As She’s Told
: Chapter 33

I listened to the reassuring thump of my master’s heart against my ear, savoured the long, firm stroke of his hand.

Second night at home, cradled in the armchair, lights dim.

‘Maia.’

I hadn’t spoken yet. But knew that soon I’d have to. Still, my head pressed his chest a little harder. Long fingers lifted my jaw; I looked up. Into those clear, aware, kind eyes, that I’d loved from the first.

And that intense sparkle lurking. Some extra energy coming off him.

His mouth fighting a smile.

I’d spent most of the day before in the cage, straight from the packing crate and right in; muzzle, mitts and all. From there I’d watched my master shifting boxes, making phone calls, his long legs crossing the floor, in and out of sight. After a lunch from my bowl I’d held out my paws obediently to have the mitts taken off, watched my hands emerge, and found it fascinating to see such a multitude of wiggly pink things at the ends of my arms. I spent the rest of the afternoon feeling with my fingers, exercising my opposable thumb by grasping the bars: a primate once more.

Again I’d slept in his arms, fitting together with him like a token rejoined; pure bliss. That day I’d used my opposable thumbs to unpack and clean things. He’d needed to give me a lot of direction, but gradually I was remembering how to polish chains, clean leather, even which knobs to push on the washing machine. I’d been free of the muzzle, but nothing he’d said had required answers, till now.

‘Maia.’

I took a breath. ‘Mm?’

‘Try again.’

That was an order; no more indulgence for spaceheads. I cleared my throat and nodded.

Whispered, ‘Yes…Yes, master.’

‘That’s better. How are you doing?’

I ran my hand down his chest. What a pleasure to feel the texture of his skin, the small wiry hoops of chest hair, glinting, burnished, a slightly darker gold than his hair. I squeezed my eyes shut for a minute, opened them again, tried to reorient myself. Whatever he wanted. What did he need to know?

‘Uh – I’m – getting there.’

‘Good.’ He took my fingers and kissed them, the palm side, one by one while he searched my eyes. ‘We’ll start slow. Family names first.’

Slowly he led me through the preschool stuff, then kindergarten, up the verbal ladder. My other life, the one before the farm, began to reconstruct itself around me. There was more to consciousness than the present moment.

I’d had a job. He made me describe it to him. I was going back to my job, day after tomorrow.

Day after tomorrow?! I retreated into a tight ball in his lap, arms over my head. My reemerging vocabulary deserted me, leaving behind a dry mouth and the portion of my brain that knew how to panic. An animal brain; a body for others’ use; nothing more. Patiently he unwound the ball.

‘Come on, sweetheart. You can do it. Gather up those ‘I’ statements.’ Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

‘Come on, sweetheart. You can do it. Gather up those ‘I’ statements.’

The whirling slowed. A small, sudden laugh blurted from me, taking me by surprise. My face lifted. He smiled down at me. ‘Pitch your voice low but firm; you read the book.’

I laughed outright. ‘Uh, I don’t think the – the manuals had quite this –

situation in mind.’

‘Never mind. You’ve got the skills.’

I thought back. A year and a half maintaining two personas; splitting my consciousness so I could function like a professional no matter what was under my clothes or in my orifices. No matter what I’d had to do or have done to me the night before. Yes, I had the skills.

I’d have to watch myself like a hawk for a while, not to go off into subspace when my harness pulled. Not to drop to the floor if I heard the word ‘Down.’ Not to show the exquisite stab of humiliation when I flashed on the crawling thing I’d been. But then, I was what I was. I’d manage.

Anders pushed the hair off my face. ‘Guess what?’

I straightened, my brain clearing. ‘What?’ Here it was; I’d felt it. That texture of joy coming off him.

‘The homeless housing project. It’s happening.’

He kissed me then, again and again, and I kissed him back and tried to get my breath, and laughed, and crowed, ‘You did it! You did it! Master, how…?’

‘You did it, my brilliant, invaluable possession. Your idea.’

Confused, distracted, I shook my head.

‘Remember you said to find someone who could play the game? A fundraiser? I found one through Habitat. And he’s found a couple of backers.

Someone with a factory building in south Etobicoke who’s willing to see it converted to low-income apartments. It’s not big, we’ll get maybe twenty units, but it’s a start. And someone else who’s donating the funds. We’re signing the contracts next week.’

***

Anders held his woman’s face in his hands and kissed her again, an exultant, celebratory kiss that loosened the anchors of fatalism and cast him off into a hopeful sea.

The tips of his fingers followed the outlines of the face that mirrored his delight. He traced the brows, and the smooth places where someday the lines would be, full of character and beauty. Yet another thing to look forward to.

No end to the possibilities.

No end.

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