{"id":52464,"date":"2024-08-19T11:47:18","date_gmt":"2024-08-19T15:47:18","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/?p=52464"},"modified":"2024-08-20T02:16:59","modified_gmt":"2024-08-20T06:16:59","slug":"bride-butcher-doe","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/fiction\/bride-butcher-doe\/","title":{"rendered":"BRIDE \/ BUTCHER \/ DOE"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_52499\" style=\"width: 323px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><img data-recalc-dims=\"1\" loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-52499\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-52499\" src=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/08\/Butcher_Full.png?resize=313%2C500\" alt=\"\" width=\"313\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/08\/Butcher_Full.png?resize=313%2C500&amp;ssl=1 313w, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/08\/Butcher_Full.png?w=600&amp;ssl=1 600w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 313px) 100vw, 313px\" \/><p id=\"caption-attachment-52499\" class=\"wp-caption-text\"><em>\u201cBRIDE \/ BUTCHER \/ DOE\u201d \u00a9 2024 by Max Banshees<\/em><\/p><\/div>\n<script>\nfunction showWarning_enUS() {\n    var content_warning_list = document.getElementById(\"content-warning-enUS\");\n\n    if (content_warning_list.style.display === \"none\") {\n        content_warning_list.style.display = \"block\";\n    } else {\n        content_warning_list.style.display = \"none\";\n    }\n}\n<\/script><div lang=\"en-US\" dir=\"ltr\" class=\"content-warning-container-ltr\"><p><strong class=\"content-warning-title\">Content warning:<\/strong><br\/><button onclick=\"showWarning_enUS()\">Show warnings<\/button><\/p><div class=\"content-warning\" id=\"content-warning-enUS\" style=\"display: none;\" ><p>This page contains: <\/p><ul><li>Abortion\/miscarriage<\/li><li> Animal cruelty\/death<\/li><li> Blood<\/li><li> Cancer<\/li><li> Death of a pregnant person<\/li><li> Drug use<\/li><li> Sex<\/li><\/ul><\/div><br\/><\/div>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>A woman drags a white doe out of the ice room; it hangs from the ceiling rails by two brass hooks, one caught beneath its pelvis and the other behind the scapulae. As she pulls, the metal wheels whine.<\/p>\n<p>When she works in her lab, she is a butcher. She lays the doe on her bench and makes an incision from sternum to pelvis. Beneath translucent skin and shimmering hair coat, she expects to find the pink, glassy meat, which should flake against her scalpel blade like white-fleshed fish.<\/p>\n<p>But when the butcher peels back the skin flap, exudate and tarry blood pour out of the doe\u2019s abdomen. The stench is remarkable, sweet. The tissue beneath her fingers rolls with squishy lumps.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOh,\u201d she says. \u201cThat\u2019s fucked up.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She pauses her music, leaving a sticky fingerprint on the screen of her phone, and taps the recorder app.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDisseminated tumors in the peritoneal cavity,\u201d she says into the microphone. She doesn\u2019t have the time to find another specimen; her lady needs the serum tonight. She continues describing her findings, her fingers burrowing further, where she feels the distended, worm-like vessels which line the intestines, and the bloated spleen which dimples beneath her touch like kneaded clay. A slow, thorough examination, even as the sun dips closer to the tops of the rainforest, marking the butcher\u2019s hunting grounds with rays of fading, red light. She should have drawn the curtains shut before she began.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cLikely tumors of blood origin,\u201d she concludes. She\u2019s seen these in older specimens before\u2014though not commonly\u2014and to the living deer, they are nothing but a nuisance. But in her lab, it must be destroyed; it is diseased at a fundamental level, and even seemingly healthy tissue may bear the seeds of cancer.<\/p>\n<p>And there\u2019s something else inside: a hard bundle just at the butcher\u2019s fingertips. She forces more of her arm inside\u2014thankful that her gloves reach all the way to her shoulders\u2014even as the doe\u2019s fluids drip over the side of the bench, until she can pull out the mass.<\/p>\n<p>It\u2019s one horn of the uterus, swollen and full. At a single touch of her scalpel blade, its membrane splits apart.<\/p>\n<p>Curled up, the fetus is so small that it fits perfectly in the butcher\u2019s cupped palms: its coat stained purple by amnion, a budding horn centered between its eyes.<\/p>\n<p>This should be enough meat.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr width=\"25%\" \/>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>The Lady Ede Ginevene puts her elbow on the vanity as she wipes off her makeup. The powdered skin, severe red lips, and eyes encircled with malachite paste are all traditional\u2014which her father insists on for public appearances. The butcher knows Ede Ginevene hates it; sometimes, when they paint her face, she screams.<\/p>\n<p>Beneath every layer of cosmetics lies a face that is already perfect in every way. The butcher has made sure of it. At this point, she knows Ede Ginevene\u2019s face better than her own.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cClover?\u201d In the lady\u2019s bedchambers, the butcher takes on a number of different names. \u201cWould you start? I\u2019ve been waiting all day for you.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The butcher pulls a vial out of her pocket. The serum is created from tissue cultures in her lab, but those cultures never last for very long and neither did her frozen specimens. She finds herself hunting at least every month, if not more.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat did you do today?\u201d Ede Ginevene asks.<\/p>\n<p>The butcher takes a moment to think of her story. The lady doesn\u2019t want to hear about her lab. \u201cI was walking through the gardens, and I found a tiger hiding in the brush, so I stuck my hand down its throat and I came away with a ruby as big as my head.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019ve got enough rubies,\u201d Ede Ginevene drawls.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThen it leaned in and whispered to me\u2014\u201d She says this in the lady\u2019s ear. \u201c\u2014\u2018I saw the Lord Issar fucking one of the maids in the root cellar.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Ede Ginevene squeals, then plasters her hands to her mouth. \u201cYou did <em>not<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNo, I didn\u2019t.\u201d The butcher flashes her a grin. When she dips her fingers in the serum, she feels an electric shock all the way up her arm. The tingling won\u2019t go away until she washes her hands.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWho told you?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou know I can\u2019t give away my secrets.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>It\u2019s easier to work on her face when she\u2019s relaxed. The butcher sits on the edge of her vanity, painting her fingertips down Ede Ginevene\u2019s cheeks. Ede Ginevene only wants to maintain her current face for the time being, but every day without the Art means her natural-born face floats closer and closer to the surface. The butcher isn\u2019t even sure what that looks like, and she doesn\u2019t want to know. She reinforces the lady\u2019s cheekbones, brings fluid back under her eyes, massages the fleshy skin beneath her jaw. The change is only noticeable to the trained eye, but it is definitively <em>there<\/em>.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cCan I take you out to dinner?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The butcher knows she\u2019s about to ask for something. \u201cYou haven\u2019t done that in ages.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHaven\u2019t I?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI just assumed you stopped trying to impress me.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The butcher burnishes the lady\u2019s neck as she pouts. Her body is sea glass, worn smooth. There are no hard edges, no cracks in the golden skin. Her nightgown slips off of her shoulders and pools in her lap. The candlelight plays across the hills and valleys of her soft musculature, the swell of her modest breasts and her areolas, reddened as if by carmine paint. When she sneaks out, she wears leather harnesses and long shell necklaces and denim shorts that show off her hip dips, the waterfall of her hair freed from its braids.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDid you hear that Rela Trinavine is hosting the spring festival this year? And the afterparty?\u201d the lady asks. What she means is: can you keep your mouth shut? Or perhaps even: will you go with me?<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI didn\u2019t.\u201d The butcher paints lines down her sternum, over her belly\u2014her skin is soft, softer than the softest feathers\u2014and then taps on the lady\u2019s hip so she angles her pelvis just a bit upward. Easier on the wrists. Ede Ginevene likes to keep her labia prim and tucked away; the pink skin is mildly iridescent. \u201cI\u2019m assuming your father already told you you can\u2019t go.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat he doesn\u2019t know can\u2019t hurt him.\u201d Then, Ede Ginevene whispers, \u201cI heard she\u2019s convinced Maggot Party to play live. At the <em>Escapades<\/em>? She must have sucked someone off.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMust\u2019ve,\u201d the butcher says, humming.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr width=\"25%\" \/>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><em>Cervus khepros<\/em>, the white deer of the island Elirian, don't die until their heads are cleaved from their bodies or their cervical vertebrae are dislocated. They don\u2019t age. When they are dragged into cages, they throw themselves into the bars until their spines break in two. When their fetuses are placed into the wombs of mainland roe deer, they are delivered as faceless lumps of gray flesh. They tolerate only those pure of heart, unsullied by childbirth, by marriage, by sex. They will spear men through the heart with the single horn that sprouts between their eyes; they will take children by the scruff and spirit them away. They will eat anything.<\/p>\n<p>The butcher owes her livelihood to the Lady Io Bellanthe, who studied the deer\u2019s cells and found that not-aging was healing, and that healing was transformation. The butcher has seen it, too\u2014only once\u2014as have all students of the Art. At first, the dividing, morphing cells form a kaleidoscope of color. Some students report that they see a face in those colors, one with three eyes, unblinking; others, words distorted and fractured, then whispers in their ears as if someone were leaning over their shoulder. The butcher made it sixty-seven seconds before her nose bled, but she still sees those patterns in her dreams. Io Bellanthe, who recorded and photographed over a hundred specimens, walked to the ocean and dashed her face against the rocks until there was nothing left.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr width=\"25%\" \/>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>The butcher heaves a stag\u2019s body over the back of her horse and begins the ride back to Ede Ginevene\u2019s tower.<\/p>\n<p>In the storybooks, a maiden will recline in plush, green fields. A doe, big-eyed and beautiful, will press the tip of her horn to the maiden\u2019s forehead before lying in the grass and placing her head into the maiden\u2019s lap.<\/p>\n<p>But the deer are smarter than that. Perhaps \u201csmart\u201d isn\u2019t the right word\u2014the butcher has no idea how to classify the intelligence within their violet, sideways eyes. They elude all categorization. Genetically, they aren\u2019t even related to true deer, but they don\u2019t seem to be related to anything else, either. Is it purely instinct which pulls them to suicide in captivity? Or a knowing plot to defy their captor? In either case, she would never expect such a creature to approach her willingly. By virtue of her maidenhead, they don\u2019t kill her on sight.<\/p>\n<p>When she finds her herd, she trails behind them, sometimes for hours at a time. She keeps them just barely in her sight, white pinpricks scattered between the vines; any closer, and the smell of her would send them fleeing for the horizon. When one of the deer lags just far enough behind, she releases her dogs\u2014all bitches\u2014to circle it, and they hold it there, biting at its legs and dodging each calculated hoof strike, until the butcher takes her shot.<\/p>\n<p>The felled deer is still alive, always, still flailing like a hooked fish. Depending on the accuracy of her shot, she has about three minutes to break its neck before it stands again.<\/p>\n<p>Her phone vibrates. Ede Ginevene\u2019s text reads, <em>Where r u?<\/em>, and then as soon as the read receipt goes through, <em>send ur location<\/em>. The butcher turns it off. She\u2019ll deal with the consequences later, she tells herself; she ignores the twisting dread in her gut.<\/p>\n<p>As she continues along her path, she spots a figure between the ficus leaves. She stops, squints. She assumed she was hidden, but he meets her eye.<\/p>\n<p>Ducking beneath the branches, she ventures closer to him. It\u2019s rare that she ever sees anyone out here. Even tradesmen avoid entering the rainforest whenever possible.<\/p>\n<p>The man is leaning against the mouth of a cave, a joint pinched between two snarled lips. He nods toward the stag\u2019s carcass.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI used to know that one,\u201d he says. \u201cNot a gentle sire.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m sorry?\u201d the butcher asks.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou know you\u2019ve got quite the mark on your head, carrying that thing around.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The herds are not captive, but they are stewarded, their populations strictly observed by outriders in the courts\u2019 employ. Poaching is punishable by death at the discretion of those black-cloaked riders. The only thing worse than poaching a unicorn is using their serum on anyone without noble blood.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019ve got a permit,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n<p>She tries to get a better look at the man. Long, ratty hair falls down his back, and his eyes are so dark that they might as well be black. She\u2019s never seen someone with skin so pale. The gentle arch of his lip could have been carved from marble, but his fingers are too long\u2014spider leg fingers\u2014and caked in dried muck.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019ve seen you before,\u201d he says, \u201chaven\u2019t I?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Her brow furrows. He doesn\u2019t look like a farmer or a village hunter. He\u2019s dressed in a robe that goes all the way down to his ankles, cinched at the waist and embroidered with intricate designs all but lost to dust and brown stains.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou must be mistaken,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019ve never met you before in my life.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDoesn\u2019t mean I haven\u2019t met you.\u201d He leans forward, and the movement is accompanied by the chiming of metal. A chain runs from his ankle into the cave. \u201cYou\u2019re owned by the lady in the tower, aren\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Her horse dances backward, neck stiff and nose pointed to the air, but she keeps her seat steady until it calms. He must be some sort of criminal. When the outriders aren\u2019t allowed to kill their prey, they chain them up in the forest to die of exposure.<\/p>\n<p>But how could he know who she is? To most, she\u2019s Ede Ginevene\u2019s lady-in-waiting, and nothing else. There are only five other practitioners on the island\u2014and, with the exception of Wry Velience, even the butcher couldn\u2019t pick them out of a crowd if she tried.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019d like to offer you a deal,\u201d he says. \u201cKill the lady, bring me her body, and you\u2019ll have your freedom.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m already free.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAre you?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIn a week, you\u2019ll be dead,\u201d the butcher says. \u201cThe deer will be gnawing on your bones.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He smiles. Smoke seeps out from the gaps between his teeth.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cCome back,\u201d he says, \u201cand find out.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr width=\"25%\" \/>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>When they first met two years ago, Ede Ginevene\u2019s face was not as feline as it is now. She said once that the aesthetic came to her in a dream: her new face, round like the moon, doe-eyed and oceanic; her new body, a reed bent over by the wind. At the time, court style leaned towards sharp angles, but Ede Ginevene didn\u2019t follow trends. She started them.<\/p>\n<p>She gestured for the guards to leave once the butcher stepped in.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDo you listen to djent?\u201d Ede Ginevene asked. Lounging on a bed of woven grass, she speared candied peaches onto her nails. She was flanked by shimmering glass bowls of pomegranates and dried dates and melon water so cold that the jugs sweated in gemstone drops.<\/p>\n<p>The butcher blinked. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Ede Ginevene\u2019s mouth twitched downward. She reached over to press a button on her radio, but the music sounded more like white noise. When she settled back into her bed, she regarded the butcher coolly, head tilted to one side.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019ve never had one so young,\u201d she said, squinting.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m not\u2014\u201d Sure, the butcher was the youngest apprentice the sculptor Wry Velience had ever taken, but Ede Ginevene looked younger still. She was so small. \u201c<em>Young?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat are you?\u201d Ede Ginevene\u2019s lip lifted. \u201cLike, twelve?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNineteen.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat can you possibly learn in nineteen years?\u201d the lady whispered, as if to herself. Then the butcher saw her eyes. The deep blue irises and the flea-dirt pupils, fixed on the butcher as if they could see straight through her. Old eyes. Could the butcher fix old eyes? Surely, if they could have been fixed, Ede Ginevene\u2019s last practitioner would have done so.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHm.\u201d The lady was unimpressed, and she was doing a terrible job of hiding it. With a wave of her hand, she said, \u201cWhy don\u2019t you strip?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The butcher\u2019s face went hot. \u201cI\u2019m sorry?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Ede Ginevene didn\u2019t say anything else. She dipped her finger in a bowl of yogurt and popped it into her mouth.<\/p>\n<p>Clenching her teeth, the butcher undid the ties of her dress and let it fall to the floor. She <em>had<\/em> to be selected. \u201cThis is your bride,\u201d Wry Velience had said, coaching her. \u201cYou will sleep in her bed. You will sit at her feet like a dog. We will not even consider the possibility that she casts you aside.\u201d But the butcher didn\u2019t care about Wry Velience\u2019s pride; she cared about her own.<\/p>\n<p>Although they were high in the clouds, surrounded by sandstone walls dyed berry red, the arid breeze from the windows made the butcher feel as if her organs were on display.<\/p>\n<p>When the lady\u2019s eyes\u2014night-sky eyes, too-old eyes\u2014fell on her, the butcher wished that she only felt shame. A small part of her that hoped the lady would like what she saw, and that was so much worse.<\/p>\n<p>She carefully trained her gaze at the floor, her face curtained by her dark hair, but when Ede Ginevene walked in front of her, the butcher couldn\u2019t escape the pink pearls of the lady\u2019s toes.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYes, this will do nicely.\u201d She lifted the butcher\u2019s chin with a finger. \u201cI don\u2019t surround myself with ugliness. I may not have a hand for your Art, but I\u2019ve known enough of you to have developed an eye for it. There\u2019s something beneath your skin.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr width=\"25%\" \/>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>When the butcher returns to her chambers, Ede Ginevene lounges on the sofa. An excess of silks drape from her body. She\u2019s picking at her nails, sharpening her claws, preening. When she looks at the butcher, her eyes are stretched too wide, and her lips are pressed shut so tightly that her whole face has gone white. Her throat works convulsively in trembling, fluttering movements.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHow long have you been here?\u201d the butcher asks, her coat still hanging from the crook of her arm. She\u2019s covered in sweat, blood, and horse hair. All she wants is a shower to wash the smoke-smell from her skin.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cLong enough.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The butcher flicks on the light. It\u2019s then that she sees the shattered CDs strewn across the floor.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat the fuck did you do?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThey were trash anyway.\u201d Ede Ginevene scowls. \u201cWho the <em>fuck<\/em> listens to ambient EDM?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The butcher gapes. \u201cI do!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>In a flurry of silk, something sails through the air. The butcher ducks out of the way just before a porcelain figurine hits the wall beside her. Little pieces of it fall across her head. Ede Ginevene must have taken it from the butcher\u2019s bookshelf; it must have been one the butcher sculpted herself.<\/p>\n<p>\u201c<em>Answer my fucking texts!<\/em>\u201d God, she\u2019s so good at screaming. Ede Ginevene practiced breaking glass with her voice. Now she\u2019s on her hands and knees, her acrylic nails digging furrows in the seat cushions. Her chest heaves.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou\u2019re pathologically insane,\u201d the butcher cries. She picks up one of the porcelain shards that fell on the floor. Her fingerprint is baked into the surface.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSo, what if I am?\u201d Ede Ginevene pulls at her neckline, baring her breasts like the grieving Medea. She can\u2019t hold back her tears anymore. \u201cYou could have been dead! And I wouldn\u2019t have known!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou were <em>worried?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAre you kidding? Of course I was fucking worried!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The butcher holds the porcelain shard to her breast. She wants to cry. She wants to hate Ede Ginevene so badly that her chest hurts. A collection of little porcelain animals lives on the mantle above Ede Ginevene\u2019s bed, each one born from a kiln purchased by the lady herself. \u201cThey watch over me while I sleep,\u201d she would say.<\/p>\n<p>And the butcher says, \u201cI want you to go.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Ede Ginevene wavers. Before she can speak, a whimper escapes her lips. \u201cYou hate me, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cEdie, I don\u2019t\u2014\"<\/p>\n<p>\u201c<em>I\u2019m sorry<\/em>,\u201d she sobs. She crawls to the butcher\u2019s feet. \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI know, I know.\u201d Kneeling, the butcher holds Ede Ginevene\u2019s head between her hands. Her cheeks have gone tacky with tears, and her eyes are two big lakes, and her whole body is shaking. How is she so small?<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI know I\u2019m crazy. I can\u2019t help it. It\u2019s like there\u2019s something inside of me and it makes me do awful things. Like, right now, I wanna tear out my hair and eat it.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDon\u2019t eat your hair, baby.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDo you hate me?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSwear it.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Sighing, the butcher pulls Ede Ginevene\u2019s head into her lap and strokes her hair. \u201cI love you, Edie,\u201d she says. The lady sniffles, curls up.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cPlease come to the party with me. Please.\u201d She sinks her claws into the butcher\u2019s pants. \u201cI\u2019ll replace all your CDs. I\u2019ll buy you so much porcelain you could bury yourself in it. I just want you to come with me.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr width=\"25%\" \/>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI promise it\u2019s okay, Larkspur,\u201d Ede Ginevene said. \u201cNo one will know. They won\u2019t even remember what you looked like before.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The butcher sat in front of the lady\u2019s vanity and in front of her, the serum. Ede Ginevene draped her arms over the butcher\u2019s bare shoulders.<\/p>\n<p>When the lady had officially hired her, the butcher didn\u2019t expect the whirlwind of events she was dragged into: galas and f\u00eates, movie premieres and private concerts. Ede Ginevene dressed her up like a doll in silks, leather, and ermine; she gave the butcher a dual-name at events, to pretend that she had come from a good family, and introduced her to hordes of beautiful women before sailing away to talk about the newest paper on synthetic polymer vectors for pesticide distribution, or Abyss in the Eye of the Worm\u2019s latest album. On the return drives, Ede Ginevene would pull the butcher into the corner of the back seat, into a nest of discarded gowns, and laugh as their lips nearly touched. \u201cWho did you meet?\u201d she would ask. They breathed the same air. \u201cTell me everything.\u201d In that time, the butcher found, there was quite a lot to love about the lady; even the things that she hated, she loved, too.<\/p>\n<p>The butcher remembered what Wry Velience had told her, just a year prior: Ede Ginevene\u2019s family rose to prominence when her fathers became the favorites of the emperor. Wry Velience always laughed, because she had seen how much the court hated them for it: the <em>nouveau riche<\/em>? Fucking the emperor? Nobody knew which one sired Ede Ginevene, nor which one bore her. Did it matter? They had enough money to solicit the practitioners, enough to convince them to send replacement after replacement when the last died of old age. Ede Ginevene was first touched by deersblood serum when she was sixteen years old\u2014long before the butcher had been born, and likely before the birth of the butcher\u2019s mother, and the one before her.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHere,\u201d the lady in the mirror said, \u201cyou should be taking notes. See the arch of your nose. We can bring that down. Put some more fat in your lips and cheeks. Lift the corner of your eyes\u2014that\u2019s going to be in style, soon. I dreamt it. A whole decade, at least, of cat eyes and sad lips.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She took the butcher\u2019s hand, cradled it in her palm, and squeezed a few drops of serum onto the butcher\u2019s fingertips. This time, it burned.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cGo on,\u201d the lady said. \u201cJust your face, first. We\u2019ll worry about your body some other time.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI could be killed for this,\u201d the butcher whispered, a half-hearted objection. Ede Ginevene\u2019s magnetism inspired obedience\u2014and it made her like it, too. Wouldn\u2019t anyone want to glow like Edie? Wouldn\u2019t anyone be flattered by this fatal little secret? She had earned her lady\u2019s trust, and that was enough to make her heart flutter.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBut you\u2019ll be beautiful.\u201d Ede Ginevene pressed her lips into the butcher\u2019s cheek, then spoke muffled by her skin. \u201cI want you to be beautiful.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Nodding, the butcher drew a line of serum down her nose.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr width=\"25%\" \/>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>When the butcher returns to the cave, the prisoner is accompanied by a doe. Her front legs are draped over his shoulders, and she leans in, snout to his ear, as if she were trusting him with a secret. His white fingers weave through her flaxen mane, in and out like the shuttle of a loom. Back and forth, her plumed tail flutters over the underbrush.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cCome here,\u201d he says to the butcher. Both his and the deer\u2019s eyes turn to her. \u201cShe won\u2019t hurt you.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He sits, and she sits in the dirt beside him. He has forgone his robes. Now he only wears a few rags and the fluttering cloak of his hair.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat are you?\u201d the butcher asks.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cA prisoner.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDo you have a name?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cMe either,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n<p>He rolls his joints himself\u2014where else would he get them? There\u2019s a valerian bush just within reach of the cave. Already, he\u2019s picked it bare. He plays with the last leaf now, tearing it to bits.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHave you thought about my offer?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m not a murderer.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He grins. \u201cSure,\u201d he says. \u201cWhy did you come back here?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI wanted to be right.\u201d The butcher shrugs. \u201cIt\u2019s a shame you\u2019re still alive.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>That makes him laugh. She doesn\u2019t like the way he laughs: like a dog barks, like it\u2019s a warning.<\/p>\n<p>He asks the doe to come over again by reaching out, palm up. When she bows her head, he slices through the thick of her neck with a fingernail that is far too sharp, and though her body goes stiff, she doesn\u2019t fall, nor does she try to stop him. His hand slides between the fleshy, gaping mouth of her wound and comes away with a handful of dripping tissue. The doe, heaving for air, lowers herself to the ground and lies still.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHow did you \u2026 ?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHave you ever heard of one Tei Philovane?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n<p>The name elicits disgust. Yes, the butcher has heard it before.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cShe used to do something like this,\u201d he says, holding his hand to the light, until the deer\u2019s meat shines like a ruby. This is how deer meat should look: not murky and cancerous, but gem-like in its translucency. \u201cHer herd loved her so much that she merely slid her fingers inside of them and took what she needed.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThey didn\u2019t love her. They killed her.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cShe took a stag as a lover. It was only a matter of time.\u201d He laughs. \u201cI didn\u2019t like her much, anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThey tell us that she was na\u00efve,\u201d the butcher says, \u201cand stupid.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cPerhaps she was. I always thought she was arrogant. The way she pranced down here, so full of love, so sure that love would protect her and that it would protect us.\u201d The prisoner gestures with his bloody hand. \u201cHave you ever tried to use it in this form?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Once. Once, just when she had first gotten her own lab, blood dripped from her specimen onto her bare hand. Even after scrubbing with alcohol and lye, the sensation lingered in her whole body. She was afraid that it would never leave her; that the lady would smell the stink on her and know. She never again handled her specimens without gloves.<\/p>\n<p>The butcher shifts away from him, her skin itching. When she sees the dripping meat, her mouth waters and her body thrums. She thinks, suddenly, that she never should have come here. Dragging herself away now would take willpower that she does not possess.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYour serum is tempered,\u201d he says, \u201cdomesticated. Much harder to fuck up your lady with the serum, but much harder to make art, don\u2019t you think?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI wouldn\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cSometimes, I wonder\u2014\u201d He is rambling now, the blood dripping down his arm. \u201c\u2014what happens to the serum that you use on your lady. When it\u2019s absorbed inside of her, does it stay in her veins? Forever? Does she filter it into something that is unique to her, and her alone?\u201d Then he sighs and fixes his gaze on the butcher again. \u201cHold out your hand.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI don\u2019t want to.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDon\u2019t you?\u201d He tilts his head to the side. \u201cDidn\u2019t you like it, the last time?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She thinks: that\u2019s why I\u2019m so scared of it. It\u2019s hard to say no, and she\u2019s losing. Sucking in a breath, she holds out her palm, and he squeezes the meat like a sponge.<\/p>\n<p>When the blood touches her, she gasps. A feverish heat sinks into her hand immediately. It\u2019s terrifying how quickly it absorbs in the skin, how quickly it travels through her. Her whole body flushes hot, first, and then she starts to pant, and then the heat travels: through her belly, between her legs, until her thighs are slick. When she squeezes them together, she can\u2019t help the moan that escapes her. She clamps her clean hand against her mouth.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cChrist,\u201d she says, \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The prisoner snorts, shrugs.<\/p>\n<p>She didn\u2019t remember it being like this: so aroused that it hurt. Is it worse when the blood is fresh? She wants to pull her skin off her bones; she\u2019s going to pretend she doesn\u2019t like it.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI don\u2019t intend on fucking you,\u201d the prisoner says, \u201cif you\u2019re thinking this was some sort of ploy to get inside your cunt. Although I would if you asked.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNo, thank you,\u201d the butcher says. \u201cI would like to keep my job, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She notices that he\u2019s erect, too. His phallus has escaped from the confines of his rags, veined in violet and pink like an agate river stone. The fur surrounding it is more similar to the doe\u2019s mane than his own hair. But his face is blank\u2014perhaps faintly amused\u2014and his skin is still pale, and he breathes with a slow, easy cadence. She finds his face too unsettling to look at.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat do you want, little magician?\u201d he asks. \u201cDo you want scales? Claws? Antlers? Horns? Do you want a cock? Another womb? Do you want to be stabbed through the belly and knit yourself back together again?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She can hardly think straight, but she lets herself interlace her fingers with his; she cradles the meat with both hands. In her periphery, she sees a web of connective tissue pull itself over the deer\u2019s wound.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhy?\u201d she whispers.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBecause you can be whatever you want to be, and as long as you keep a part of yourself, you can keep changing again and again.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAre you a practitioner? You talk like one.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cNot anymore.\u201d He smears a blood-sticky palm against her cheek. \u201cGo on, use it. Change your skin.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThey would kill me if they saw.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He shows his teeth. The dog\u2019s laugh, again. \u201cI thought you were free.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr width=\"25%\" \/>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>The butcher turns out the light and crawls into bed.<\/p>\n<p>The prisoner gave her one of the doe\u2019s legs. Pried it right off. As she was leaving, she saw the fetal limb sprouting from the doe\u2019s shoulder. She\u2019s never seen a deer grow back a limb, not with her own eyes. It reminded her of stories she once heard, of ancient guardian deer who couldn\u2019t die, not even if their heads were cut off\u2014they would amble over to their heads and lay the neck stump to the ground until they glued themselves together again.<\/p>\n<p>Edie thinks guardian deer are all imprisoned beneath the towers; the butcher thinks they never existed in the first place.<\/p>\n<p>She cradles the leg to her chest, even as the blood soaks through her shirt. She feels as if the water inside of her is rolling like the tide, as if there\u2019s an ocean inside of her.<\/p>\n<p>Bunching up her shirt, she presses the flat of her hand against her stomach. She paints her skin with deer\u2019s blood. When she digs her nails into her flesh and pulls her hand away, feathers sprout from her skin, reaching up to touch her fingertips.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cOh,\u201d she says, \u201cmy god.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She shivers and grins. She sculpts bronze scales, so shiny and so little that they become star-like against the dark expanse of her skin, and downy black fur all up and down her stomach, her chest. She paints eye-shaped spots into her feathers.<\/p>\n<p>When her fingers run dry, she plunges them between the muscle fibers of the deer leg. The pads of her fingers slide against the ulna and emerge with a stringy sanguine trail yoking her to the hole. Once, Ede Ginevene wanted her liver changed so it processed drugs more slowly\u2014so she could stay high for longer. The butcher remembers how Edie groaned when she made the incision. It was a low, rumbling noise, so unlike the lady\u2019s normal cries, but she didn\u2019t ask the butcher to stop. When the butcher let the serum drip into the wound, Edie\u2019s back lifted off the bench and her toes curled up.<\/p>\n<p>The butcher carves a chasm into the flesh of her belly. Muscle becomes hard gums, mesentery becomes teeth. This new mouth stretches from flank to flank. Within, a tongue curls up between the canines, and it smiles. Once, after the butcher messed with Ede Ginevene\u2019s liver, she smeared some of the blood onto a glass slide and looked at it under the microscope. The lady was curled up with a pillow, snoring softly, sated as a cat after dinner, and the dusk light made the whole lab a brilliant red. It took a while for the hesitant, quivering cells to do anything at all, but soon they formed lines of chatoyancy: shuddering delicate iridescence so easily destroyed by a gentle breeze, a stray breath. The butcher sees those cells, not the deer\u2019s, when she closes her eyes.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr width=\"25%\" \/>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>Ede Ginevene did end up cutting her hair. All the way up to her chin. She slept in perm rods and brushed out the curls so her hair now floats around her head when she walks. She pulls on leopard print pumps, a mink coat, and a pearl necklace so long that she can wrap it around her neck three times over and it still falls between her breasts. She holds the butcher\u2019s chin in one hand and an eyeshadow pencil in the other, carefully outlining each eye before smudging the lines with a saliva-coated pinky.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cIs this how you feel, Celosia?\u201d Ede Ginevene asks. \u201cWhen you fix my face?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>No. Not even close. \u201cExactly like this.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI wanna bleach this coat,\u201d she says, \u201cand dye it with indigo.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cCan you do that?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI think that would look nice.\u201d The butcher means it this time.<\/p>\n<p>Ede Ginevene steps back and regards the butcher. \u201cI think your shirt clashes with mine. Actually, I have just the thing.\u201d She grabs something from her closet.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI\u2014\u201d The butcher clears her throat. \u201cI really like the one I\u2019m wearing, actually.\u201d And Ede Ginevene shrugs.<\/p>\n<p>When Ede Ginevene sneaks out, she palms her guard a piece of last season\u2019s jewelry. The both of them are spirited away to the Escapades, a spa and resort on the northern shores. They will slink back into the tower in the dead of night, and Ede Ginevene\u2019s fathers will be none the wiser.<\/p>\n<p>The butcher always brings a pocket knife with her, just in case. She convinces herself that stabbing an assailant will be just like killing a deer. That\u2014if she has to do it\u2014it will be easy.<\/p>\n<p>The Escapades is built entirely with glass tinted the same blue as the ocean. Its balconies overhang the sea. Ede Ginevene falls into the arms of her friends, all radiant in their denim skirts their glitter eyeshadow their black-lipstick-white-teeth smiles. The butcher feels the music in her chest. For the first time in a long time, Ede Ginevene stays by her side, banging her head and screaming when the right lyrics come on. When the lights die down, they trickle out to the alleys between the concrete towers, to the shore, where the revelers run, tear off their clothes, and dive into the sea.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cCome here, come here.\u201d Ede Ginevene\u2019s nails are claws, drawing red marks down the butcher\u2019s arm. Her words smell like gin.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhere are we going?\u201d the butcher asks as she stumbles after her lady. Ede Ginevene\u2019s laughs echo like the chiming of bells. Her limbs, uncoordinated in their drunkenness, remind the butcher of a newly dropped foal. They round a corner so quickly that the butcher can\u2019t tell up from down, and then suddenly she is pulled tight against Ede Ginevene\u2019s cocktail-scented body. They\u2019re flanked by concrete walls, shuttered windows, and the ever-present breath-like music of the tide.<\/p>\n<p>Ede Ginevene turns intoxication into an art form: her wild hair sticks to the sweat on her forehead; her crop top is wet with sea spray, as transparent as cling wrap, so her red nipples might as well have been printed on the fabric; her lipstick is smudged like a bruise. She peers out from beneath sleepy, hooded eyes, beneath the curtained shadows of her lashes.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cAster, Jasmine, Nettle,\u201d she purrs. \u201cYou are <em>so<\/em> hot.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The butcher\u2019s breath catches. \u201cAm I?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI want you inside of me again.\u201d Her cheek is against the butcher\u2019s. She speaks in a whisper. \u201cRemember what you did to my liver? I think about that every night before I go to sleep. I want you to fuck me.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>When Ede Ginevene nibbles on her ear, the butcher forgets that she\u2019s the butcher. She\u2019s one of the women at the rave, undulating against each other until they couldn\u2019t breathe anything but their own sweat and their own perfume. She\u2019s the prisoner\u2019s canvas as he paints with the blood of his lover. She\u2019s a doe buried in the dirt beneath the paws of her bitches. Her second mouth begins to drool.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI can\u2019t,\u201d she manages. \u201cYou know I can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Ede Ginevene whispers in her ear, \u201cYou can do whatever you want.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The butcher can\u2019t even conceptualize what she would do if she couldn\u2019t hunt the deer. She would only be able to hide it for so long: her failed hunts won\u2019t fit neatly beneath a long-sleeved dress. The other practitioners would shun her. No amount of money would keep her in Ede Ginevene\u2019s chambers, not when Wry Velience threatens to abstain from sculpting the emperor\u2019s face in protest. Surely Edie knows this?<\/p>\n<p>Isn\u2019t she as afraid of losing the butcher as the butcher is of losing her?<\/p>\n<p>She tries to slip out of Ede Ginevene\u2019s grasp, but the lady holds on tight. Her fingers are tangled up in the butcher\u2019s hair and her legs weave in and out of her own and she hangs the whole of her body on the butcher\u2019s shoulders. The lady laughs again, showing off the pretty pink of her gums. She must think it\u2019s a game.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cBaby, baby, baby,\u201d she says, all lips, all tongue, \u201cit\u2019s okay, I promise. It\u2019ll be okay.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201c<em>I said I can\u2019t<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Something about the butcher\u2019s tone finally makes Ede Ginevene pause. Her brow furrows, mouth slightly agape, and her eyes go wide.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cDon\u2019t you love me?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She doesn\u2019t let go. From the depths of her belly, the butcher starts to snarl. Teeth scrape against the inside of her shirt.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cThat\u2019s not fucking fair!\u201d the butcher cries. \u201cThat\u2019s not fair, and you know it.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>Ede Ginevene\u2019s lips tremble. It hurts to look at her face; it\u2019s all crumpled apart. Her mascara is running. \u201cNo,\u201d she says around her tears, \u201cno, you just don\u2019t understand. I know you love me. You have to.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>And she puts her hands around the butcher\u2019s waist, slipping her fingers beneath her shirt. Fear and shame, red hot, strike the butcher in equal measures. She can\u2019t breathe. She pries the lady\u2019s fingers away, but it\u2019s too late. Ede Ginevene\u2019s face has gone pale.<\/p>\n<p>Before the butcher can run, she tears the fabric away and finds it: the tooth-filled mouth, and the feathers, and the scales. Ede Ginevene snatches her hands away, as if the butcher\u2019s body burned her, and presses them to her breast. Although her mouth gapes, she\u2019s so silent that the butcher can only hear the sound of her own heart thundering in her ears.<\/p>\n<p>Then, Ede Ginevene screams.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat did you\u2014\u201d She pants for air, and cries out again, and tries to speak, but the words tangle in her sobs. The butcher can\u2019t understand a single thing. Each of her cries reverberate down the alleyway.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cEdie,\u201d the butcher pleads, \u201cEdie, please, be quiet.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou\u2019re disgusting.\u201d Ede Ginevene doubles over. \u201cJesus Christ, I touched it.\u201d And she begins her chorus again: the glass-breaking, moaning screams. She sounds like she\u2019s dying.<\/p>\n<p>They\u2019re still close enough to the afterparty. Someone is bound to hear.<\/p>\n<p>She grabs Ede Ginevene by the shoulders and puts a hand over her mouth. Together, they fall against the wall, tangled up again, the air blisteringly hot. \u201c<em>Shh<\/em>,\u201d the butcher tries, desperately, her voice shaking, \u201c<em>Shh<\/em>. You know I love you. I said I love you. You don\u2019t have to cry.\u201d But the lady only shrieks. As she tries to find purchase against the butcher\u2019s chest, she bites into her fingers until blood wells up around her teeth.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHelp!\u201d Ede Ginevene manages to cry. \u201cSomeone help!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The butcher fumbles for her knife. When it\u2019s in her grasp, she presses it to Ede Ginevene\u2019s neck. A strangled sound escapes the lady as she tries to get away from the blade, but she can only press herself harder against the wall.<\/p>\n<p>Every part of the butcher\u2019s body pleads with Edie: please, please, please. She can\u2019t bear to hear that scream again.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou need to be quiet,\u201d the butcher whispers. \u201cI\u2019m begging you to be quiet.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cGet the fuck off me!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The knife sinks into the hollow of Ede Ginevene\u2019s throat. The lady\u2019s hands rush to touch the wound. When they come away red, her eyes stretch wide. She tries to say something before she falls, and in the nest of her mink coat, the butcher is on top of her.<\/p>\n<p>The butcher wonders: what if she hated Ede Ginevene? She can still feel where the lady touched her: fingerprints carved into her belly. What if the butcher truly hated her and loved the feeling of the knife sinking into her flesh? Could anyone truly blame her for putting an end to that awful, pathetic sound? The butcher roars and sobs; she shoves her entire weight down until bones snap underneath her. Again and again, she brings the knife down until her fingers are so slick with blood that it slips out of her hands.<\/p>\n<p>Swallowing the bile in her throat, the butcher sits back. Now that it\u2019s quiet, she manages to catch her breath.<\/p>\n<p>And Edie doesn\u2019t even look like Edie anymore.<\/p>\n<p>Edie tries to breathe. Instead, there is a rattling in her chest. Her gut is split open, her rib cage caved in, and her face bruised black. One eye dangles out of its socket, attached by a thin, red thread. When she sees the butcher, she laughs, and then she snarls: the purple worms of her lips stretch over her stained canines.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cKill yourself,\u201d she spits. Each word has to claw its way out of her throat. \u201cWouldn\u2019t that just be so romantic? If you fucking died, too?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr width=\"25%\" \/>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>The corpse slides off the butcher\u2019s horse. She dismounts shortly after it hits the ground and stands before it. When the prisoner crawls out of his cave, she draws her rifle.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhy do you want her?\u201d She chokes on her words. \u201cShe was my Edie.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>She didn\u2019t know where else to go. Didn\u2019t know what to do in that alleyway, already soaked through with blood.<\/p>\n<p>The prisoner gives her a pitying look: brows drawn, eyes big. \u201cLittle magician, if I could be killed, they would have done it a long time ago.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat are you?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He nods toward the trees. \u201cOnce, I was a doe\u2014an old doe, older than you can possibly imagine, and when they cleaved my head from my body, I stood again. I was forced into this form by one of you. They took my fur, my hooves, my horn, my heart. Even my womb, so that I couldn\u2019t bear another one of me. I\u2019ve tried to use my sisters\u2019 bodies to change back, but it never works. They stole that from me when they stole my blood. So I have to use something else. Something stranger, I think, than my herd. Something newer.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d she cries. \u201cWhat are you going to do to her?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWhy does it matter to you?\u201d the prisoner asks. \u201cYou killed her, not me.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He wraps a hand around the barrel of her gun and pulls it from her numb fingers.<\/p>\n<p>The butcher\u2019s voice becomes small. \u201cYou have to help me,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n<p>At his beckoning, she kneels beside the corpse with him. He runs his knuckles down her cheek, and says, \u201cWatch.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>He sinks his claws into the corpse\u2019s gut and tears it wide open. Inflated with gas, its intestines resemble pythons. He opens it from pelvis to rib cage, holding its viscera as delicately as he held the doe\u2019s meat. He laughs as he admires it.<\/p>\n<p>\"What artistry,\u201d he says. \u201cShe had one of you stitch her cervix shut. I can see your fingerprints on every one of her organs. Did you have to open her up to do that? Was she awake when it happened?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cShe was,\u201d the butcher whispers, remembering. Where Edie touched her, she feels as if she had been stabbed.<\/p>\n<p>He slips inside the cavern of her corpse, head-first. He coats his skin with her muck; rolls on top of her until she breaks apart, her blood seeping into the mud. When he emerges from the pond that he has made of her body, his hooves struggle to find purchase on the blood-slick grass. The doe shakes his head until drops of exudate fall from the tips of his woolen ears. His coat is stained a scarlet red. The butcher can only cower in the doe\u2019s shadow as he drags more and more of himself out: his haunches, the delicate curl of his tail. He stands as tall as the treetops, dripping, dripping, dripping like the leaf canopy heavy with old rain.<\/p>\n<p>He exhales once, a whole cloud of air emerging from his lungs, before he slips between the trees.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cWait!\u201d the butcher cries. \u201cWait! Aren\u2019t you taking me with you?\u201d<\/p>\n<p>The doe looks over his shoulder. His eyes are still black, but now they are the deep, reflective surface of a lake. The butcher could kneel at the surface of that lake and stare for hours, and still never see the bottom. She could drown in that lake, and the forest would march ever onward.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cYou\u2019re free, butcher,\u201d the doe says, \u201cbut I think you had better run far, far away.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr \/>\n<p>Editor: <a href=\"http:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/masthead\/staff-bios\/#KathrynWeaver\">Kat Weaver<\/a><\/p>\n<p>First Reader: <a href=\"http:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/masthead\/staff-bios\/#HebeStanton\">Hebe Stanton<\/a><\/p>\n<p>Copy Editors: <a href=\"\/masthead\/#CopyEditingDepartment\">Copy Editing Department<\/a><\/p>\n<p>Accessibility: <a href=\"\/masthead\/#WebDepartment\">Accessibility Editors<\/a><\/p>\n<br class=\"clear_both\"\/>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>In the storybooks, a maiden will recline in plush, green fields. A doe, big-eyed and beautiful, will press the tip of her horn to the maiden\u2019s forehead before lying in the grass and placing her head into the maiden\u2019s lap.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":79,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5,1],"tags":[719,1144],"class_list":["post-52464","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-art","category-fiction","tag-content-warning","tag-content-warning-2"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p82q22-dEc","jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52464","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/79"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=52464"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52464\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":52530,"href":"https:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/52464\/revisions\/52530"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=52464"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=52464"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/strangehorizons.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=52464"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}