebecca said. "How do her teeth even—"
"She's special," Stacy said, and I didn't hate the way she said it. "Kitsune, don't eat the bones. It's not good for you."
I paused, bone poised. "But they're so good."
"Is that your fox side?" Stacy asked, half-surprised, half-proud.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "They're delicious. Please don't take them away."
Stacy pinched the bridge of her nose, ears flattening in theatrical despair. "Fine. But not in front of other people. They'll freak out."
"Thank you." I grinned, all teeth. "I'll try my best." And I started eating again.
I didn't care what people thought. But if it was a banquet, fine—I could behave. Everywhere else?
My delicious bones were absolutely in danger.