That is the first and last time she ever hears the Queen's voice. And even if she were, she has no idea what to say in response. Lydia pries her dry lips apart and tries to un-stick her tongue from the tacky roof of her mouth in answer. well, many and mysterious are the ways of the King.' The woman scoffs again. Her whole self feels uncomfortable, and itchy, and clammy. But the fever that Lydia can feel crawling over her flesh has warmed the cloth. Perhaps once it had been cool, and that is what had woken her: the short, sharp shock of cold water on skin. The woman (for she sounds like a woman voice age-worn and woven with threadbare compassion) mops at Lydia's brow with a tepid cloth. The bed, even the smell of the air is wrong. She tries to remember where she is, how she got here, but all that will come is her name, and the vague sense that this is not her home. All remains wrapped in nauseating darkness. There is a huffing scoff of disbelief somewhere off to the left of her, and Lydia turns her head to follow the sound, but finds her eyes won't open. 'I believe it is to teach care for lesser creatures. 'They have given you over to my child,' are the first words Lydia can parse out of the throbbing ache between her ears, the dull thud behind her eyes. To the great fan-fiction writers who taught me the value of smut, self-exploration, and the celebration of the weird, wonderful, kinky, kind, and fun world of Not Taking Sex Too Seriously.

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Lips Like Ice by Peggy Barnett