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The war ends, and Mrs. Crocker is happy about it.
Things had been touch and go there for a while, she says, touch and go. But our boys pulled through, didn't they? Yes they did, just like we knew they would, and those terrible Germans won't be trying any of that nonsense ever again.
Now we can all just go back to a normal life, she says, can't we? Condie dear?
And you say of course, Mrs. Crocker.
Normal life means business is good at her little shop—she calls it her little shop, even if it is really the entire country—and soon there are parties again, loud sparkling parties, and a new car to ride in. There is an otter-fur coat for Mrs. Crocker and another one for you, just a bit smaller. You look so pretty in it, she says, aren't the two of you such a pair? Such a darling little thing. All her friends think so too. They're positively green about you, she says. This means something different to Mrs. Crocker.
You go with her to meetings and take notes for her. Everyone thinks this is delightful, and when you read something from them aloud for her, they gasp and tell her how lucky she is. You go with her to dinner. She winks at you, sometimes, and holds out her glass of champagne for you to taste.
It's not good for you, I know, she says, but it's such fun isn't it?
Business is good everywhere.
You know what that means.
Mrs. Crocker has you examined and she is delighted. You're at a very receptive point in your cycle, she says, and she winks again. We'll have to make you even prettier than usual, won't we? Oh Condie. How exciting.
She buys you a pearl necklace and a girdle. Because, she says.
Not long after that you drive with her into town. Your hair is perfect. You're wearing a nice dress and your girdle under it, because. She fusses over your stockings and pats your bust into the shape she likes best. The car is pulling to a stop and she pulls something from her purse with a smile—red lipstick.
Now make your kissy-face, she says. You do.
Mrs. Crocker gets out of the car first. You haven't been to this part of town before, but it looks the same as the rest. She laughs and talks with someone outside while you sit there, and you hear them say how receptive your new friend is, and wouldn't it be wonderful if both of them took? Oh how exciting.
Mrs. Crocker calls you and you come out. Condie, dear, come meet your new friend.
Your new friend is standing next to Mrs. Crocker's friend. He is tall, even for a high-caste seatroll, and dressed like a fashionable gentleman in a suit with a narrow waist between padded shoulders and loose pants. There is a shock of purple in his hair, between his short horns. His face is smooth. There is nothing especially remarkable about him, other than that hair, but you suppose it could always be worse. At least he's handsome.
Madam, he says.
Sir, you say. You lift your hand for him to take and kiss, which he does. You both look at your hand, not at each others' eyes yet. This is a politeness.
Aren't they so old-fashioned, Mrs. Crocker's friend says, I think it's charming. They're like parrots you know, they live for ages.
Mrs. Crocker and her friend walk ahead of you to a cafe. They sit at a table, a small one, big enough for two. You move to stand behind her but she waves you away. Go sit with your new friend, dear, she says. Order anything on the menu, this is a special day.
Oh she can read a menu, her friend says. How clever!
Isn't she, Mrs. Crocker says. Shoo now, go get to know each other.
The waiter takes a long time to come while you and your new friend sit across from each other. This gives you time to make pleasant conversation: your new friend agrees that the weather is fine today and pays you a compliment on your hat. You tell him that it's a silly little thing but thank you. At the next table, Mrs. Crocker beams to see you getting along so well.
When the waiter comes, you order the lobster cocktail. And champagne. Your friend orders exactly the same thing. Where he grew up there were lobsters everywhere, he could tell you all sort of things about lobsters. They're very unlucky animals, he says, to be so tasty and so unintelligent. He read somewhere that lobsters were the least intelligent crustacean.
Intelligent things taste so much better, he says. More of a challenge. Don't you think? He smiles.
Mine doesn't read, Mrs. Crocker's friend whispers. My husband works for the State Department, it's safer that way.
Your friend's earfins flare, then flush violet. He becomes suddenly preoccupied with the button on his cuff. The champagne arrives.
The champagne is delicious. You feel a little better when you drink it. It's easier to remember some of the things Mrs. Crocker talks about at parties, human romance things and human money things and human war things. Your friend seems to like it when you talk about human war things, so you talk about the things you saw in newspapers. Your friend is drinking his champagne too. He tells you that war is important, sometimes, and you nod. You've always known that war was important.
But all those people killed, you say. Isn't that a shame.
Terrible, he says, terrible. His eyes don't mean it.
You think you might like him.
Cheers, you say. Cheers, he says. You clink.
Mrs. Crocker and her friend over at the other table are delighted. They watch you both drink your champagne and eat your lobsters and they drink iced tea with lemon and don't eat anything. As you finish they lean over the table toward each other and whisper. So compatible! Their cycles? Oh yes, yes yes yes. Oh how exciting, hadn't really considered but why not, and so on.
All of you leave and you get back in the car, but Mrs. Crocker gives you a butterscotch out of her purse and tells the driver to go to a different address—not home. It's some distance out from town, out where the houses and the lawns are both bigger and there are pretty flowering trees. You're not sure if you've ever been to this neighborhood. It looks a little like the place you had your photograph taken for the calendar a few years ago. The charity one, for the soldiers.
Mrs. Crocker's friend's house is a very nice house with a long driveway with trees on either side. There is a rose garden in front and you faintly smell trollmint growing somewhere. Your friend is lucky.
He's here too. When you go inside with Mrs. Crocker her friend is in the parlor fussing with your friend's purple stripe and straightening the shoulders of his jacket and brushing off his lapels and so on; you recognize pre-show preparations. Mrs. Crocker has already touched up your kissy-face in the car.
Go hold her hand, darling, says Mrs. Crocker's friend. Oh the two of you are so precious together, I wish we had a photographer. You're going to make such pretty little ones.
Do you think, Mrs. Crocker says. Tyrianblood?
Your friend's claws dig into the back of your hand. Oh I hope so, says Mrs. Crocker's friend. You'll try your hardest, won't you darling?
Yes ma'am, he says. Your hand hurts.
Mrs. Crocker's friend shows both of you to a bedroom—her son is away at university, she says. There are miniature models of war planes hanging from the ceiling in an attack formation. The bed is covered with a navy blue wool blanket, and there is a faint rancid scent of young male human.
They shut the door behind you, then open it up just a little. Let nature take its course, dear, Mrs. Crocker says through the crack. Don't embarrass me, darling, her friend says. We'll just be in the kitchen.
This is a familiar enough routine. Your cluster isn't engorged yet, but as a higher-caste it is your prerogative to claim the first mount and you're unlikely to impregnate him without a little preparation, so you pull up your skirt. You push the crotch of your panties aside and twine your fingers into your cluster. He removes his trousers completely to do the same. The resulting ensemble is not flattering.
Just a moment, you say. Get onto the bed, please.
Don't tell me what to do, he says. This is my house. I'm in charge here.
Your fingers still. You didn't expect that. I beg your pardon, you ask, because you have the best manners.
I said this is my house, he repeats.
The hell it is, you tell him.
You get on the bed, he says, do it now. I'm going first.
You fist your hand and give your cluster a twist. This isn't your house, you tell him, those aren't even your clothes. You're not going anywhere unless I tell you. Get on the floor if you like that better.
The polyps of his cluster are flushed violet and a few are waving upright. One hand is still clamped over the mass of them, hard. The other jabs a finger toward your face.
I don't care how good you think you are, he says. You're here for me. I don't fucking care what you say. I don't fucking care.
Then get on the bed, you tell him. Get on the bed and ask nicely and maybe I'll stuff some tyrian grubs up your nook. Maybe you'll be worth something then.
He lunges for you, snarling.
He's taller than you and you are faster than him, very fast indeed; both of you are strong and sharp. You tear around the room and tear it to pieces; he gets close enough to claw into the tail of your hair and you miss his eyes by millimeters when you rake his face. You hate him. Your cluster is begging you to mutilate him and somehow also to disdain him entirely. Your nook demands that you envelop him, crush him, destroy and consume him. It's terrifying.
You hate him so much so fast you have absolutely no idea what to do about it, and you flee.
Mrs. Crocker is furious.
You don't know how you got here; the way outside races you through several rooms and finally a door, into the bright sun and the unfamiliar place. The car is there. You know the car. You hide under it and breathe terrible air and can't seem to catch your breath. You curl up as tight as you can. Your cluster aches.
Mrs. Crocker's feet run up and she insists that you come out. You won't. You are not ever coming out.
Condie, she says. You will not make a scene.
She drops a trollmint sachet onto the ground next to you. Her shoe stamps upon it to grind it into the pavement, releasing the scent of it into the air. You hiss but there is no hiding place better than the one you have and you don't dare run. You can't get further away than the other side of the undercarriage. The musk of the mint follows you there and rides on the hot asphalt air into you.
You huddle up against the tire while your mind starts to sparkle and slow. You want to kill Mrs. Crocker, her friend, your friend, everyone. Everywhere. You want to cry. You're going to be culled.
Eventually she and the driver pull you out.
You are not culled.
You spend a week sleeping in the garage and no treats for a month.
Mrs. Crocker tells you that your friend will never be suitable for show again and that you have absolutely no idea how much you cost her. Everyone is talking about it. Did you know that you broke an entire set of Gallé cameo glass tearing through the parlor like that? Did you?
You did not know that.
You are a bad troll, she says. A very, very bad troll.
You tell her you're sorry.
She'll put a collar on you, she says, if she can't trust you to act civilized in public. Is that what you want? Condie?
No, Mrs. Crocker, you say.
Well then, she says. I'm glad to hear that. I'm glad we straightened this out.
She scratches your head between your horns and smiles. You get lobster for dinner.