( Lying is forbidden. As is the gentle, lapsed shiver of his lips, the tension that pinches the corners of his eyes. He bows his head minutely, allowing the moment to drag and drag and fester long, until he hears footsteps, feels licks of warmth around his flesh.

Flame-lit skin and bright, feverish eyes: he is meant to rise, the servant says. The mistress will see them. And to Five, in passing: )

There was no plan. No intent. ( Is it cruelty, then, to confide this? Five has been ruthless first, before. ) You inspired.