White Rose

Summary: Emma settles into her new accommodations, but she’s still wary of the mistress of the manor.

Author’s Note: Ya wanna talk about having no time to write? My middle name’s “blocked” lately, due to work, housework, gym visits that are still too rare but that I’m force-feeding myself, and just trying to get things done. Add to that the fan art that I’ve been WANTING to do, and you can imagine that I’m creatively drained. Sheesh. Hope you like this. My other updates are slow to none, discouraged by how few reviews or votes they’ve been getting here. No biggie. I archive everything on my LJ, and I write these for my own pleasure first. My muses get as burnt out as I do.

 

Emma wondered how on earth she got into this predicament.

She followed the mysterious “Windrider’s” servants upstairs, noting that it, too, was made from gleaming, gold-veined marble. Her feet protested the climb and the cold stone, and she shivered from how drafty the house felt. The creature was little help, and seemed to have no sympathy for Emma’s more delicate constitution. Emma remembered that her hostess possessed a lush coat of fur over her body, and she felt envious and resentful.

“I guess she doesn’t care if I freeze here,” she muttered as they headed down the corridor. She noticed proud, curved pillars and more ornately framed artwork hanging on the walls.

“You won’t be cold. Mistress won’t allow it.”

“I’m frozen from head to toe,” Emma accused.

“Trust that Mistress will take care of your needs. All of them.” Santo lumbered ahead of her, but he paused a moment and stood on his hind legs, examining her. “Whatever assumptions you arrived here with, shed them now.”

“I was brought here under threat, to fulfill my father’s oath.”

“Don’t beat that point to death. You’re our guest, and you will be treated as such, unless you anger Mistress. Then you will be her prisoner.”

“So I’m only as free as I want to be?” Emma muttered sourly. “I find that very reassuring.” He stopped at the center of the corridor and selected the door to their left, butting it open with his great, black head. “You will sleep here tonight.”

“Thank you.”

 

“Take that,” Santo ordered, motioning with one large paw toward a torch along the wall. “Use it to light the fire in the hearth. I’m ill-equipped.”

“I suppose you are,” Emma agreed sagely. She took the torch obediently and entered the room, and she stood in awe of the rich furnishings.

The bed was enormous, a four-poster, canopied confection of sheer white curtains, dressed in a thick, tapestry bed spread of pale blue brocade. “Oh, my,” she mused. “It’s lovely.”

“Mistress guessed this one might be to your liking,” Santo bragged in his low growl. “A bath will be brought up directly.”

“That ripe, am I?”

“I’m not particular about these kinds of things.”

“No. I suppose you wouldn’t be,” she mused. “Er… Santo, is it?”

“Aye.”

“Would it be forward… would you find it offensive, if I touched you?”

“Whatever for?”

“It’s not often I encounter bears who speak. And I’d be in a sorry, unfortunate state if I met one who didn’t, up close and personal as we are. We’re on a first name basis, and I wanted to engage my curiosity, if it doesn’t offend you.” She wandered close to him, holding her palm out hesitantly. He emitted a low, whuffling growl.

“You give me too little credit for being a civilized being, madam.”

“I give you full credit,” Emma stammered. “Honestly!”

“Be done with it, then,” he offered reluctantly. “I’m not a housepet.”

“I realize that.” Emma indulged, reaching out and gently combing her fingers through his gleaming, dense ebony fur. “It feels lovely,” she assured him.

“Naturally,” he huffed, but he leaned into her touch, pushing the side of his head into her palm. Emma chuckled and carefully scratched behind his ear. “To the left,” he demanded. “Lower.”

“Certainly.”

“All right, that’s enough,” he muttered, shaking himself vigorously, like a dog would after a swim in a creek. Emma backed off politely.

“Thank you.”

“Glad to oblige.” The bear lumbered toward the door. “Rahne will attend you now.”

“The wolf?” Emma asked skeptically.

“She’s female,” he said with an ursine shrug. “Unless you’d prefer Manuel or Angelo?” There was a hint of cavalier humor in his tone. Emma found it vulgar.

“Certainly not.”

“Then Rahne it is,” he threw over his shoulder. Emma hurried to close the door after him, and she stood staring at the room, still reeling.

“I must be going mad. Creatures don’t talk.” This was a dream. She was still sleeping in her room that she shared – albeit reluctantly – with her sisters in the smallest cot, bundled in the quilt that her mother bequeathed her. Soon she would wake, make breakfast and find her father’s favorite tea cup and pipe. A teeming list of chores, subject to revision and additions, loomed ahead of her. Yes, that was the reality.

But the illusion she lingered in was a tempting one. The bed looked sumptuous, and her bones were weary from her trek. Emma removed her sodden cloak and wondered where it would be best to hang it, until she spied a peg hanging from the wall. She didn’t want to hang it in the armoire until it dried. She made a sound of disgust at her damp skirts, stained here and there with flecks of mud and dirt, and she received another unpleasant surprise when she wandered to the vanity and spied herself in the large cheval mirror.

“Ugh.” No wonder the Windrider was unimpressed. She looked a sight, hair lank and half-undone. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were slightly red from the cold. Emma sighed and unraveled the rest of her plait, combing her fingers through her hair; she was glad to be rid of its unwelcome pull against her scalp. It felt so good to loosen it, and she sighed in relief. She unbuttoned her dress and hung it over the back of the vanity’s upholstered chair, whose cushions matched the comforter in soft hues of blue and shot through with silver threads.

“Gettin’ comfy, lass?” Emma heard the low creak of the door hinge, and she was once again surprised to see not just Rahne, but a second wolf with black fur and a striking white muzzle and mask. Its eyes were black, so dark that the pupils weren’t even visible, and it was larger than Rahne, with thicker, denser fur. Emma made a sound of awe; the creature was beautiful. “Dani, tell yon lassie hello.”

“I don’t need permission,” the beast growled, giving an exasperated little huff that made her nostrils flare. “It’s Danielle, by the way.”

“You’re, er, female, I presume?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“I’m not, er, in the habit of, well… you know…”

“Peering between the legs of just any beastie to tell the difference,” Rahne guessed. “There are ways tae tell besides that.”

“I’m not well-versed in these things,” Emma offered.

“We’ve come to bring your bath,” Dani explained. “It’s out in the hall, if you’d like us to bring it in? Unless you wanted us to bathe you instead?”

“Pardon?”

“Dani! Silly goose,” Rahne chided her. “Don’t tease her.”

“You’re a bit dirty yourself,” Dani growled playfully, butting against the russet wolf, and she could have sworn Rahne’s muzzle twisted in the lupine equivalent of a grin. Dani took that as permission to clean her, and she began to lap at Rahne’s ears, snuffling and nuzzling her. Emma felt an odd flush at watching them cavort and tease each other like that, somehow wondering if she was intruding on something… intimate. Rahne submitted, growling and whuffling in low tones, bowing her head to let Dani administer a more thorough cleaning.

“Perhaps the tub would do for now,” Emma explained hastily. “I’ll get it!” She hurried out into the hall, flustered at the odd waves of heat welling in her belly. Emma lifted the tub with some difficulty, trying not to slosh any water over the brim. Thankfully it hadn’t been overfilled, and she noticed that it was pleasantly warm when she tested it. She pushed it across the floor, closer to the hearth.

“Ye’ve lovely hair, Emma,” Rahne told her as she rolled onto her back, playfully showing her belly. Emma chuckled and squatted down, rubbing it, and Dani approached her for affection, tail wagging.

“I want to play,” the dark she-wolf nagged. She butted Emma’s shoulder with her cold nose, which was a shock against her already chilled, bare skin. Emma was still only in her chemise, so when Dani closed in on her, brushing her bulk against Emma, she felt even more vulnerable and susceptible to the soft coarseness of her bristling fur. The animal radiated welcome warmth, and for a moment, she longed to roll with the large wolf across the floor, but much like she had with Santo, she hesitated, not wanting to take liberties. She scratched Dani’s hackles and gave her a firm pat.

“I’ll wash up. I’ll bathe myself, this time, if you don’t mind.”

“Spoilsport,” Dani shrugged. She didn’t sound disappointed, though, and Emma imagined that she wanted Rahne’s attentions for herself.

“Are you two from the same litter?” Emma inquired.

“Nay. ‘Course not, d’we look like kin?”

“Rahne’s my soulmate. We weren’t always like this, but we’ve always been close.”

“Your soulmate?”

“Aye.” Rahne rolled up and sat back on her haunches; Dani leaned over and licked the corner of her mouth. “It’s an intimate bond. Wolves mate for life.”

“But in our case, not for the sake of having cubs.”

“Oh, my.” Emma’s mind reeled with the possibilities. She’d never heard of such a thing, let alone witnessed it with her own eyes.

“Stranger things have happened,” Dani informed her. She butted up against Rahne again, and Rahne turned against her, thumping her tail across Dani’s nose.

“Cheeky,” Emma commented. “Go on, then. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“We’re being dismissed,” Rahne sighed.

“Along with our offer of a bath. Some people don’t appreciate dedicated service,” Dani huffed. She turned back and gave Emma a piercing stare. “So there’ll be nothing else?”

“No, thank you.”

“There’s soap in the cupboard,” Rahne told her as the she-wolves padded out. “There’s a key to lock up in the jewelry box. Fasten yourself down for the night and bundle up. It’s going to be a brittle, chilly night, lassie.”

“All right.” Emma could have assumed as much, but Rahne’s voice held a strong degree of certainty. Then she remembered that the Windrider held dominion of the weather, or, at any rate, of the storm. She stared bitterly out the window, watching the rain slap the panes and sluice down the glass. The wind continued to howl and Emma wondered if this was how the creature welcomed all of her guests, or just her.

She still wasn’t certain what her purpose was in the castle, how she could expect to be treated. Emma had few expectations of people in general, having had such a hand-to-mouth existence living on a family farm. Her father was fond of her and doted on her, but she wasn’t particularly spoiled. She was last in the pecking order of her siblings, and she could never depend on the kindness or charity of her older sisters. Emma wasn’t used to being truly loved except by two people: her father and her older brother, Christian.

She didn’t care much for her looks. She supposed she was attractive enough, if the occasional stares from townsfolk were anything to go by, but men flocked to her sister Adrienne. An equal but less obvious number of them bucked for her brother’s eye, something they only acknowledged behind closed doors, by candlelight over cups of tea, in murmured tones and snickers. She missed Chris already, and she wished him well. She’d no longer provide a buffer between him and their father.

The creature seemed to approve of Emma’s appearance, or at least she might after she was cleaned up and groomed. Emma snorted as she shucked the chemise and stepped into the luscious warmth of the bathwater. She released a sigh of relief; it would feel so good to go to bed clean. She made hearty use of the bar of soap that smelled like it had lavender petals in it, dressing her flesh in its foaming lather. She didn’t bother with her hair yet; its damp weight against her neck and chest would likely make her catch the ague, and she couldn’t afford to be sick.

Emma nearly dozed in the tub, lulled by the crackle of flames in the hearth and the patter of rain on the windows and roof, but suddenly, she felt herself being watched. Eyes were on her back, and the hairs on her nape stood up, followed by goose pimples breaking out over her arms. Her eyes grew wide in the dark and she stilled completely.

Windrider.

She couldn’t speak the name aloud, not wanting to earn the beast’s ire again. Emma felt her curiosity and fascination with her through her empathy, but her mind was still closed to her. If I don’t turn around, she will leave.

Emma was wrong.

She had left the door slightly ajar, and it slowly creaked open again. Nearly soundless footsteps crossed the room, barely burdening the marble. She heard the creature’s low breathing and held hers as she heard the footsteps halt, mere inches away from the tub. Emma closed her eyes and stiffened, fearful of what she would do.

“Don’t drip on my floor,” the voice growled, and something soft landed beside the tub. Emma’s heartbeat quickened, feeling rather than hearing the flap of the creature’s long robes as she approached, but her mind seemed to play tricks on her as she heard her steps retreat.

The door clicked shut. Emma was alone.

She opened her eyes cautiously, and her heart was still pounding. She walked in on me. In the altogether. Her blue eyes darted around the room, making sure that she had truly left. The bedroom was empty.

Emma rose from the tub, noticing that the water had cooled, and when she turned to dash for a blanket, she noticed a bundle of folded towels, nubby and rough, but welcome in her dripping state.

Santo was right; the Windrider was taking care of her needs very well, in her own fashion.

*

 

She awoke the next morning to find the tub filled with fresh water, this time steaming, and sunlight streamed in through the windows. When she rose, she hissed at the cold floor beneath her feet, wishing there were more rugs in the room. When she pulled back the heavy draperies and anchored them back with one of the silk ties, she saw that the sky was actually overcast and gray, with the sun only playing with the clouds. It was still an improvement over the night’s storm, and she welcomed the warmth.

She hastened her grooming, deciding on one of the few dresses she’d packed in her satchel that her father allowed her to take. She chose a serviceable black dress with white sleeves and a white ruffled collar. It was sedate and dignified, and Emma hoped it would make the right impression. It was also one that she wore to town when she went to sell eggs or cream at the market, better than what she wore to till the fields so she wouldn’t embarrass her father. She took a longer time in the tub this time and decided to wash her hair this time, and she sat by the fire, brushing it until it gleamed.

She was distracted by a low purring sound and the sensation of something brushing her ankles. Emma gasped as a marmalade tabby peeked out from the hem of the blanket she wrapped around her body. “H’lo, pusskins.”

“Good morning, milady.”

“Goodness, you talk, too. This is madness.” Emma sighed and tickled the cat under the chin. The cat took that as her cue to hop onto Emma’s lap, purring very loudly and wantonly, tail flicking back and forth, and her back arched up into Emma’s caress. “Shameless thing, aren’t you?” She had a fondness for cats, and this one was winning her over.

“The name’s Jenny. Go ahead, then, get that spot behind my right ear…”

“I thought this was when you asked me what you could do for me,” Emma pointed out, but the cat leaned up and swiped the corner of her mouth against Emma’s nose, making her giggle.

“It’s time to come down for breakfast,” Jenny told her. “Or we can have it brought up. But my mistress demands an audience with you, no matter where you take your meal, milady.”

“It’s Emma. And downstairs is as good a place as any other, since I don’t stand on ceremony. Where’s the kitchen?”

“Silly girl,” Jenny purred, voice slightly husky with contentment as Emma caressed her fur. “You’ll take breakfast in the nook, like a civilized person.”

“I’m used to making my own breakfast.”

“You’ll have to get used to how we do things here, then.”

“What am I even expected to do here all day?”

“That’s up to Mistress.” Jenny nosed Emma’s neck, rubbing her cheek against hers. Her purrs and rumblings were comforting, and she realized the creature was taking advantage of Emma’s body heat while she was sitting close to the fire. The cat kneaded her paws against Emma’s neck, making her yelp when she hit a ticklish nerve by her armpit.

“Down with you, now.” Emma rose, knocking the cat from her perch.

“Well!”

“I need to get dressed.” Emma dropped the blanket onto the bed and reached for her chemise. Jenny admired the long, lean lines of her body and her willowy curves. Her skin was still rosy from her bath.

“Look at you,” the cat told her cheekily. “You’ve some nice meat on your bones.”

“I hope that’s a compliment.”

“Don’t hide your light under a bushel. What’s that? Don’t cover yourself up in such an ugly rag.”

“You’re giving me advice on my clothing?” Emma wondered incredulously. She stared down at the cat, who was flicking her tail back and forth. It was odd watching the feline, fanged mouth moving, forming human speech. She eased into the chemise and reached next for the dress. Jenny made a sound of disdain that sounded like a hiss.

“Dreadful. That won’t do at all.”

“It’s all I have!” Emma chided.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The cat trotted over to the armoire and nudged the door with her cheek. “There are plenty of suitable things in here, all for you.”

“They don’t belong to me, surely.”

“Surely they do. Try one on. Something blue, to match your eyes.”

“It wouldn’t be fitting.”

“Mistress will be offended if you don’t,” Jenny warned, and Emma recoiled at the slightly frantic note in the cat’s words.

“I just feel awkward putting on something that isn’t mine. And taking what didn’t belong to him is what got my father in trouble, so you’ll excuse me if I’m not feeling enthusiastic about accepting another gift from your mistress.” Jenny sighed.

“Good point.”

“This dress will be fine.” The cat watched her dress and groom herself, admiring her long spill of blonde hair.

“Mine used to be that color,” the cat murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, milady.”

“It’s Emma; I told you that already.”

“Just come down to breakfast when you’re ready. I hope you’re hungry.” When Emma looked up, the cat disappeared, losing interest in her own ablutions of her front paw, let alone Emma’s.

“All right, then.” She sighed at the evasive nature of her hostess’ household staff, if that’s what the beasties indeed were. It was an unusual dynamic they all shared; Emma wondered why wild creatures would even want to inhabit a house, even if it was a castle. Then again, how often did she meet animals who talked?

Emma smoothed the skirts of her black dress and examined her handiwork with her plait. It hung nice and neat down her back, and her shoes were finally dry. Emma made up the bed and repacked her things into her satchel, neatening up the room out of habit. Dutifully she scooped out pitchers full of water from the tub, dumping them out the window until she could lift the entire tub and empty it of its contents. It puzzled her how any of the creatures at Windrider’s disposal could manage to lift the tub and bring it upstairs.

When she exited her suite, Manuel was there in the hall. His ears perked up when he saw her, and Emma could have sworn she saw a twinkle in the hare’s eye. “Buenos dias, hermosa.”

“Good morning, rascal.”

“Follow me to breakfast,” he plied, hopping toward the stairwell. Emma chuckled at the sight of his little white tail flashing up ahead of her.

“Such a charming escort.” She descended slowly, taking her time to enjoy her surroundings more in daylight. Few of the windows had their drapes open, but in what light they afforded, she could see the tapestries, throw rugs and pillars, busts and portraits, painted landscapes and handcrafted clocks. Emma longed to touch several of the objects she saw, but she resisted the temptation, not wanting to misstep.

One little white rose. That was Emma’s price. The truth still pierced her heart. She followed Manuel toward the breakfast nook, brooding despite the simple beauty of the furnishings. The table was already set with glass plates, jewel encrusted goblets and pitchers, a ceramic serving boat filled with cream, rose-colored linen napkins, and silverware that gleamed in the sunlight, completely spotless. A wonderful scent rose from one of several covered dishes in the table’s center, and her stomach growled anew.

“Tienes hambre, senorita?”

“If that means am I hungry, then yes, I’m famished,” Emma said fervently. “Where is she?”

“She asked that you arrive first. And that you serve yourself.”

“It’s not polite to start without her.”

“She insisted, senorita.” Manuel seemed to shrug and then ducked his head beneath his paw, feigning scratching his ear.

“Pardon my confusion, then.” Emma lifted the cover from the dish and inhaled the rich aroma of fried potatoes, helping herself to a generous scoop. “I thought the purpose of a breakfast invitation was to actually join the person for the meal itself.” Manuel said nothing; when Emma looked up from selecting a slice of fresh bread and spreading it with strawberry jam, he was gone again. She sighed, once again left alone with little to no warning. She almost missed Adrienne and Cordelia’s constant nagging and complaints, if only so that she didn’t feel so deserted.

*

She craved the feel of the wind in her feathers. Ororo had mixed feelings about her decision, and even more complex ones about her reluctant houseguest.

Partner, she corrected herself. Emma Frost would come around. She was her last hope.

She shivered at the memory of her psychic presence, brushing her consciousness with her furtive touch. Winston hadn’t said as much, but Ororo sensed that his youngest daughter was one who read minds, and a very powerful seer, at that. Ororo didn’t know whether to rejoice or weep.

On the one hand, she was unique, like her. On the other, she was anything but.

The old thief had claimed that his daughter was lovely. The creature known only as the Windrider to the world at large scoffed at this, thinking he only meant to pacify her. He hadn’t lied, however, and her first sight of the reserved young woman had taken her breath away.

Yet she had never felt more ashamed at her own state as she had when she stared into those sky blue eyes, seeing her own horrible countenance reflected in their depths. Her fleeting hopes had been dashed at the fear and horror that twisted Emma’s features, at the way her heartbeat and pulse sped up so quickly that they skipped. Ororo’s enhanced physical senses could detect such things, and she could tell when someone was lying to her. It was both curse and gift.

If she allowed the youngest Frost to enter her mind, she would know the truth, and she would live out the remainder of her life cursed. She wasn’t the only one damned to this unnatural, lonely existence if she failed. The clouds shifted around her, roiling and darkening into thick, gray soup. She noticed this change and gradually calmed herself, restoring the day to its warm, overcast haze. Her eyes glowed white, sparking with electricity. The currents of energy surging through her body comforted her momentarily and the winds cleared her head.

Her body reacted strongly to her encounter with the girl. She was young and fresh, and her beauty was in full bloom. She also looked untouched, managing to seem aware of her own sensuality, but not brazen about it. Her mouth went dry at the sight of her sitting nude as a goddess in the shallow tub, skin still rosy from her bath. Her breasts bobbed atop the surface of the water, pink aureoles outlined in its silvery shimmer and gleaming in the firelight. Her blonde hair hung in disarray down her back, making her even more appealing, and Ororo longed to touch it, to see if it felt as silky as it looked.

The creature known as “Windrider” had seen many beautiful men and women come and go over the course of her life, but Emma Frost intrigued her. Ororo knew loneliness too well, even wore it like a cloak, and the sky wept with her after each of her failures to break the curse. At times, when her gloom became too much to bear, she sent word out to the village, posting word in the town’s inns and taverns that she would be willing to pay for “gentle companionship” upon certain conditions.

The practice carried with it great risk; when her guests arrived at the castle, it was always through the back entrance to the kitchen, and always to an empty room. There was always a note on the table directing them to follow the hall to the right, toward the foyer, and to come directly upstairs. A second note was left on that story explaining to go to the master suite to the right, with a portrait of a blue vase filled with white roses, painted in oils, hanging next to the heavy oak door.

She was always cloaked, and she always wore gloves, completely concealing her beastly appearance. Her suite was always prepared with sprigs of lavender and fresh-smelling sheets, with a roaring fire in the hearth. Ororo always left a plump sack of gold coins on the vanity before she nodded for her guest to go to the bed and disrobe.

The only three stipulations she made when she received a partner for the night were simple: Don’t ever take anything from the house. Don’t go into the garden. And that any transactions would take place in complete darkness, with the bed curtains drawn, and that you would close your eyes until the mistress of the house left the bedroom.

If the village knew about the presence of the terrible beast on the hill who spoke with a woman’s voice and controlled the skies, they would bring mayhem to her door and attempt to destroy her, so any transactions she made were carried out with great caution. She had no expectations of these individuals, mostly women, knowing that they were interested only in her purse, not her personality. But she treated them well, and to her credit, she was a well-versed, experienced and tender companion. She used her partners and used them well, leaving them exhausted and sated; they awoke to another note telling them to take their leave, waking at sunrise to the open curtains and an empty bed. It was a perfect arrangement, but it did nothing to break the spell.

The faerie’s stipulation was that she needed to inspire unconditional love in another, voluntary and uncoerced, genuine and unsolicited. Ororo was at a loss.

*

Emma was halfway through a colorful salad of exotic sliced fruits when she felt the breeze sweep in through the nook, rustling the curtains and heralding the arrival of the castle’s mistress. Emma felt her emotions, wary and fretful, but when she turned to acknowledge her, her face was calm, if she could call it that. Her features were just as unsettling as they looked the night before, but in the light of day, Emma could make out more details that she hadn’t noticed before.

“Well?” the Windrider beckoned. “What’s your verdict?”

“You’re fascinating,” Emma admitted.

“You’re staring.”

“So are you.”

The Windrider hadn’t transformed into a great beauty overnight, and Emma wasn’t about to change her opinion of her yet, but she couldn’t stop staring, as she’d pointed out. Emma rose from the table and approached her, and Ororo held her breath, difficult because she was winded after her flight. She stood transfixed as Emma Frost slowly examined her, walking around her in a slow, painstaking circle.

She stood stock-still, shivering as she felt something brush faintly over her hair, and she heard her guest make a small sound of surprise.

“It’s soft,” she murmured. The Windrider was flustered.

“Rain water,” she explained. “I wash it outside.” Her hackles rose at the sensation of fingertips brushing her feathers, tracing their pattern of growth from long, coarse primary to wispy, soft pinfeathers. Ororo felt herself staring at Emma, rapt beneath her gaze, and she shook herself from her thrall. “You’ve eaten?” she asked gruffly.

“Have you?”

“I’m satisfied, for the moment.” Ororo turned her back on her and reached for a goblet. Emma bristled.

“It’s not often I get a breakfast invitation and then find myself partaking of it alone. Do you always run from your guests?”

“I don’t run from anything,” her hostess growled. The orange juice that she poured from the pitcher ceased its flow into the glass for a moment, and Emma felt static rising in the room, stirring the hairs on her nape.

Ororo wouldn’t admit that she was self-conscious about eating in front of civilized company. Her muzzle-like mandible and cleft lip, feline in its appearance, made eating neatly very difficult. She licked her lips of the last of her drink and set the goblet down with a thunk.

“That’s hardly ladylike.”

“You call yourself a lady? You’re the daughter of a humble farmer,” the Windrider mocked, “and you were covered with mud when you arrived at my doorstep.”

“I was merely a bit the worse for wear,” Emma sniffed. “You hate my father, don’t you?”

“How fond would you be of a man who took your prized possessions.” The Windrider stood to her full height and paced a slow circle around Emma, looking her over. Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you wearing that?”

“It’s one of the only things I packed.”

“Ridiculous. I’ve provided you with a full wardrobe, you have much more appropriate things to choose from. Go change,” she snapped. Emma was affronted, and her fists balled themselves at her sides while spots of color rose into her cheeks.

“Honestly! There’s nothing wrong with my frock!”

“Frock. Hardly. That’s being too kind, it’s a shoddy rag.”

“It’s one of the nicest ones I’ve got. And in case you haven’t noticed, there are few people who I have to impress, here. Expecting company?” Emma’s eyes and voice hardened, and she knew her barb stung. The Windrider’s feathers rustled, and she emitted a low growl.

“No. But I expect your father’s bargain with me to be honored from his end.” The Windrider approached Emma again, and this time, she found it difficult to maintain her stance. The creature’s eyes flashed white, a sign of danger and that Emma had provoked her.

“I don’t know what you expect of me, or what my father promised I could offer!”

“Offer,” she snorted. “You think you’re making me an offer?” Emma felt foolish and small.

“Would you have me stay here unwillingly?”

“That’s up to you. Whether or not you’re willing,” Ororo challenged. “But you will stay.” She sighed. “And you will change that eyesore of a gown. I’m rather tired of it.”

“No. I won’t.”

“You will.” Murky, slate blue eyes narrowed, maintaining their color for the moment, but when Emma saw her reflection in them, she recognized her own false bravado and tight posture.

“I refuse.

“What did I tell you about refusing me?” Emma’s nostrils flared. They stared each other down for several tense moments.

Ororo sighed. She was going to make this hard.

Ororo’s hand whipped out in a blur of motion, snapping around Emma’s wrist. “You haven’t been given a proper tour of the grounds.” Ororo dragged her unceremoniously from the breakfast nook, and Emma stumbled over her own feet in her bid to keep up with her.

“This is unseemly! Let GO of me!” She struggled and tried to stand fast, but Ororo continued to drag her, determined to show her the error of her choice of words.

“You will come with me. There is much you haven’t seen, Emma Frost.” She led her to a bay window in the corridor, and Emma smelled ozone and cool mist as the Windrider flung it open with one clawed hand. “You would do well to hold on, and I hope you didn’t overeat.”

“What? What on earth do you mEEEEAAAANNNNN!” Emma’s breath was stolen from her lungs as the Windrider yanked her against her body, nearly smothering her in her voluminous blue robe, and her stomach lurched at the first leap into the air. Ororo threw them aloft, catching and gliding on a huge draft of wind. Her mighty wings opened and flexed in broad, elegant motion, weaving through the air in neat snaps as they gained altitude.

Emma thought she would be sick. The air gusting through her hair and beneath her skirts was exhilarating, frigid and intrusive. Her screams were snatched from lips, and she settled for hiccuping sobs that only her captor – her hostess – could hear. Ororo hardened herself against it, even though it was her first instinct to gather her close and reassure her.

The only thing she wanted to assure Emma about was who had all the control, all the power.

Ororo felt an odd buzzing in her skull, and she heard words whose origin puzzled her at first, when Emma was sobbing uncontrollably.

Why are you doing this to me?

“You’re in my mind again,” she accused.

“Let me down.”

“Not until you’ve learned manners.” It was laughable to Emma, or it would have been, if she wasn’t so terrified. The Windrider accusing her of rudeness was the pot calling the kettle black.

I’m afraid. I’m so afraid. Please let me down.

“And let you scurry off? Will you run?”

Emma shook her head, whimpering into Ororo’s neck. It felt odd, the light fanning of her warm breath against her flesh, and Ororo suppressed a shiver. But higher and higher she flew, until they were within fingertip’s reach of the clouds.

“Look,” she ordered.

“No,” Emma sobbed miserably. Her heart was pounding, and Ororo could hear it, along with her rapid pulse. Emma’s long blonde tresses tickled Ororo’s lips, a sensation she was still rattled to enjoy. She smelled like lavender soap.

“Look down,” she said again.

“I’ll faint.”

“I have you.” It was less a reassurance and more a statement of ownership, but Ororo’s voice was confident. “There’s the tower. My father’s grandfather built it, one brick at a time.”

“I don’t care,” Emma whispered.

“That’s my stable. Don’t go into it without my permission.” At the word “stable,” Emma drew back from Ororo briefly and dared to look down. Her heart leapt into her throat and she felt dizzy, fearing she would swoon, after all. She closed her eyes against the aerial view she had of the Windrider’s property and boundaries.

“Dear God!” Her face was green, and she made strange gulping noises. Ororo took pity on her and dropped down several meters. The plummeting feeling didn’t make things any easier for Emma, but the air didn’t feel as thin once they weren’t so high.

“There’s the pond. It’s high this time of year. You crossed the river, from the looks of you last night.” Emma’s fingers curled into Ororo’s cowl.

“I don’t care about the pond, I just want to get down!”

“You don’t like it up here?”

“NO, damn you! No!”

“It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. Not a care in the world,” Ororo mused. To her satisfaction, Emma drew back from her neck again, but she mourned the loss of her warmth against her skin. Emma took a chance and looked down again.

“Everything’s too small from here.”

“It makes me feel like I’m on top of the world,” the Windrider shrugged. “That’s what I like about climbing so high in the sky. It’s bracing, isn’t it?”

“It’s dreadful!” But Emma was intrigued. “What are those trees over there?”

“Apple trees. My orchard. It’s just inside my borders. Pity you’ve missed the blossoms already. Are you quite done digging your nails into my neck?” Emma loosened her grip, and Ororo decided to have a bit of fun with her, as if the launch hadn’t provided enough. She wrenched Emma’s hands free of her, and with a screech of denial ringing in her ears, Ororo dropped her. The winds tossed Emma about, flipping her around and playing lewd games with her long black skirts. The Windrider chuckled at Emma’s wide, terrified blue eyes descending away from her. “You wanted to fly free, little bird. Then, fly.”

Christian! Father! Pray for me, please, to fly home on the wings of angels! I never wanted to leave you!Emma’s prayers were fervent and desperate, borne of heart-stopping terror. She closed her eyes, blocking out the savage expression of satisfaction on the creature’s face as she loomed over her in the sky. She thought she was having delusions as she heard an odd flapping sound over the shrill whistle of the winds.

Strong hands snapped themselves around her arms, and her body righted itself so that she was no longer tumbling and pinwheeling through the air, but gliding on a warm draft. Emma’s teeth chattered from the change in temperature but she was grateful, until she realized who it was who stopped her ungainly plummet to the ground.

“I have you,” the Windrider informed her again, and she asserted her dominance with a rough nip of Emma’s neck. Emma cried out, but she was still too breathless to take umbrage or scold her. “There’s the west wing. It belonged to my parents.”

“Where are they now?”

“With the angels. I’ve been alone more years than I can remember.”

“You don’t know how old you are?”

“Nay, nor even how long I’ve been alone.”

Emma felt a guilty pang. She was penniless, but she was blessed with a family, siblings who would be her anchor for the rest of her life when her father finally passed from the earth. Suddenly she couldn’t envy the Windrider her teeming fortunes and advantages.

Then I truly do pity you. Ororo recoiled, feeling as though she’d been slapped. She jerked Emma close and growled against the crest of her cheek.

“Never pity me!”

“Then live above the need for it!” Emma shot back.

“That concludes our tour, and our outing. You look like you could use some refreshing, my dear.” The Windrider swooped down, careening back toward the earth smoothly, wings flattening into an even glide that Emma almost enjoyed. But then she saw her shadow rushing up at her from the surface of the lake, and her scream was swallowed up as she was dropped neatly into the frigid water. Bubbles rushed up around her as she made impact, plunging into the darkness. Emma’s ears were ringing, and the sudden loss of the winds was disconcerting; she felt so off-balance that she almost forgot to swim. Belatedly she kicked her way toward the surface, never more grateful before for the first sweet gulp of air as she broke the surface.

She choked and coughed up a mouthful of the fetid water and began paddling unevenly toward shore. Her gasps were broken and furious, and her braid had come half-undone from the winds and her subsequent dip. It hung plastered down her back as she slogged and dragged her way from the water to the banks, and she cursed and sputtered over her predicament. “That… was unnecessary… and uncivilized,” she told no one in particular. She staggered onto dry ground and limped over to a large rock. She sat down and removed her slippers, dumping out water and pebbles before she began to wring out her hair. “A monster,” she mused.

“And what of it?” the creature known as Windrider mocked.

“You’re cruel, and heartless! You deserve to be alone!” Emma cried out as she leapt to her feet, despite that she hadn’t gotten her bearings back yet.

“I’ll hear your thoughts on the subject once you change out of that horrid gown into one that’s actually dry,” was Emma’s response, much to her confused outrage. “Now, come along.” Emma’s feet squelched inside her damp slippers as she stomped and fumed the rest of the way back into the castle.