11th of January, 2019Amy really hadn’t slept well that night. Her usual struggles with sleep, caused by an overactive mind, were exacerbated by her anxiety. The ratty old mattress she’d been provided with forced her to restlessly adjust her position dozens of times before she got comfortable.

  It had to be hours before she finally succumbed to drowsiness.

  Of course, she woke up multiple times that night. Her anxiety about not waking up on time was usually resolved by having an arm to rely upon, but she had not been provided with one down here. What would happen if she did not wake up on time?

  But by the time Kelynen came to wake her up, she’d been sleeping very deeply. But the way in which she did didn’t make any sense. The woman was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing comfortable-looking pastel green pyjamas. She left the cell door wide open like Amy hadn’t betrayed her trust less than sixteen hours ago.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Kelynen’s accent is stronger than it usually is, making her sound even more like a dy-pirate. “Are ye feeling any better?”

  “Think so.” Amy mumbles, struggling to push herself upright. She doesn’t have to worry about being clothed— she spent the whole night in her uniform, feeling rather cold.

  “Slept well?”

  She stares at her in lieu of a response, probably looking as dazed as she felt. Her sponsor had dropped the pretence of being mean to her long ago, but now she’s being genuinely nice. It spooks her.

  “There are a lot of things I’m going to have to discuss with ye today. We can talk about a lot of the details ter, but for now it’s going to be about ye and me.”

  “Like, together, or?” Amy tilts her head slightly.

  “Separately. But also together? Eira told me about what happened. I wasn’t surprised that ye panicked — I think ye’re more anxious than ye like to admit to yerself — but I didn’t know just how bad it was. I assumed it was yer usual overthinking. Ye’re dealing with a lot of fears, and I wouldn’t be doing ye any good if I tried to be all sponsor-like still.”

  She frowns. “But that’s, like, your job?”

  “I s’pose it is. I’m not going to be doing it, though. Sure, I’ll still be doing chores alongside ye and teaching ye about fun things like cooking, art, makeup, gardening— but I’m not gonna do the whole tasers-and-yelling-at-ye thing. I’m no good at it, anyhow. So I’m gonna be yer friend instead.”

  “Friends? Why?” It doesn’t make any sense— she’s being punished, and her sponsor is trying to be her friend instead?

  “Because I want to be.” She shrugs. “Ye seem nice.”

  “I’m not. I wouldn’t be here if I were.”

  “Wrong. Ye’re here because ye can be. In the right circumstances.”

  “You know I don’t quite trust it, right?”

  “That’s because ye’re overthinking it. Like ye always do.” She ughs. “Come on, get up. It’s time for breakfast.”

  Amy gres at her. Her sponsor thinks she can be her friend? They’re being prepared for such horrible things and the people doing it to them think they can be something other than their tormentors? It’s—

  Kelynen boops her on the nose like she’s a child. She gres at her more intensely than before, just to have her nose touched again. “If ye really want me to do a sponsor-like thing— I’ll keep booping ye if ye keep pouting like that.”

  All she could do in response to that is blush.

  ***

  ‘Overthinking’. What an absurd concept. Of course Amy thinks about things! It’s the hallmark of an intelligent woman to do so. Deep consideration and rational weighing of her options has led her to make many good decisions in the past, and it was her abandonment of that approach that left her stuck in that stupid cell for the next two weeks.

  At least two weeks, Kelynen told her during breakfast. It was the standard period of time for such serious offenses. Jenny had been given some leniency because she didn’t know what the punishment would be: it was the first time anyone had attempted such a thing. Amy, on the other hand, was fully aware and would suffer the consequences. Two weeks away of sleeping in that stupid cell, in minimal comfort, away from her friends.

  This morning had made clear what the sponsors considered luxuries capable of being withdrawn. Breakfast had been cut back from the retively broad range of options they had upstairs to a bowl of Weetabix. Privacy during breakfast had been repced with being monitored by her sponsor— even if Kelynen refused to call it that. She insisted that it was a nice breakfast between friends like Amy would otherwise have.

  Once they’d finished eating breakfast, Kelynen started to read from a well-worn, printed-out piece of A4 paper. It included all the rules which Amy would have to follow. Most of them were a repetition of the ones she’d agreed to earlier, but some more specific ones had been added. The expectations as to her appearance, hitherto left implied, were turned into a set of guidelines.

  She would be given a chance to shower daily and would have to take the offer at least three times per week. That meant using shampoo, conditioner and soap. She was expected to wear a clean uniform every single day. Yes, she had to brush her teeth in the morning. She had to be clean-shaven— that included her lip. Sponsors reserve the right to make her wear some kind of female deodorant if necessary. If she felt required to masturbate, the least she could do is wait until after work hours rather than doing it on the toilet.

  The rules regarding cleanliness were scribbled on at the bottom of the page, the result of obvious malicious compliance in the past.

  There was another new development, this time reted to her own misdeeds. The three of them had their fingerprint access revoked on the main floor. If they needed to leave a room, for whatever reason, they would have to ask their sponsors for the privilege. In practice, it meant each of them would have to be escorted to the bathroom— pcing them somewhere below schoolchildren on the toilet freedom index.

  Because she’s not allowed to end up in unsupervised contact with the others, she’s going to be using the spartan communal shower attached to a small gym on the main floor instead of the rather luxurious showers on the second floor.

  If the sponsors were trying to make the point that she’s risking some serious perks by resisting the programme, she’s been thoroughly convinced. They will be given comfort and autonomy if they go along with the programme— but if they want to make themselves threats, they will be treated as such. Kelynen being nice to her does not change that basic truth.

  Amy doesn’t particurly want to learn what the next step would be. She can guess that it’s already been pnned out and that preparations will have been made. It’s not like she could expect anything less from someone like Eira.

  Having to go from the heated tiles of the second-floor bathrooms to the cold ones downstairs has been enough of a change as is. It’s not that she’s unused to the sensation, having lived in a student dorm without such luxuries, but at least back then she could throw a towel on the floor to avoid the worst of it.

  Such great suffering does not stop her from making sure she is as fresh and clean as she can be for the rest of the day, nor do her great sacrifices relieve her of the threat of randomly running into sponsors whilst going through her morning routine.

  In this case, she runs into Vivienne. It took her a second to recognise the sponsor without her makeup, beautifully-styled hair or usual uniform with its short skirt, which Rose and her opted for over the ankle-length alternative. Her beautiful figure is obscured by a ratty old hoodie and her blond hair drawn into a ponytail.

  Getting a proper look at Vivienne also means there’s four women Amy is attracted to as of right now. She's quite lucky her own sponsor isn’t one of them— not for a ck of looks, but more so because she doesn’t stand out in her mind. Faith is the cutest little thing she’s ever met; Rose seems like she would be fun to hang out with if she wasn’t on your ass about one thing or another, though that part also excites Amy; Eira makes her feel weak, stupid and helpless in all the right ways; Vivienne is just straight-up pretty and skilled at all the things that build on that base. Kelynen, meanwhile, is quite nice and easily excited. They’re good traits but not ones that make her paraphilic heart flutter quite like the others.

  Especially not like Faith does, with the girl being an actually realistic prospect for her. Part of it comes from rather unhealthy corners of her own mind— the thought that her friend, who has so long insisted she’s a man, is going to be a woman whether she likes it or not is addicting. But where she could see Jenny being into the same things, Faith isn’t the same kind of degenerate that Amy is and wouldn’t get off on her experiences. The fear doesn’t turn into pleasure for her. It’s why Amy worried sick for her right now. The girl has to feel so scared and alone without the presence of her oldest friend.

  Her sponsor will be the only way she can learn about how Faith is doing. Kelynen avoided her questions earlier, saying that it’s not her pce to comment on these things. She’s not responsible for Dar; Viv is. It means Amy should stop staring and actually approach the woman for a conversation.

  Vivienne spots Amy walking towards her in the corner of the eye and starts to slow down to a brisk walking pace. She removes her wireless earphones, her left hand continuing to linger near her pocket. Of course, she’s been carrying a taser and would be ready to use it at a moment’s notice. It’s the professional and observant side that Faith had mentioned about her sponsor earlier — and now Amy hopes she can get at the lovely, patient side her friend described st week.

  “Good morning. Is it a bother to ask you about something?” Amy followed her instinct to keep her back straight and fake the confidence that Eira wants her to have. “I was just wondering if Faith is doing okay.”

  Vivienne takes a moment to think about the response. “As well as she could be, given the circumstances. She’s no more depressed than usual, at least.”

  That response isn’t very encouraging. “So she didn’t take the news very well?”

  “She took it like she takes most other news: with that silent, resigned little nod of hers. I think Faith took it better than you would have."

  Vivienne is probably correct that Amy would have been heartbroken if the situation had been reversed. Not that it ever could have been. Faith is too good a girl to get into trouble. “She doesn’t feel lonely, right?”

  “She’s got Jenny, doesn’t she? And she’s spending the rest of the day with me. That’s more social interaction than she’s had in years.”

  “I suppose she does.” Amy doesn’t know how to feel about the concept of Jenny having the opportunity to influence Dar. But it’s better than no one being there. Whether it’s better than Vivienne is a different question. Both will be making demands of her, ones she will be tempted to carry out, but Ray has distinctly less patience than the sponsor. “She seems to like you.”

  The sponsor ughs, either genuinely pleased or amused. “Does she, now? Well, if you’re sharing gossip— I think she likes you a lot more than either of us.”

  That really made her blush. “I like her too. I miss her.”

  “Hm.” Vivienne looks at her thoughtfully. “Perhaps I could pass your message on. She’d be really happy to hear it.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to, it’s—”

  “No, no, I will.” She insists. “I don’t know what’s making you anxious, and it’s not my job to know, but I think it’d cheer up Faith to know so I’m going to be passing this on.”

  Amy bites her lip. God, why does it excite her so much when her preferences are overridden like that?

  “Is there anything else you’d want me to tell her?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure? This could be your only chance to do something like this. You might not talk to her for weeks— I’d make use of this opportunity if I were you.” Vivienne shows her a very devious, scheming smile.

  “Tell her that I—” She pauses for a moment, unsure whether she’s actually going to say the words. “That she’s very dear to me, and— that I think I love her.”

  ***

  It couldn’t have been much longer than fifteen minutes since Eira had told her to wait whilst she went to pick up Ms. Lambert. She hadn’t exactly specified what she meant by waiting beyond the vague hint that sitting down at the table before her superiors arrived would generally be considered rude. Whether that meant that Amy could get seated on the sofa in the corner was unclear, so she took position next to the table and waited there. It didn’t take very long for her to change to the posture Eira had taught her the day before — back straight, hands csped together in front — if only because it felt like what the head sponsor would want her to do.

  And so she waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Amy’s never been good at waiting. It won’t take long for her to get distracted, fidgety, or stuck in some kind of deep, usually sexual thoughts. She’s managing not to fidget only by virtue of a strong unresolved desire to submit, encouraging her to be an extra good girl. She’s not sure what Eira did to reduce her to this state, nor why it took so little effort for her to rekindle it, but an ever-greater part of her wants to live in this state forever. There’s less for her to worry about.

  Ms. Lambert walks into the room with her phone against her ear, looking rather annoyed and sounding like she’s on the verge of creating a rather toxic workpce culture for at least one poor fellow.

  “What do you mean you’re buying? … You, what? You think the deal is going to pass? Is your head screwed on right? … If May had the votes, she’d have put the deal to a vote a month ago! It’s not going to pass. … The treaty failing would not mean the government colpses … The men in the ERG have dedicated decades of their lives to leaving the European Union, they are not bluffing! They will vote it down! … The DUP voting for the backstop is about as likely as them voting for same-sex marriage … I don’t care that the markets would rally if the treaty passed, because it’s not going to pass! We’re going to hold until they rule out a no-deal Brexit and then we buy. … That order is final, Dominic. … Good bloody day to you too.”

  “That d sounds rather useless.” Eira says, seemingly amused by the entire ordeal.

  “Quite. He thought Jacob Rees-Mogg would be a ‘reasonable enough fellow’.” Elle rubs her temple in frustration, seemingly unaware of the other maid in her presence.

  “I doubt the word ‘reasonable’ is in his vocabury, despite the fact that he seems to enjoy reading a thesaurus before bed time.” Eira ughs. “Maybe he’ll propose it as an alternative to anticonception. He’ll need a new assistant to write the bill banning it, though.”

  It’s only now that she realises it would have been her first week working for one of her personal heroes if she had been a free woman. Working for the chair of the European Research Group during the Brexit debates would have been exciting, important work and excellent for her CV— especially if they did get rid of Theresa May, as the backbench had been pnning to.

  Here, though, it’s one of the sins that people will hold over her head. It used to be just Faith who fundamentally disagreed with her career choice — she’s a working-css northerner and thus a loyal if naive Labour voter — but now most of everyone hates her for it.

  And despite that hate, the conversation moves on without her being interrogated for her moral failings. Instead, Eira introduced her to Eldine Lambert, a somewhat clocky but still exceptionally pretty transgender woman who looks to be in her te twenties, and then gestured for both of them to sit down. Amy sits down as gracefully as she can, her hands resting in her p. Elle takes the seat straight across from her.

  “How about you two get acquainted with each other whilst I get us a few cups of tea?” Eira suggests. “It’d be good to get that small talk out of the way.”

  Both of them take a good moment to stare at each other in silence. It’s hard not to when one is in the private company of someone this beautiful. Wealth and a presumably early transition combined to make Eldine perhaps the prettiest trans woman she’d ever seen. Her clothes, seemingly casual, reveal the fact that the woman is truly wealthy— if the fact that she owned this pce hadn’t already done so.

  Amy could get lost in her beautiful eyes.

  What she doesn’t like is the way that Elle looks at her.

  The woman seems to hunger for Amy in a way that feels all too familiar. It’s the same look that Cecil had given her that night. It’s pure lust, cking love or true appreciation, more interested in the concept being represented than the actual result.

  Yet she also loves being pinned down by the woman’s gaze. It makes her feel unable to speak in her presence, helpless to her advances, desperate for whatever attention the woman is willing to give her. Put into her pce, like she has deserved all her life. Lesser, poorer, weaker, a failure, someone whose career was killed before it even began. Reduced to nothing but a whimpering toy.

  She wishes she were on the floor in front of Elle, naked, her body covered in bruises from regur canings, tears in her eyes. That she’d be left begging for her mercy, just like that hapless employee should have been— begging for the opportunity to pleasure her in the only way someone like her can be truly useful.

  Would Ms. Lambert have a penis? The chances are that she would have gotten SRS, but it would be much more fun if she hadn’t taken that step. She’ll figure it out someday. That much is guaranteed.

  “You’re a silent one, aren’t you?” Elle suddenly asks her.

  “You might be the first one to suggest that, ma’am.” Amy looks down to the floor, feeling even more nervous than she’d already had.

  She looks at her and ponders the answer for a moment. “I might be the first, but I also hope to be the st. You have a lovely voice already and shouldn’t be hiding it like that. How long have you been training?”

  “Depends on what you count. I started singing when I was eight, but I started using this voice yesterday.” She blushed.

  “I didn’t know you could sing.” There’s a certain element to Elle’s voice Amy can’t quite pce. Excitement, perhaps? “Though I did read you had been an actor.”

  “I used to be, yes. Musicals, specifically.” She notes somberly. “It wasn’t something I was going to do for a career, but it’d been a good escape from some of the worse parts of my life. I assume you know exactly what.”

  “It was easier to pretend to be a man who definitely wasn’t you rather than the man people thought you to be?”

  “I am a man.” Amy insists. “I was born as one and would have liked to die as one.”

  “I’m sure you would have. That would be such a shame, though. To die as something you never wanted to be. To give up on your true self and to live a life of misery— and for what? No, before you say anything, I’m not interested in the many excuses you’ve no doubt fermented over the years. All I care about is the girl at the heart of it all.”

  “Why do you care?” She sneers. The answer is obvious. She is excited by the idea in the same way Amy is: forcible feminisation is hot. But the st thing she should be doing is showing that she is equally excited by the prospect— at least if she ever wants to be a free man again.

  “I don’t like watching people waste themselves.” Elle posits. “I know you won’t disagree with me if I say you have a lot of potential. You’re an intelligent young woman with a broad education in the arts, philosophy and society. You can sing. You can act. From what I hear, you’re perfectly capable of showing empathy to the people you care about. And yet you shove all that potential aside to pretend that you are the worst kind of man: rich, powerful, and completely amoral in his pursuit of both. As if we don’t have more than enough of those as is.”

  Amy wasn’t sure how to respond to that; nor whether she should try to. There was no lost potential in her refusing to transition. It was her making sure she could put it to use rather than being cast down into a status much lower than the ones she could have achieved. Perhaps she would have had more beauty, she would definitely have more fun. But she’d have given up on a thousand times more in the attempt to satisfy her paraphilia.

  At least she now knew that Ms. Lambert had pns for her.

  ***

  Amy isn’t sure how long it took for her to expin what had happened that night. It’s not a day that she likes to think about, part of the story is obscured due to just how drunk she had been, and she’s being exceptionally careful with her words in an attempt not to be caught lying, even accidentally. She’s not convinced that they work for Cecil and his ilk, but the alternative still seems equally hard to believe. But she had to be careful regardless.

  A few gentle words of encouragement from Eira helped her get through everything she could remember. She talked for long enough to get her throat sore, and was disappointed to find her tea cold by the time she took her first sip.

  Then Ms. Lambert told her about Dorley Hall. About the physical and sexual abuse that the boys and girls went through there before they were sold: the unconscionable torture of innocent, helpless people whose lives were terribly shortened by their fates. She didn’t say how many people had ended up as victims, but Amy was good enough at mental math to realise it must have been hundreds. It made her feel sick to her stomach.

  It wasn’t a very long or detailed story — sadly, as her access to such literature has been revoked and she can rely only on her fantasies now — and left the details of their torments to her imagination. Elle’s speech mostly revolved around the idea that she had helped end the horrible things that happened at Dorley Hall. That there would be nothing for her to worry, because if Elle had wanted such horrible things to go on she would simply have let the hall operate as it once had. That Amy is here to be rehabilitated and to be given room to grow into the woman she has always been meant to be.

  It’s as simple as that, she cimed.

  Eira then thanked Ms. Lambert for joining them for this conversation and her important contributions — and then made sure the woman would leave them alone in a manner that was equally professional and rude, leaving her with the suggestion that she made sure her hapless employee had actually listened to her earlier orders.

  It was quite impressive to watch how effortlessly the woman could manage someone who was supposed to be her employer. Her leaving the door open to help freshen the air in the room seemed like it was a targeted insult against the woman, even if she wasn’t around to see it. Her perfume smelled nice anyhow. Amy isn’t sure why Eira would want to get rid of it.

  “How did you find Ms. Lambert?” Eira sits back down at the table, next to Amy.

  Amy tries to think of an answer to that question, because there are a lot of things she thinks about the woman— both positive and negative. She decides on a vague yet obvious answer instead.

  “Aristocratic.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Eira turns to her, intrigued.

  “Can’t say I’ve had many good interactions with them.” She shrugs.

  “Interesting. Let’s leave that discussion for another day. What do you make of the things she’s told you?”

  Amy frowns. “They’re very hard to believe.”

  “And why is that?” She asks, and Amy isn’t sure whether the question is genuine or not— or whether any question of hers is genuine or not. There’s the ever-present risk of any of them being a trap.

  “It’s absurd, isn’t it? She just went in there and ended it, yet— this. All of this.”

  “And yet it is true.” Eira leans a little closer to Amy and puts a hand on her shoulder. “The Dorley Hall of old no longer exists, and a new programme to help men overcome their toxic masculinity now operates on the premises.”

  “Even if that were true— we’re not in Almsworth right now. This is something different.” Amy is annoyed she has to point this out. It feels so obvious.

  “Because you’re girls, no matter how much you three insist that you’re not. You struggle with different vices than the men who find themselves in the basement of Dorley Hall and thus require appropriate — separate — treatment.”

  She wants to point out that Eira had threatened to have her transferred to Dorley Hall st night, but avoids that particur tangent. Of course she would threaten her with that— she’s the kind of person who enjoys threatening others.

  “We certainly will be women once you’re done with us.” Amy has to resist rolling her eyes. “It’ll please Elle too, it seems.”

  “The thought of taking more dangerously misogynistic people off the streets certainly convinced her to fund this programme.” Eira says like she isn’t intelligent enough to see exactly what the hell is going on. It seems like she’s always multiple steps ahead of Amy— Elle can’t be that much harder to py around with. She can’t be any less obvious than her.

  “I don’t believe that’s her motivation, and neither do you.” Amy mumbles, unsure whether she should be challenging Eira like she is or not.

  “When someone with the means of Eldine Lambert invests in a project like this she will naturally have a number of motivations beyond the stated goal of the project: reusing an old, abandoned grade-listed manor in a beloved Welsh natural park, for example. Helping out a group of sponsors who brought the concept to her attention, unsure whether they should be including a certain trans girl from the Almsworth area in the 2018 intake. Reshuffling personnel to ensure they can put their talents to better use,” She pauses for a second. “and tax deductions, naturally.”

  “Any normal person would have shut down Dorley Hall wholesale. She clearly has an ulterior motive.”

  “And aren’t we all lucky she hasn’t done so?” Eira smiles at her. “Think about all the lives she’s saved, the abuse she’s prevented, the people who got a second chance, the beautiful things they have done for others.”

  “But that’s all theoretical!” Amy raises her voice, annoyed. “Dorley Hall isn’t about that, this pce isn’t about that. I could see it in her eyes. She wants us. She would love nothing more than to use us like we’re toys. Like sex sves!”

  “It’s not theoretical.” Eira says with the absolute certainty that Amy had gotten used to but missed over the past hour or two. “I’ve been there. I went through the programme. I am living proof of its efficacy. Do I seem like the kind of girl that Cecil had described to you? Do I seem intimidated by Eldine Lambert?”

  Before Amy could even answer, Eira shushes her. The reason is obvious: she can hear two people walking down the hallway and past the specific room they’d taken up for the conversation. Luckily it’s just Dar and Vivienne; likely on a trip to the toilet. The former stares at her for a moment, then blushes more intensely than Amy had ever seen her do before. Vivienne communicates something to Eira with a hand signal before giving Amy a quick wink and continuing.

  The head sponsor quickly gets up to close the door afterwards, then sits in the chair nearest to her, right across from Amy. “Where was I— oh yes.

  “Kelynen, Rose, Vivienne and myself— all graduates of Dorley Hall. Emily Willis, one of your temporary teachers at university, graduated from Dorley Hall in 2011. In fact, she transferred to Exeter as part of our investigations into your activities. Eden Chapman, the girl you’d met on the night you were transferred into our custody, was a sponsor for the 2014 intake. Your favourite author on AO3? That’s my close friend Maria Lam, one of the most senior sponsors at Dorley Hall. I could go on and on.”

  Amy looks away. Did she really have to mention her reading habits?

  No. She shouldn’t get distracted. “That’s a list of names. It’s not proof of anything.”

  Eira sighs and takes her phone out of her pocket. “Right. Of course. Do you want pictures?” She spends a minute or so scrolling. “This is a picture of me and Eden at Dorley Hall. This would be in the spring of 2014, just after graduation.”

  She looks at the image of two women who look ready to go clubbing. The girl next to Eira barely holds her ugh as she drops a pair of cherries into the grass in front of an old, stately-looking building, the two fnked by an East Asian and a sporty Bck woman respectively.

  “That’s just proof you had a friend at a dorm, once.” Amy points out.

  Eira shakes her head, looking quite frustrated. “It’s much more than that. I mean, the cherries, I clearly look younger there— do you think we would have faked this going back five years?”

  “You probably could have.” Amy mumbles.

  “I’m gd you think so highly of me. But perhaps you should elevate me a tad less and believe me instead.”

  “I would love to be convinced.” She lies.

  “I’ve seen you accept much more absurd ideas with much flimsier evidence. Like the idea that a twenty-year old university student could have you kidnapped. In fact, he had no evidence he could do so: and yet you believed him immediately. You still want to think what he said is true— and I want you to tell me why you wish to do so.”

  Amy looks away. She doesn’t want to answer that question, because she’s quite unsure what she thinks about it. Part of her wants it for herself, and another doesn’t. She doesn’t want to see her friends as sex sves. She does somewhat want to see them transition, though— Faith because she would be beautiful. Perhaps she’s less opposed to watching Jenny be forcibly feminised, given she did often compin about Amy’s inability to live up to masculine standards. It’d be incredibly erotic.

  But whatever her fantasies, she’ll have to answer the question, and she knows of just one answer that she knows is true.

  “Because I would deserve it.” She whispers.

  “No one could ever deserve that kind of fate, Amy.”

  “You know my family history.” Amy can feel the overwhelming shame rise already. “At least, you know everything about me, so you would know that too. It wasn’t just all civil servants and politicians. We used to be merchants from Bristol. My family was active in the Caribbean trade in the 17th and 18th centuries. If anyone—”

  “Amy. Look at me.” Eira commands. “What your ancestors did 400 years ago does not matter.”

  “But—”

  “No. It does not matter. You will not convince me you deserve such treatment.”

  She gres. “Well, it’s fucking happening, isn’t it? Faith and Jenny did nothing to deserve it. At least there’s an argument for me.”

  “It’s not happening.” She sighs. “Because no one would deserve that. Am I clear enough about that, Ms. Finch?”

  “I—” Amy wants to believe Eira. She wants to believe that Faith and Jenny wouldn’t become victims of such a thing, but it feels impossible with how Elle looked at her. Eira wants her to be convinced, and it’s obvious why she wants it as well— if she isn’t, Amy could be a threat to the programme. One they might have to eliminate sooner rather than ter. And whether she wants to live through the programme or not, what she doesn’t want to be is dead. So she has to look willing to py along.

  “I think I believe you wouldn’t want that. Personally, that is. I’m less sure about Ms. Lambert.” She tries to give herself an out. “I— I would want to see the strongest evidence you have that it isn’t happening anymore.”

  “One second.” Eira grabs her phone again and spends a few moments navigating through various tabs and apps before finally nding on consensus. “Feel free to read this— it’s my DMs with one of the sponsors back at Dorley Hall. We’re really close. She tells me about her intake constantly. It’s adorable, really. If you can read that and think anything nefarious is going on, well… I don’t think anything other than you going through the programme could convince you.”

  The threat is obvious.

  Amy was surprised when Eira actually handed her the phone. It was open to a chat with someone called Indira, one of three chats to be pinned to the top of the woman’s DM list: the others are her chat with the aforementioned Maria and the group chat for the sponsors at the manor.

  She scrolls through it for ten minutes or so, reading and watching pictures pass by of both Indira and a cute-looking girl called Christine. The messages are almost exclusively about whatever adorable antics the girl got up to on any given day. The main thrust seems to be makeup lessons, trying to get the girl into fashion, voice training — with the odd clip of the girl singing, which she has some talent for — and the films they watch in the evenings.

  She learns about a girl called Paige and another called Vicky, both of whom Christine is getting along very well with. Indira ments the fact that her girl had broken up with Paige earlier and implies the two are still in love with each other. Amy hopes that Christine does end up being so lucky: Paige is incredibly pretty.

  There’s some references to more organisational matters — usually Eira asking what the girls will be up to next week — and some personal matters between the two women, such as the question whether Eira would be visiting the Hall over Christmas. It appears she wouldn’t, but that she would be around for Easter instead.

  Yet there’s something fundamentally wrong about it all. Amy only saw the history going back four weeks or so, but what stands out to her is how on the nose it is. It’s always about Christine, how she’s really making progress, how she’s having a great if anxious time with her hot former girlfriend.

  That’s what makes it suspicious! It’s too perfect.

  But the threat was obvious— she’ll have to believe the lie about Dorley Hall. Whether Amy is actually convinced is immaterial. The sponsor’s interest is in making sure that she keeps her mouth shut rather than informing Faith and Jenny about their inevitable fate.

  It’s something she’s entirely happy to comply with— the st thing she should be doing is causing them to panic. She can dey their anxiety for a few weeks, months, if she’s lucky. It’s the least she can do given that it’s her fault they even ended up in this situation.

  So she acts like she agrees. “She does look happy.”

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it? I always knew Dira would be great at this.” Eira smiles rather indulgently, her voice slipping into a more distinctly Northern tone. She’d pce it somewhere around Harrogate if she had to guess. “Christine is so much happier like this. She was such a sad, lonely boy— and look at her! She’s thriving.”

  She looks at Amy for a moment and slips back into her usual painfully southern, posh accent. A mask had slipped that shouldn’t have: or maybe it should. Perhaps Eira isn’t as in control as Amy thought she is. “And you’re going to be thriving too. All three of you. I’ll make sure that you girls are going to be as cute and happy as those girls at Dorley Hall are today. You’ll get everything you wanted and needed, even if you ran away from it all your life.”

  The implication is obvious. Eira knows what Amy has read about. She knows what she wants and deserves. It’s real. Or more likely to be real than not. And now that she pretends to believe a lie, she’ll actually get to live it too rather than being punished again.

  Amy blushes and thinks of herself ensved and ready to be used by Elle or Eira again. The thought is electrifying. She wants to serve them so badly— no matter how degenerate it would be. It’s not like she gets to avoid the degeneracy of transition, so she might as well dive as deeply as possible.

  But no matter how much she loves it, there are appearances to keep up. She can’t be seen to love it— after all, it’s not real. Or so she’s supposed to think. “I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, do I?”

  “Of course not. It's probably for the best that you don't."