Marts
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Oct 16, 2004
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- 43
Previous Chapter || First Chapter
Welcome to Wyckham Hall. The Dutchess of Wyckham is an icy presence in the light, but behind closed doors, with her most trusted servant, she is a kinky little minx.
Following her profound exertions and the complete surrender of her will, Duchess Annabelle fell into a most piteous and tender languor; a weeping fatigue that her senior housemaid was ill-equipped to deal with.
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,669
F/F | Armpit Tickling | Tickle Torture
The summons did not come as a knock at the door, nor as a shout from the corridor. It came as a vibration that seemed to run through the very bones of Wyckham Hall, originating from the intricate system of copper wires and bells mounted on the wall of the kitchen passage, echoing all the way up to the Senior Staff quarters.
Clang-clang-clang.
Jane drifted up from the depths of a heavy, dreamless sleep. For a moment, suspended in the grey twilight of dawn, she felt weightless. Then, sensation rushed back. She stretched, her toes brushing the cool iron of the bedframe. The agony of the orange oil had faded days ago, leaving behind only a hyper-awareness in her soles. It was as if the nerves themselves had been scoured with a wire brush and now lay exposed—a tingling readiness that sparked whenever she walked on cold stone.
Jane rolled over, blinking at her surroundings. She wasn't shivering by the drafty kitchen door anymore. Her new cot was situated in the coveted alcove just outside the Senior Housemaid’s private room—a position of silent prestige. She was the gatekeeper to authority, physically separated from the snoring masses of the under-maids down the hall.
Clang-clang-clang.
The bell rang again, sharper this time. Urgent.
The door to the private room clicked open. Alice emerged, already fully dressed in her severe blacks, frantically smoothing the front of her starch-stiffened apron. Her face, usually a mask of porcelain composure, was pale and drawn, her lips pressed into a thin, white line.
"Get up," Alice hissed, stepping over the threshold. "The bell, Jane. She has rung three times in the last ten minutes. And the sun has barely cleared the horizon."
Jane sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the cot. "Is it an emergency?"
"It is a mood," Alice snapped, moving to the small mirror in the hallway to aggressively pin a stray wisp of hair. "I know the rhythm of that bell. It isn’t the 'bring me tea' ring. It isn't the 'I'm awake' ring. It’s the 'I am crawling out of my skin and if someone doesn't fix it I will burn this house down' ring."
Jane stood, quickly donning her uniform. "Was she... difficult yesterday?"
Alice turned, her eyes narrowing as she scanned Jane’s face. "I wouldn't know. Last night was Tuesday. Tuesday is your night, Jane."
The words hung in the air, heavy with accusation and curiosity. The schedule was absolute: Alice attended the Duchess on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Jane had been given Tuesdays and Saturdays—the "training nights," as Annabelle called them, though the training had clearly evolved.
"Well?" Alice pressed, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "What happened? Did she speak? Did she complain about the estate? Did she mention Lord Penrose?"
Jane smoothed her skirt, choosing her words with care. She couldn't tell Alice about the blindfold. She couldn't tell her about the darkness or the desperate, sobbing release. That secret felt too fragile, too volatile to share.
"She was... quiet," Jane said, keeping her expression neutral. "I attended to her nails. She seemed tired. She dismissed me shortly after."
"Quiet," Alice repeated, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. She frowned, clearly unsatisfied but lacking the time to interrogate further. "Quiet is worse. Screaming I can handle. Screaming means she wants a solution. Quiet means she is ruminating."
Alice grabbed a fresh cap and thrust it at Jane, the starched linen making a dry frsst sound. "Put this on. Straight. If a single hair is out of place, she will flay us both. We need to go. Now."
They moved quickly through the silent house. As they walked, Jane’s mind raced. She knew last night had been significant—the Duchess had unraveled in a way Jane hadn't thought possible. But surely, for a woman like Annabelle, this was just another facet of her complex appetites? Perhaps Alice did this for her all the time? Perhaps the vulnerability was just a game, like the cross or the riding crop?
They reached the heavy mahogany doors of the Duchess’s suite. Alice paused. She took a deep breath, visibly composing herself, pulling the mask of the "perfect servant" down over her anxiety. She smoothed her apron one last time, her knuckles white.
Alice knocked.
There was no answer.
Alice knocked again, louder.
Still nothing.
Alice looked back at Jane, a flicker of genuine panic in her eyes. Then, she turned the handle and pushed the door open.
The Antechamber was dark, the curtains still drawn. The air was stiflingly hot and thick with the smell of last night's dying embers—a cloying mix of woodsmoke and the ghost of Annabelle's ambergris perfume. The fire in the grate had been built up high, as if someone had been trying to burn away a chill that wouldn't leave their bones.
"Your Grace?" Alice called out softly into the gloom.
"You took your time," a voice cut from the inner dressing room. It was Annabelle’s voice, but it was brittle. Thin. Like glass under too much pressure.
Alice signaled Jane to follow. They entered the Dressing Room.
Duchess Annabelle was standing in the center of the room. She was not dressed. She was wearing only a sheer silk chemise, her arms wrapped tightly around her own waist as if she were trying to hold herself together physically. Her hair was a tangled mane down her back. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the harsh morning light that filtered through the edges of the drapes.
But it was her eyes that stopped Jane cold. They were rimmed with red, wide and staring, with a frantic, unfocused energy. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her jaw, the tiny muscle beside her ear fluttering like a trapped moth. They were not the eyes of the powerful, playful mistress Jane had left in the firelight. They were the eyes of someone suffering withdrawal.
Annabelle didn't look at Jane. She looked at Alice, her gaze snapping with a frantic, undirected irritation.
"The water," Annabelle snapped, pointing a trembling finger at the porcelain basin on the vanity. "It’s tepid. I asked for steaming."
"I brought it up ten minutes ago, Your Grace," Alice said soothingly, moving to test the water. "If you had let us in—"
"Do not make excuses!" Annabelle shouted. The volume was shocking. "It is cold! Everything in this house is cold! The floor is cold, the tea is cold, you are cold!"
She spun away, pacing the rug, her chemise swirling. She looked like a trapped animal.
"I need heat, Alice. I need... friction. I feel like I am made of stone."
Jane watched from the doorway, a sudden realization coiling in her gut, cold as a snake. This wasn't a game. The Duchess wasn't playing. The woman who had begged for ruin in the dark was gone, replaced by this brittle, shivering stranger who seemed terrified of the silence in her own head. Had the surrender broken something? Or had it just opened a door that couldn't be closed?
"Jane," Alice hissed, snapping Jane out of her reverie. "Fetch fresh hot water. Run. Now."
Jane grabbed the pitcher. As she turned to flee, her eyes met Annabelle’s for a fleeting second.
There was no recognition in the Duchess’s stare. No secret smile. There was only a blank, terrifying vacuousness. It was as if Jane were a piece of furniture that had suddenly moved.
"And Jane?" Annabelle called out, her voice sharpening to a point.
Jane froze at the door. "Yes, Your Grace?"
"When you come back... do not clomp. My head feels like it is splitting open. If I hear your feet on the floorboards, I will have you put in the stocks again."
Jane swallowed hard. "Yes, Your Grace."
She slipped out into the corridor, the heavy door clicking shut behind her. She leaned against the wall for a second, the pitcher heavy in her hand. Alice was right about the mood, but she was wrong about the cause. The Duchess wasn't angry at the estate. She was angry at herself.
---
By the time Jane returned with the steaming pitcher, the Dressing Room had become thick with tension. She slipped inside, closing the door with the softest possible snick, ensuring her soft-soled shoes made no sound on the parquet floor. She moved to the side table, setting down the water and retreating into the shadows to stand beside the tall armoire. Her role now was simple: be a piece of furniture that occasionally handed things.
Alice was at the vanity, wielding a silver-backed hairbrush. Annabelle sat on the stool, staring at her own reflection with a critical, almost hostile intensity. The silence in the room was a physical pressure, a dead weight that made each breath feel like inhaling dust. The only sound was the delicate tick-tick of the mantel clock, each tiny click landing like a hammer blow in the quiet.
"I have asked the cook to prepare the poached turbot for lunch," Alice said, her voice bright and conversational—too bright. She was trying to perform the morning ritual, the gentle gossip that usually eased the Duchess into her day. "And the seamstress sent word that the velvet for the winter curtains has arrived."
Annabelle didn't blink. "Mmm."
Ssshhk-shh-shhk. Ssshhk-shh-shhk. The sound was both a whisper and a scrape; the silver-backed bristles shearing through the tangled silk of her hair. The brush moved in long, sweeping strokes through the dark, tangled mane. Usually, this was a time of intimacy. Alice stood close, her hip brushing Annabelle’s shoulder, a silent affirmation of their bond.
"And," Alice continued, her eyes flicking to Jane in the mirror before returning to Annabelle, a conspiratorial smile touching her lips, "I heard a rumor that Lord Penrose was seen in the village yesterday. Looking rather... disheveled. One wonders if he is still nursing his pride after the tea incident."
Alice paused, waiting for the laugh. Waiting for the shared sneer at the boorish man. It was an offering—an invitation to bond over their mutual superiority.
Annabelle’s hand shot up with a dry thwack of flesh on bone, grabbing Alice’s wrist mid-stroke.
"Stop," Annabelle said. The word was flat, dead.
Alice froze. "Your Grace?"
"Your chatter," Annabelle whispered, looking at Alice’s reflection with cold distaste. "It is incessant. Like a fly buzzing against a windowpane. Can you not perform a simple task without filling the air with nonsense?"
Alice recoiled as if slapped. She pulled her wrist free, her face flushing a deep, humiliated crimson. "I... I only thought to amuse you, Your Grace. As we usually do."
"I am not amused," Annabelle snapped. She turned slightly on the stool, looking at Alice directly. "I am tired, Alice. I am bored. And I do not care about the curtains or the turbot or Lord Penrose."
She turned back to the mirror, smoothing her hair with her own hand. "Just... finish. In silence."
Jane watched from her corner, clutching a velvet pin cushion to her chest. She saw Alice’s hands begin to tremble. Alice was floundering. She was using the old map—the map where she was the confidante, the sister-in-arms. But the landscape had changed overnight. The Duchess didn't want a sister; she wanted a servant. She wanted distance.
Alice resumed brushing, but the strokes were stiffer now, mechanical. Every movement radiated hurt confusion.
"The pins, Jane," Annabelle commanded, holding out a hand without looking.
Jane stepped forward silently. She offered the cushion. Annabelle plucked a hairpin with sharp, jerky movements, stabbing it into her chignon with unnecessary force.
"Tighter," Annabelle muttered to herself, staring at her reflection. "It looks loose. Sloppy."
"I can adjust it, Your Grace," Alice offered, reaching out.
"Don't touch it," Annabelle hissed, flinching away from Alice’s hand. "You'll just make it worse. You have no touch today, Alice. You are all thumbs."
Alice withdrew her hand slowly, a hot, prickling flush crawling up her neck. She curled her fingers into a tight fist, digging her blunt nails into the soft pad of her thumb with a dry skritch of keratin. Jane saw the sheen of tears in her colleague's eyes—not of sadness, but of pure, white-hot frustration. For the first time, Jane wasn't looking at the Senior Housemaid, the unflappable veteran of the Duchess's moods. She was seeing the woman underneath, a woman being shut out, walled off, and humiliated while Jane stood there, a silent witness.
"The corset," Annabelle announced, standing up abruptly. The silk chemise fell around her legs. "I need to be contained. I feel... spilling over."
Alice moved to the wardrobe, retrieving the corset—a rigid contraption of whalebone and pale blue silk. It was Annabelle’s "armor," usually reserved for formal dinners or court appearances, not a quiet Wednesday morning at home.
"The blue one?" Alice asked, surprised. "But Your Grace, we have no guests today. The softer canvas stay would be more comfor—"
"Did I ask for your opinion on my comfort?" Annabelle cut her off, turning her back and raising her arms. "I said the blue one. And lace it tight. I want to feel the bones."
Alice approached with the corset, wrapping it around Annabelle’s torso. She began to thread the laces, her movements quick and efficient, desperate to reclaim some ground.
"Breathe in, Your Grace," Alice murmured, pulling the strings.
Annabelle inhaled sharply. Alice pulled. The whalebone cinched Annabelle’s waist, forcing her spine straight, lifting her chest. The leather straps hissed quietly against the silk, punctuated by the faint, stressed creak of the stay's architecture.
"Tighter," Annabelle commanded, gripping the bedpost.
Alice pulled again. "That is quite snug, Your Grace. Any tighter and you might faint."
"I said TIGHTER!" Annabelle roared, slamming her hand against the post. "Stop treating me like an invalid, Alice! Pull the damn strings until I can't breathe! I want to feel it!"
Alice gasped, startled by the outburst. She yanked the laces with all her strength, the eyelets shrieking with a final, violent zzz-zzt! as the laces cinched taut. Annabelle let out a sharp "Hhh-kuh!" as the air was violently expelled from her lungs. It was a brutal but welcome anchor in a sea of formless anxiety; the sheer pressure forcing her viscera to shift and compact, a violent internal reorganization that left her breathless. The floating, unmoored panic was suddenly crushed and consolidated into the singular, grounding reality of her own compressed ribs.
"There," Annabelle panted, her eyes squeezing shut, a look of twisted relief crossing her face as the pressure crushed her. "Better. Lock it."
Alice tied the knot with shaking fingers. She stepped back, breathless, looking at the Duchess’s back with wide, fearful eyes.
Annabelle stood there for a long moment, breathing in shallow, restricted gasps. The physical constriction seemed to settle her. The frantic energy was contained, pressed down by the whalebone cage.
She turned around. Her face was composed again, but it was the composition of a statue. Cold. Hard. unreachable.
"My boots," Annabelle said, looking at the floor.
Alice moved instantly. She grabbed the riding boots from the stand—sleek, black leather, polished to a mirror shine. She knelt before Annabelle, eager to finish the dressing, eager to please.
Alice lifted Annabelle’s right foot, placing it on her thigh. She positioned the boot.
Annabelle looked down. She watched Alice’s hands on her leg. Alice’s grip was firm, efficient, purposeful.
Annabelle’s lip curled.
"No," Annabelle whispered.
She pulled her foot back, narrowly missing Alice’s face.
Alice rocked back on her heels, stunned. "Your Grace?"
"Not you," Annabelle said, her voice filled with a sudden, inexplicable revulsion. "Your hands... they are too busy. Too loud."
Annabelle looked up. Her gaze bypassed the kneeling Alice and locked onto Jane, standing in the shadows.
"Jane," Annabelle said. The name was not a shout, but a summons.
Jane stepped forward, her heart hammering.
"You do it," Annabelle commanded. "You understand the leather better."
Alice remained kneeling for a heartbeat, paralyzed. She looked from Annabelle to Jane, and for the first time, she saw it. She didn't know what had happened last night, but she saw the shift in gravity. The Duchess didn't want the efficient, sisterly hands of the Senior Housemaid. She wanted the quiet, knowing hands of the weed.
Slowly, stiffly, Alice stood up. She stepped aside, her face a mask of stone, making way for Jane to take her place.
The distance between the armoire and the Duchess felt like a mile. Jane crossed the Persian rug, the soft soles of her shoes silent against the wool. Every step was heavy with the weight of Alice’s gaze burning into her back from beside the vanity.
Jane stopped in front of the Duchess. Annabelle stood rigid in her blue corset armor, looking down with eyes that were no longer vacant, but sharp, expectant, and brittle.
Jane sank to her knees.
She reached out for the right foot. Annabelle lifted it, her balance perfectly maintained by the corset, offering the limb with the detached entitlement of a statue expecting a pedestal.
As Jane accepted the weight of the Duchess’s heel into her left hand and cupped the arch with her right, the temperature shock was immediate. Jane's hands, still radiating a deep, porous heat from the ceramic pitcher, met the dead, metabolic cold of Annabelle's skin. It wasn't the crisp cold of winter air; it was a damp, profound iciness that seemed to emanate from the bone marrow outward. For Jane, it felt like plunging her hands into chilled clay, the cold leaching the strength from her fingers.
For Annabelle, it was a brand—a searing, localized heat that didn't warm the surface so much as stab into the frozen tissue beneath. Through the fine weave of the cotton stocking, the foot felt clammy, the fabric damp with the sheer, bone-deep cold radiating through it—the cold of a body whose blood had retreated to its core in a desperate attempt to preserve heat against the emotional siege.
Jane looked up. She didn't look at the hem of the dress. She looked straight into Annabelle’s eyes.
"You are frozen, Your Grace," Jane said softly, her voice steady. "The blood has stopped moving."
Annabelle frowned, her chin lifting defensively, though she didn't pull away from the warmth of Jane’s palms. "Just put the boot on, Jane. I do not have time for—"
"If I put the leather on over this ice," Jane interrupted, her thumbs pressing firmly into the sole, feeling the rigid, shivering tension of the long cord beneath the cotton, "it will never warm up. The leather will just seal the cold in. You will be in agony before you reach the stables."
Jane held the gaze. She let her expression shift—just a fraction. She dropped the deferential mask of the maid and let the calm, knowing authority of the previous night bleed through. It was a subtle signal, a tilt of the head that said: Trust me. I know how to make the blood flow.
Annabelle stopped. Her mouth opened slightly to issue a reprimand, but the words died in her throat. She could feel it already—the heat from Jane’s hands was seeping through the stocking, a dull, throbbing ache of thawing nerves that was both painful and exquisitely relieving.
Annabelle let out a short, sharp breath through her nose. "Very well. But be quick about it."
Jane slowly, methodically peeled the white cotton stocking down, revealing the pale, high-arched foot. Without the fabric barrier, the cold was even more pronounced—Annabelle’s skin was smooth and white as marble, and just as hard to the touch.
Jane didn't start with pressure. She started with containment. She wrapped both of her hot, rough hands around the frozen foot, sandwiching the instep. She just held it there.
The thermal transfer was almost violent. Jane could feel the cold leaching into her palms, while Annabelle let out a shuddering sigh as the servant’s heat invaded her cold tissues.
"Better?" Jane murmured.
"It stings," Annabelle whispered, staring down at Jane’s red hands against her white skin. "Like pins and needles thawing into a heavy throb. Like waking up a dead limb."
"That means the nerves are listening."
Jane began to move. She worked her thumbs deep into the heel, kneading the tight, cold bands of gristle. Under the heat and friction, the alabaster skin began to flush a faint, healthy pink.
"The ice has broken, Your Grace," Jane murmured, her thumbs sliding smoothly over the now-pliable skin of the instep. "The color has returned."
She pressed deeper, testing the resistance of the sole. The flesh yielded, warm and soft, but beneath it, the structure was rigid.
"But the muscle..." Jane clicked her tongue softly, shaking her head. "It is still coiled tight. Like a wet rope pulled to breaking point. If I leave it like this, it will cramp the moment you place your weight in the stirrup."
Annabelle sighed, a sharp, impatient sound, though she didn't withdraw her foot. The heat felt too good. "We have achieved circulation, Jane. That is sufficient. I am already late. Just put the boot on."
"As you wish," Jane said dutifully.
But as she spoke, she didn't reach for the stocking. Instead, she let her right thumb sink slowly, heavily, into the fleshy pad just below the ball of Annabelle’s foot. She didn't tickle; she ground her thumb in a slow, circular motion, crushing the tension against the bone.
"Oh..." Annabelle’s breath hitched. Her head fell back slightly, her eyelids fluttering. The sensation was a deep, aching relief that made her toes curl instinctively around Jane’s hand.
Jane held the pressure for a delicious, agonizing second, then slowly released it.
"There," Jane said briskly, her voice neutral. She pulled her hands away, the warmth leaving Annabelle’s skin instantly. She reached for the white cotton stocking lying on the rug. "That should hold you for the morning."
She made to slide the stocking over the toes.
"Wait."
Annabelle’s voice was sharp. Her foot flexed, the tendons in her ankle making a dry clik-clik sound as they tightened, pressing down against Jane’s thigh and blocking the stocking.
Jane paused, looking up with innocent eyes. "Your Grace?"
Annabelle stared at her foot, then at Jane. The brief taste of the massage had been a tease. The ache in her arch was now throbbing, demanding the release she knew Jane could provide.
"Do not... do not leave it half-done," Annabelle muttered, looking away toward the window, refusing to meet Jane’s knowing gaze. "If it is going to cramp, you must address it. Thoroughly."
Jane suppressed a smile. She set the stocking aside.
"Very well. But this requires a different touch," Jane warned softly. "To release a knot this deep, I cannot be gentle."
"I did not ask for gentle," Annabelle snapped, bracing her hands against the seat of her stool. "I asked for effective."
Jane nodded. She secured the ankle firmly with her left hand. With her right, she returned to the sole. She didn't use the soothing, kneading motion of before. She positioned her thumb at the top of the arch—the sensitive precipice.
She looked at Annabelle’s face, watching for the reaction.
Jane dragged her thumb down the center line of the foot in a sharp, deliberate stripe.
"Khh-iiit!" Annabelle jerked her foot back, the reflex violent. Her toes flared wide. The sensation didn't feel like a finger; it felt like a heated copper wire being drawn taut against the raw nerve endings of her plantar fascia, an electric jolt that flew between pleasure, pain, and an intense, maddening tickle.
From the corner of the room, Alice took a step forward, alarmed by the sudden movement. "Jane! Be careful!"
"I apologize, Your Grace," Jane said smoothly, not letting go of the struggling ankle. She held the foot firm, waiting for Annabelle to settle. "There is a significant knot right there. It is very... reactive."
Jane looked up at Annabelle again. She saw the flush rising on the Duchess’s neck, saw the way her lips were parted.
"I can stop," Jane offered, her thumb hovering over the sensitive spot. "I can just put the leather on over the knot."
"No," Annabelle wheezed, the sound cut short as her expanding ribs slammed against the unyielding whalebone. She hated the sensation—it made her want to kick and laugh and scream all at once—but the corset strangled the noise in her throat, leaving only shallow, desperate hitches of breath to drown out the silence in her head. "No... get it out. Finish it."
"Hold still then, Your Grace."
Jane returned to the foot. She dug her thumb in, finding the nerve cluster in the center of the arch and vibrating it with sharp, aggressive movements.
"Hhh-ah! Ghhh-nnn!"
Annabelle bit her lip, her head thrashing against the high collar of her dress. The tight lacing turned her gasp into a high, thin whine. She tried to hold still, but her foot twitched and danced in Jane’s grip, electricity shooting up her leg.
"Hold still, Your Grace," Jane scolded gently, digging deeper into the sensitive toe-stems, making Annabelle squeak. "You are fidgeting. It makes the work harder."
"I am... trying... Ah! Jane! That’s—Ghh!"
Jane continued for another thirty seconds—shuttling between deep, bruising pressure and sharp, skittering strokes that triggered the nerves. She worked until the rigid tension in the foot collapsed into a pliant, buzzing warmth.
Then, she stopped. She smoothed her hand over the foot one last time, a calming stroke.
She rolled the stocking back on. She slid the riding boot over the now-sensitized foot, lacing it tight.
Jane sat back on her heels. "Done, Your Grace."
Annabelle looked down at her booted right foot, then at her left, which was still clad only in the stocking. She flexed the toes inside the leather. The right side felt alive, tingling, the heavy knot dissolved into a vibrant hum. The left side felt dull and heavy by comparison.
"The other one," Annabelle commanded immediately, lifting her left foot and placing it on Jane’s thigh. "It requires... the same attention."
Jane suppressed a smile. "Of course."
She repeated the process. The peel of the stocking. The brief moment of warmth. The deceptive deep press that drew a sigh, followed by the sharp, jolting work on the nerves that made Annabelle gasp and clench her hands.
"Ghhh-! Ah! Jane! Not the—hah!"
"Almost done, Your Grace... just... this... one... knot."
When the second boot was laced, Annabelle stood up. A vibrant, humming energy now flowed all the way down to the tips of her toes, a stark contrast to the stagnant, frozen feeling of moments before. The pressure of the corset no longer felt like a cage, but like a dam holding back a new and powerful current. She stomped her feet on the rug, testing the fit. The brittle glassiness was gone from her eyes. The color had returned to her cheeks. She looked formidable again. She looked like the Duchess.
She turned to the vanity, checking her reflection. She adjusted her collar, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips.
"Better," Annabelle declared.
She turned to Alice, who was standing by the window, watching the scene with a rigid, unreadable expression.
"Alice," Annabelle said, her voice warm and familiar again. The ice had thawed. "The clear air will do us both good. Come with me to the Orangery before I ride. I want to inspect the new jasmine cuttings you mentioned."
Alice blinked, the relief washing over her face so plainly it was painful to watch. "Yes, Your Grace. I would be delighted."
"And bring your shawl," Annabelle added, walking to the door. "It’s brisk this morning."
Annabelle swept out of the room, her step light and confident. Alice followed close behind, shooting a quick, confused look at Jane before hurrying to catch up with her mistress, eager to reclaim her place at the Duchess's side.
Jane remained kneeling on the rug for a moment longer. The room was quiet again. She stood up slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. She walked to the window and watched them cross the lawn below—Annabelle gesturing expansively, Alice nodding and laughing, two sisters in their private world.
Jane remained in the window, watching them disappear toward the glasshouse. It was a pretty picture—order restored, hierarchy respected. But Jane looked down at her palms, still tingling with the phantom vibration of the Duchess’s nerves. She knew it was only a reprieve. The engine would stall again, the silence would return, and when it did, she wouldn't call for her sister. She would call for the tamer.
Welcome to Wyckham Hall. The Dutchess of Wyckham is an icy presence in the light, but behind closed doors, with her most trusted servant, she is a kinky little minx.
Following her profound exertions and the complete surrender of her will, Duchess Annabelle fell into a most piteous and tender languor; a weeping fatigue that her senior housemaid was ill-equipped to deal with.
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,669
F/F | Armpit Tickling | Tickle Torture
The summons did not come as a knock at the door, nor as a shout from the corridor. It came as a vibration that seemed to run through the very bones of Wyckham Hall, originating from the intricate system of copper wires and bells mounted on the wall of the kitchen passage, echoing all the way up to the Senior Staff quarters.
Clang-clang-clang.
Jane drifted up from the depths of a heavy, dreamless sleep. For a moment, suspended in the grey twilight of dawn, she felt weightless. Then, sensation rushed back. She stretched, her toes brushing the cool iron of the bedframe. The agony of the orange oil had faded days ago, leaving behind only a hyper-awareness in her soles. It was as if the nerves themselves had been scoured with a wire brush and now lay exposed—a tingling readiness that sparked whenever she walked on cold stone.
Jane rolled over, blinking at her surroundings. She wasn't shivering by the drafty kitchen door anymore. Her new cot was situated in the coveted alcove just outside the Senior Housemaid’s private room—a position of silent prestige. She was the gatekeeper to authority, physically separated from the snoring masses of the under-maids down the hall.
Clang-clang-clang.
The bell rang again, sharper this time. Urgent.
The door to the private room clicked open. Alice emerged, already fully dressed in her severe blacks, frantically smoothing the front of her starch-stiffened apron. Her face, usually a mask of porcelain composure, was pale and drawn, her lips pressed into a thin, white line.
"Get up," Alice hissed, stepping over the threshold. "The bell, Jane. She has rung three times in the last ten minutes. And the sun has barely cleared the horizon."
Jane sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the cot. "Is it an emergency?"
"It is a mood," Alice snapped, moving to the small mirror in the hallway to aggressively pin a stray wisp of hair. "I know the rhythm of that bell. It isn’t the 'bring me tea' ring. It isn't the 'I'm awake' ring. It’s the 'I am crawling out of my skin and if someone doesn't fix it I will burn this house down' ring."
Jane stood, quickly donning her uniform. "Was she... difficult yesterday?"
Alice turned, her eyes narrowing as she scanned Jane’s face. "I wouldn't know. Last night was Tuesday. Tuesday is your night, Jane."
The words hung in the air, heavy with accusation and curiosity. The schedule was absolute: Alice attended the Duchess on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Jane had been given Tuesdays and Saturdays—the "training nights," as Annabelle called them, though the training had clearly evolved.
"Well?" Alice pressed, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "What happened? Did she speak? Did she complain about the estate? Did she mention Lord Penrose?"
Jane smoothed her skirt, choosing her words with care. She couldn't tell Alice about the blindfold. She couldn't tell her about the darkness or the desperate, sobbing release. That secret felt too fragile, too volatile to share.
"She was... quiet," Jane said, keeping her expression neutral. "I attended to her nails. She seemed tired. She dismissed me shortly after."
"Quiet," Alice repeated, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. She frowned, clearly unsatisfied but lacking the time to interrogate further. "Quiet is worse. Screaming I can handle. Screaming means she wants a solution. Quiet means she is ruminating."
Alice grabbed a fresh cap and thrust it at Jane, the starched linen making a dry frsst sound. "Put this on. Straight. If a single hair is out of place, she will flay us both. We need to go. Now."
They moved quickly through the silent house. As they walked, Jane’s mind raced. She knew last night had been significant—the Duchess had unraveled in a way Jane hadn't thought possible. But surely, for a woman like Annabelle, this was just another facet of her complex appetites? Perhaps Alice did this for her all the time? Perhaps the vulnerability was just a game, like the cross or the riding crop?
They reached the heavy mahogany doors of the Duchess’s suite. Alice paused. She took a deep breath, visibly composing herself, pulling the mask of the "perfect servant" down over her anxiety. She smoothed her apron one last time, her knuckles white.
Alice knocked.
There was no answer.
Alice knocked again, louder.
Still nothing.
Alice looked back at Jane, a flicker of genuine panic in her eyes. Then, she turned the handle and pushed the door open.
The Antechamber was dark, the curtains still drawn. The air was stiflingly hot and thick with the smell of last night's dying embers—a cloying mix of woodsmoke and the ghost of Annabelle's ambergris perfume. The fire in the grate had been built up high, as if someone had been trying to burn away a chill that wouldn't leave their bones.
"Your Grace?" Alice called out softly into the gloom.
"You took your time," a voice cut from the inner dressing room. It was Annabelle’s voice, but it was brittle. Thin. Like glass under too much pressure.
Alice signaled Jane to follow. They entered the Dressing Room.
Duchess Annabelle was standing in the center of the room. She was not dressed. She was wearing only a sheer silk chemise, her arms wrapped tightly around her own waist as if she were trying to hold herself together physically. Her hair was a tangled mane down her back. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the harsh morning light that filtered through the edges of the drapes.
But it was her eyes that stopped Jane cold. They were rimmed with red, wide and staring, with a frantic, unfocused energy. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her jaw, the tiny muscle beside her ear fluttering like a trapped moth. They were not the eyes of the powerful, playful mistress Jane had left in the firelight. They were the eyes of someone suffering withdrawal.
Annabelle didn't look at Jane. She looked at Alice, her gaze snapping with a frantic, undirected irritation.
"The water," Annabelle snapped, pointing a trembling finger at the porcelain basin on the vanity. "It’s tepid. I asked for steaming."
"I brought it up ten minutes ago, Your Grace," Alice said soothingly, moving to test the water. "If you had let us in—"
"Do not make excuses!" Annabelle shouted. The volume was shocking. "It is cold! Everything in this house is cold! The floor is cold, the tea is cold, you are cold!"
She spun away, pacing the rug, her chemise swirling. She looked like a trapped animal.
"I need heat, Alice. I need... friction. I feel like I am made of stone."
Jane watched from the doorway, a sudden realization coiling in her gut, cold as a snake. This wasn't a game. The Duchess wasn't playing. The woman who had begged for ruin in the dark was gone, replaced by this brittle, shivering stranger who seemed terrified of the silence in her own head. Had the surrender broken something? Or had it just opened a door that couldn't be closed?
"Jane," Alice hissed, snapping Jane out of her reverie. "Fetch fresh hot water. Run. Now."
Jane grabbed the pitcher. As she turned to flee, her eyes met Annabelle’s for a fleeting second.
There was no recognition in the Duchess’s stare. No secret smile. There was only a blank, terrifying vacuousness. It was as if Jane were a piece of furniture that had suddenly moved.
"And Jane?" Annabelle called out, her voice sharpening to a point.
Jane froze at the door. "Yes, Your Grace?"
"When you come back... do not clomp. My head feels like it is splitting open. If I hear your feet on the floorboards, I will have you put in the stocks again."
Jane swallowed hard. "Yes, Your Grace."
She slipped out into the corridor, the heavy door clicking shut behind her. She leaned against the wall for a second, the pitcher heavy in her hand. Alice was right about the mood, but she was wrong about the cause. The Duchess wasn't angry at the estate. She was angry at herself.
---
By the time Jane returned with the steaming pitcher, the Dressing Room had become thick with tension. She slipped inside, closing the door with the softest possible snick, ensuring her soft-soled shoes made no sound on the parquet floor. She moved to the side table, setting down the water and retreating into the shadows to stand beside the tall armoire. Her role now was simple: be a piece of furniture that occasionally handed things.
Alice was at the vanity, wielding a silver-backed hairbrush. Annabelle sat on the stool, staring at her own reflection with a critical, almost hostile intensity. The silence in the room was a physical pressure, a dead weight that made each breath feel like inhaling dust. The only sound was the delicate tick-tick of the mantel clock, each tiny click landing like a hammer blow in the quiet.
"I have asked the cook to prepare the poached turbot for lunch," Alice said, her voice bright and conversational—too bright. She was trying to perform the morning ritual, the gentle gossip that usually eased the Duchess into her day. "And the seamstress sent word that the velvet for the winter curtains has arrived."
Annabelle didn't blink. "Mmm."
Ssshhk-shh-shhk. Ssshhk-shh-shhk. The sound was both a whisper and a scrape; the silver-backed bristles shearing through the tangled silk of her hair. The brush moved in long, sweeping strokes through the dark, tangled mane. Usually, this was a time of intimacy. Alice stood close, her hip brushing Annabelle’s shoulder, a silent affirmation of their bond.
"And," Alice continued, her eyes flicking to Jane in the mirror before returning to Annabelle, a conspiratorial smile touching her lips, "I heard a rumor that Lord Penrose was seen in the village yesterday. Looking rather... disheveled. One wonders if he is still nursing his pride after the tea incident."
Alice paused, waiting for the laugh. Waiting for the shared sneer at the boorish man. It was an offering—an invitation to bond over their mutual superiority.
Annabelle’s hand shot up with a dry thwack of flesh on bone, grabbing Alice’s wrist mid-stroke.
"Stop," Annabelle said. The word was flat, dead.
Alice froze. "Your Grace?"
"Your chatter," Annabelle whispered, looking at Alice’s reflection with cold distaste. "It is incessant. Like a fly buzzing against a windowpane. Can you not perform a simple task without filling the air with nonsense?"
Alice recoiled as if slapped. She pulled her wrist free, her face flushing a deep, humiliated crimson. "I... I only thought to amuse you, Your Grace. As we usually do."
"I am not amused," Annabelle snapped. She turned slightly on the stool, looking at Alice directly. "I am tired, Alice. I am bored. And I do not care about the curtains or the turbot or Lord Penrose."
She turned back to the mirror, smoothing her hair with her own hand. "Just... finish. In silence."
Jane watched from her corner, clutching a velvet pin cushion to her chest. She saw Alice’s hands begin to tremble. Alice was floundering. She was using the old map—the map where she was the confidante, the sister-in-arms. But the landscape had changed overnight. The Duchess didn't want a sister; she wanted a servant. She wanted distance.
Alice resumed brushing, but the strokes were stiffer now, mechanical. Every movement radiated hurt confusion.
"The pins, Jane," Annabelle commanded, holding out a hand without looking.
Jane stepped forward silently. She offered the cushion. Annabelle plucked a hairpin with sharp, jerky movements, stabbing it into her chignon with unnecessary force.
"Tighter," Annabelle muttered to herself, staring at her reflection. "It looks loose. Sloppy."
"I can adjust it, Your Grace," Alice offered, reaching out.
"Don't touch it," Annabelle hissed, flinching away from Alice’s hand. "You'll just make it worse. You have no touch today, Alice. You are all thumbs."
Alice withdrew her hand slowly, a hot, prickling flush crawling up her neck. She curled her fingers into a tight fist, digging her blunt nails into the soft pad of her thumb with a dry skritch of keratin. Jane saw the sheen of tears in her colleague's eyes—not of sadness, but of pure, white-hot frustration. For the first time, Jane wasn't looking at the Senior Housemaid, the unflappable veteran of the Duchess's moods. She was seeing the woman underneath, a woman being shut out, walled off, and humiliated while Jane stood there, a silent witness.
"The corset," Annabelle announced, standing up abruptly. The silk chemise fell around her legs. "I need to be contained. I feel... spilling over."
Alice moved to the wardrobe, retrieving the corset—a rigid contraption of whalebone and pale blue silk. It was Annabelle’s "armor," usually reserved for formal dinners or court appearances, not a quiet Wednesday morning at home.
"The blue one?" Alice asked, surprised. "But Your Grace, we have no guests today. The softer canvas stay would be more comfor—"
"Did I ask for your opinion on my comfort?" Annabelle cut her off, turning her back and raising her arms. "I said the blue one. And lace it tight. I want to feel the bones."
Alice approached with the corset, wrapping it around Annabelle’s torso. She began to thread the laces, her movements quick and efficient, desperate to reclaim some ground.
"Breathe in, Your Grace," Alice murmured, pulling the strings.
Annabelle inhaled sharply. Alice pulled. The whalebone cinched Annabelle’s waist, forcing her spine straight, lifting her chest. The leather straps hissed quietly against the silk, punctuated by the faint, stressed creak of the stay's architecture.
"Tighter," Annabelle commanded, gripping the bedpost.
Alice pulled again. "That is quite snug, Your Grace. Any tighter and you might faint."
"I said TIGHTER!" Annabelle roared, slamming her hand against the post. "Stop treating me like an invalid, Alice! Pull the damn strings until I can't breathe! I want to feel it!"
Alice gasped, startled by the outburst. She yanked the laces with all her strength, the eyelets shrieking with a final, violent zzz-zzt! as the laces cinched taut. Annabelle let out a sharp "Hhh-kuh!" as the air was violently expelled from her lungs. It was a brutal but welcome anchor in a sea of formless anxiety; the sheer pressure forcing her viscera to shift and compact, a violent internal reorganization that left her breathless. The floating, unmoored panic was suddenly crushed and consolidated into the singular, grounding reality of her own compressed ribs.
"There," Annabelle panted, her eyes squeezing shut, a look of twisted relief crossing her face as the pressure crushed her. "Better. Lock it."
Alice tied the knot with shaking fingers. She stepped back, breathless, looking at the Duchess’s back with wide, fearful eyes.
Annabelle stood there for a long moment, breathing in shallow, restricted gasps. The physical constriction seemed to settle her. The frantic energy was contained, pressed down by the whalebone cage.
She turned around. Her face was composed again, but it was the composition of a statue. Cold. Hard. unreachable.
"My boots," Annabelle said, looking at the floor.
Alice moved instantly. She grabbed the riding boots from the stand—sleek, black leather, polished to a mirror shine. She knelt before Annabelle, eager to finish the dressing, eager to please.
Alice lifted Annabelle’s right foot, placing it on her thigh. She positioned the boot.
Annabelle looked down. She watched Alice’s hands on her leg. Alice’s grip was firm, efficient, purposeful.
Annabelle’s lip curled.
"No," Annabelle whispered.
She pulled her foot back, narrowly missing Alice’s face.
Alice rocked back on her heels, stunned. "Your Grace?"
"Not you," Annabelle said, her voice filled with a sudden, inexplicable revulsion. "Your hands... they are too busy. Too loud."
Annabelle looked up. Her gaze bypassed the kneeling Alice and locked onto Jane, standing in the shadows.
"Jane," Annabelle said. The name was not a shout, but a summons.
Jane stepped forward, her heart hammering.
"You do it," Annabelle commanded. "You understand the leather better."
Alice remained kneeling for a heartbeat, paralyzed. She looked from Annabelle to Jane, and for the first time, she saw it. She didn't know what had happened last night, but she saw the shift in gravity. The Duchess didn't want the efficient, sisterly hands of the Senior Housemaid. She wanted the quiet, knowing hands of the weed.
Slowly, stiffly, Alice stood up. She stepped aside, her face a mask of stone, making way for Jane to take her place.
The distance between the armoire and the Duchess felt like a mile. Jane crossed the Persian rug, the soft soles of her shoes silent against the wool. Every step was heavy with the weight of Alice’s gaze burning into her back from beside the vanity.
Jane stopped in front of the Duchess. Annabelle stood rigid in her blue corset armor, looking down with eyes that were no longer vacant, but sharp, expectant, and brittle.
Jane sank to her knees.
She reached out for the right foot. Annabelle lifted it, her balance perfectly maintained by the corset, offering the limb with the detached entitlement of a statue expecting a pedestal.
As Jane accepted the weight of the Duchess’s heel into her left hand and cupped the arch with her right, the temperature shock was immediate. Jane's hands, still radiating a deep, porous heat from the ceramic pitcher, met the dead, metabolic cold of Annabelle's skin. It wasn't the crisp cold of winter air; it was a damp, profound iciness that seemed to emanate from the bone marrow outward. For Jane, it felt like plunging her hands into chilled clay, the cold leaching the strength from her fingers.
For Annabelle, it was a brand—a searing, localized heat that didn't warm the surface so much as stab into the frozen tissue beneath. Through the fine weave of the cotton stocking, the foot felt clammy, the fabric damp with the sheer, bone-deep cold radiating through it—the cold of a body whose blood had retreated to its core in a desperate attempt to preserve heat against the emotional siege.
Jane looked up. She didn't look at the hem of the dress. She looked straight into Annabelle’s eyes.
"You are frozen, Your Grace," Jane said softly, her voice steady. "The blood has stopped moving."
Annabelle frowned, her chin lifting defensively, though she didn't pull away from the warmth of Jane’s palms. "Just put the boot on, Jane. I do not have time for—"
"If I put the leather on over this ice," Jane interrupted, her thumbs pressing firmly into the sole, feeling the rigid, shivering tension of the long cord beneath the cotton, "it will never warm up. The leather will just seal the cold in. You will be in agony before you reach the stables."
Jane held the gaze. She let her expression shift—just a fraction. She dropped the deferential mask of the maid and let the calm, knowing authority of the previous night bleed through. It was a subtle signal, a tilt of the head that said: Trust me. I know how to make the blood flow.
Annabelle stopped. Her mouth opened slightly to issue a reprimand, but the words died in her throat. She could feel it already—the heat from Jane’s hands was seeping through the stocking, a dull, throbbing ache of thawing nerves that was both painful and exquisitely relieving.
Annabelle let out a short, sharp breath through her nose. "Very well. But be quick about it."
Jane slowly, methodically peeled the white cotton stocking down, revealing the pale, high-arched foot. Without the fabric barrier, the cold was even more pronounced—Annabelle’s skin was smooth and white as marble, and just as hard to the touch.
Jane didn't start with pressure. She started with containment. She wrapped both of her hot, rough hands around the frozen foot, sandwiching the instep. She just held it there.
The thermal transfer was almost violent. Jane could feel the cold leaching into her palms, while Annabelle let out a shuddering sigh as the servant’s heat invaded her cold tissues.
"Better?" Jane murmured.
"It stings," Annabelle whispered, staring down at Jane’s red hands against her white skin. "Like pins and needles thawing into a heavy throb. Like waking up a dead limb."
"That means the nerves are listening."
Jane began to move. She worked her thumbs deep into the heel, kneading the tight, cold bands of gristle. Under the heat and friction, the alabaster skin began to flush a faint, healthy pink.
"The ice has broken, Your Grace," Jane murmured, her thumbs sliding smoothly over the now-pliable skin of the instep. "The color has returned."
She pressed deeper, testing the resistance of the sole. The flesh yielded, warm and soft, but beneath it, the structure was rigid.
"But the muscle..." Jane clicked her tongue softly, shaking her head. "It is still coiled tight. Like a wet rope pulled to breaking point. If I leave it like this, it will cramp the moment you place your weight in the stirrup."
Annabelle sighed, a sharp, impatient sound, though she didn't withdraw her foot. The heat felt too good. "We have achieved circulation, Jane. That is sufficient. I am already late. Just put the boot on."
"As you wish," Jane said dutifully.
But as she spoke, she didn't reach for the stocking. Instead, she let her right thumb sink slowly, heavily, into the fleshy pad just below the ball of Annabelle’s foot. She didn't tickle; she ground her thumb in a slow, circular motion, crushing the tension against the bone.
"Oh..." Annabelle’s breath hitched. Her head fell back slightly, her eyelids fluttering. The sensation was a deep, aching relief that made her toes curl instinctively around Jane’s hand.
Jane held the pressure for a delicious, agonizing second, then slowly released it.
"There," Jane said briskly, her voice neutral. She pulled her hands away, the warmth leaving Annabelle’s skin instantly. She reached for the white cotton stocking lying on the rug. "That should hold you for the morning."
She made to slide the stocking over the toes.
"Wait."
Annabelle’s voice was sharp. Her foot flexed, the tendons in her ankle making a dry clik-clik sound as they tightened, pressing down against Jane’s thigh and blocking the stocking.
Jane paused, looking up with innocent eyes. "Your Grace?"
Annabelle stared at her foot, then at Jane. The brief taste of the massage had been a tease. The ache in her arch was now throbbing, demanding the release she knew Jane could provide.
"Do not... do not leave it half-done," Annabelle muttered, looking away toward the window, refusing to meet Jane’s knowing gaze. "If it is going to cramp, you must address it. Thoroughly."
Jane suppressed a smile. She set the stocking aside.
"Very well. But this requires a different touch," Jane warned softly. "To release a knot this deep, I cannot be gentle."
"I did not ask for gentle," Annabelle snapped, bracing her hands against the seat of her stool. "I asked for effective."
Jane nodded. She secured the ankle firmly with her left hand. With her right, she returned to the sole. She didn't use the soothing, kneading motion of before. She positioned her thumb at the top of the arch—the sensitive precipice.
She looked at Annabelle’s face, watching for the reaction.
Jane dragged her thumb down the center line of the foot in a sharp, deliberate stripe.
"Khh-iiit!" Annabelle jerked her foot back, the reflex violent. Her toes flared wide. The sensation didn't feel like a finger; it felt like a heated copper wire being drawn taut against the raw nerve endings of her plantar fascia, an electric jolt that flew between pleasure, pain, and an intense, maddening tickle.
From the corner of the room, Alice took a step forward, alarmed by the sudden movement. "Jane! Be careful!"
"I apologize, Your Grace," Jane said smoothly, not letting go of the struggling ankle. She held the foot firm, waiting for Annabelle to settle. "There is a significant knot right there. It is very... reactive."
Jane looked up at Annabelle again. She saw the flush rising on the Duchess’s neck, saw the way her lips were parted.
"I can stop," Jane offered, her thumb hovering over the sensitive spot. "I can just put the leather on over the knot."
"No," Annabelle wheezed, the sound cut short as her expanding ribs slammed against the unyielding whalebone. She hated the sensation—it made her want to kick and laugh and scream all at once—but the corset strangled the noise in her throat, leaving only shallow, desperate hitches of breath to drown out the silence in her head. "No... get it out. Finish it."
"Hold still then, Your Grace."
Jane returned to the foot. She dug her thumb in, finding the nerve cluster in the center of the arch and vibrating it with sharp, aggressive movements.
"Hhh-ah! Ghhh-nnn!"
Annabelle bit her lip, her head thrashing against the high collar of her dress. The tight lacing turned her gasp into a high, thin whine. She tried to hold still, but her foot twitched and danced in Jane’s grip, electricity shooting up her leg.
"Hold still, Your Grace," Jane scolded gently, digging deeper into the sensitive toe-stems, making Annabelle squeak. "You are fidgeting. It makes the work harder."
"I am... trying... Ah! Jane! That’s—Ghh!"
Jane continued for another thirty seconds—shuttling between deep, bruising pressure and sharp, skittering strokes that triggered the nerves. She worked until the rigid tension in the foot collapsed into a pliant, buzzing warmth.
Then, she stopped. She smoothed her hand over the foot one last time, a calming stroke.
She rolled the stocking back on. She slid the riding boot over the now-sensitized foot, lacing it tight.
Jane sat back on her heels. "Done, Your Grace."
Annabelle looked down at her booted right foot, then at her left, which was still clad only in the stocking. She flexed the toes inside the leather. The right side felt alive, tingling, the heavy knot dissolved into a vibrant hum. The left side felt dull and heavy by comparison.
"The other one," Annabelle commanded immediately, lifting her left foot and placing it on Jane’s thigh. "It requires... the same attention."
Jane suppressed a smile. "Of course."
She repeated the process. The peel of the stocking. The brief moment of warmth. The deceptive deep press that drew a sigh, followed by the sharp, jolting work on the nerves that made Annabelle gasp and clench her hands.
"Ghhh-! Ah! Jane! Not the—hah!"
"Almost done, Your Grace... just... this... one... knot."
When the second boot was laced, Annabelle stood up. A vibrant, humming energy now flowed all the way down to the tips of her toes, a stark contrast to the stagnant, frozen feeling of moments before. The pressure of the corset no longer felt like a cage, but like a dam holding back a new and powerful current. She stomped her feet on the rug, testing the fit. The brittle glassiness was gone from her eyes. The color had returned to her cheeks. She looked formidable again. She looked like the Duchess.
She turned to the vanity, checking her reflection. She adjusted her collar, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips.
"Better," Annabelle declared.
She turned to Alice, who was standing by the window, watching the scene with a rigid, unreadable expression.
"Alice," Annabelle said, her voice warm and familiar again. The ice had thawed. "The clear air will do us both good. Come with me to the Orangery before I ride. I want to inspect the new jasmine cuttings you mentioned."
Alice blinked, the relief washing over her face so plainly it was painful to watch. "Yes, Your Grace. I would be delighted."
"And bring your shawl," Annabelle added, walking to the door. "It’s brisk this morning."
Annabelle swept out of the room, her step light and confident. Alice followed close behind, shooting a quick, confused look at Jane before hurrying to catch up with her mistress, eager to reclaim her place at the Duchess's side.
Jane remained kneeling on the rug for a moment longer. The room was quiet again. She stood up slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. She walked to the window and watched them cross the lawn below—Annabelle gesturing expansively, Alice nodding and laughing, two sisters in their private world.
Jane remained in the window, watching them disappear toward the glasshouse. It was a pretty picture—order restored, hierarchy respected. But Jane looked down at her palms, still tingling with the phantom vibration of the Duchess’s nerves. She knew it was only a reprieve. The engine would stall again, the silence would return, and when it did, she wouldn't call for her sister. She would call for the tamer.
