The "Festival of Lights" was tonight.
According to the Count, it was a celebration of the harvest. According to "A", it was an assassination attempt waiting to happen.
Taylor sat in her room, staring at the small, cylindrical object on her desk. It looked like a simple piece of bamboo, about six inches long, sealed with clay at both ends. A short piece of nitrate-soaked twine poked out of the top.
[Item: Bamboo Grenade (Type 1)]
[Yield: Low (Concussive/Shrapnel)]
[Reliability: 70% (Don't hold it too long)]
"It's crude," Taylor muttered, spinning the bomb on the table. "But in a crowd, it's a distraction. And distraction buys survival."
She needed to carry three of them. But where? She couldn't wear her cargo trousers to a noble ball. She had to wear *The Dress*.
"My Lady!" Luna burst into the room, carrying a mountain of blue silk and lace. "It is time! The carriage leaves in an hour! We must construct the facade of beauty!"
Behind her trailed Violet, holding a torture device made of whalebone and stiff canvas.
" The corset," Taylor whispered, eyeing the item with genuine fear. "Structural compression of the thoracic cage. Reduced lung capacity. Organ displacement. Who invented this? Was it a man? I bet it was a man."
"It makes you look hourglassy," Violet said, snapping the strings of the corset with a sharp *thwack*. "Come here, Big Sister. Let's squeeze you."
***
[The Fitting Room of Doom]
Ten minutes later, Taylor was clutching the bedpost, gasping for air.
"Luna... stop... I can't... breathe..."
"Just one more inch, My Lady!" Luna grunted, planting her foot against the bedframe for leverage as she pulled the laces. "Fashion is pain! Beauty is suffering! Your waist must be the size of a napkin ring!"
"I need... oxygen... for... cellular respiration!" Taylor wheezed.
"Hold still," Violet whispered.
Violet was in front of Taylor, adjusting the front of the corset. Her hands were cool, sliding over the silk chemise, pushing and lifting Taylor's chest with unsettling precision.
"There," Violet purred, her face inches from Taylor's cleavage. "They look like dumplings now. Very full dumplings."
"Stop talking about my dumplings!" Taylor shrieked, her face flushing red.
"Pull!" Violet commanded Luna.
Luna yanked the strings. Taylor let out a sound that was half-squeak, half-sob. The corset snapped tight, molding her body into a silhouette that defied anatomy. Her chest was pushed up and out, heaving with every shallow breath.
"Oh my," Luna breathed, dropping the strings. She walked around to the front, her eyes widening. "My Lady... you are... dangerous."
Taylor looked in the mirror.
Arthur was gone. Staring back was a femme fatale. The blue dress hugged her hips and exploded into ruffles at the floor, but the bodice was skin-tight. Her silver hair was piled high, exposing her long, pale neck. And her chest... well, the corset was doing its job a little *too* well.
"I feel like a sausage," Taylor complained, tugging at the neckline. "A very expensive, suffocating sausage."
"You look like a Queen," Violet said softly. She reached out and traced the line of Taylor's exposed collarbone with her fingertip. "If I were a boy, I would steal you."
"If you were a boy, I'd have punched you by now," Taylor muttered.
"Now," Taylor said, looking at the servants. "I need privacy. To... meditate. Before the ball."
"Meditate?" Luna tilted her head.
"Yes. Spiritual preparation. Out. Both of you."
Reluctantly, Luna and Violet left the room.
The moment the door clicked shut, Taylor hitched up the massive skirt of her dress.
"Okay," she whispered. "Tactical loading phase."
She grabbed a leather garter belt—one she had modified herself. She strapped it high onto her left thigh, right against the soft skin. The leather was cold, the buckles tight.
She took the three bamboo grenades and slid them into the loops.
*Slide. Slide. Slide.*
The hard bamboo pressed against her inner thigh. It was uncomfortable, bulky, and absolutely necessary.
She let the skirt drop.
She did a test twirl. The dress swished. No clanking. No bulge.
"Hidden artillery," she grinned.
*Creak.*
The wardrobe door opened.
Taylor froze. *Not again.*
Violet stepped out of the closet (again). She wasn't smiling this time. She was staring directly at Taylor's legs.
"I saw that," Violet whispered.
Taylor panicked. "Saw what? My... my garter? It's just underwear, Violet! Go away!"
Violet walked forward. She dropped to her knees in front of Taylor.
Before Taylor could react, Violet reached under the massive skirt. Her hand slid up Taylor's calf, past the knee, up the thigh.
Taylor gasped, her whole body going rigid. "Violet! What the hell—?!"
Violet's hand stopped when her fingers brushed the cold bamboo of the grenade.
She didn't scream. She didn't ask what it was.
She gently traced the shape of the bomb, her fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of Taylor's inner thigh. The sensation sent an electric shock straight to Taylor's brain.
"Hard," Violet murmured from under the skirt. "And dangerous."
She pulled her hand back and crawled out from under the dress. She looked up at Taylor, her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes dark.
"You really are going to burn everything down, aren't you?" Violet whispered.
"I'm going to survive," Taylor said, her voice shaking—mostly from the sheer sensory overload of having her sister grope her weaponry. "And if you tell Father, I'll..."
"I won't tell," Violet stood up, brushing off her knees. She leaned in and kissed Taylor on the cheek. "I like dangerous things."
[Ding!]
[Affection Updated: Violet (Obsessive)]
[She is turned on by your potential for violence.]
"Let's go," Violet said, taking Taylor's hand. "The carriage is waiting. And you have a bomb between your legs."
Taylor squeezed her eyes shut.
*I miss engineering,* she thought. *Engineering was safe. Concrete didn't sexually harass me.*
She took a deep breath—as deep as the corset allowed—and walked out the door.
Tonight, she was either going to dance, or she was going to blow something up.
Probably both.