The Beldam Containment and Rehabilitation Facility for Witches had once been a stately mansion at the edge of a forest near a sheer cliff that looked out over a gentle bay. It had boasted gorgeous views and near perfect silence in its grand courtyard, complementing its hosting ability for out-of-town parties and retreats. That was many, many years ago, in the days before Cam's grandfather had dedicated the estate to the crown and cheekily changed its name from The Belle Dame to the Beldam. That was before the underground additions had been carved under the nearest quarter-mile of forest. Before the windows had been replaced with iron bars. Before the guardhouses and the huge iron-tipped stone walls.

But Cam had only ever known the Beldam as she was, and this place was more his home than the houses his family owned in cities. His office was a haven, with a reinforced door and the strongest deadbolt he'd been able to buy after the last door had been torn off by an angry resident during an unfortunate escape attempt. He usually left it open, so he had only to lift his head when a guard knocked politely but urgently on the doorframe to tell him that a woman was at the front door and was looking for him--a woman who wasn't an ex-con.

A moment later he was doing his best not to run down the hall as he headed for the entrance, his mind abuzz with curiosity. The gates were always kept locked, for safety, but they had never failed to open for a woman who wanted to get in. Although it was nearly unheard of for a woman to enter voluntarily in the first place. Then again, the nature of the place besmirched it, and he was wary of anyone who would come out for any reason at all.

Cam hurried down the grand steps of the front foyer and was at the front double doors almost before they were fully opened before him. One guard had stayed with the woman who stood on the front porch, eying her warily, hand itching towards the whip coiled at his waist, while the one who had come to fetch Cam once again took his spot on the other side of the door, his gaze also indelicately fixed on the women.
 
Cam took in her small stature and unaggressive posture and was even more curious--she didn't carry herself like any soldier he'd seen, which meant she had even less reason to want to be admitted--and inclined his head in a polite but not deferential greeting.

"I am Cam Pyetr, director of this facility. To what do I owe the honor? We are near capacity, but if you are a witch looking for help with controlling her magic, you've come to the right place."

She had felt like it was a little too easy when she'd been allowed through the gates. The security once she'd flagged someone down felt tighter, and as the man who ran the place appeared and spoke, she realized why she'd simply been let in: the possibility of another witch to fix.

The man who introduced himself as Camp Pyetr looked younger than she had expected him to. Thomas told her that he was her age, but she really had been expecting him to look more like a crotchety old man with a hunchback than a slender man with military posture and clean, well-kept clothes.

His words were as clear and concise as the attitudes of the other two men with their eyes on her. What he said immediately bothered her, making her skin crawl in the worst way. She didn't bother trying to hide the way she turned to look at each of the guards, pointedly noting the weapons at their hips. Her ever-pleasant smile faltered for a moment and she thought to ask him how any man could ever understand a witches control of her magic, but instead she tried to put herself in their shoes. A dangerous, unpredictable witch could be horrifying. Maybe they had all experienced the penalty of being too lackadaisical. So instead, she returned the smile to her face, keeping her hands still and in clear view, and she spoke calmly.

"Nice to meet you, Lord Pyetr. My name is Temperance Towers. While I appreciate your offer, I'm not here to seek help in controlling my powers. I'm very capable of doing so myself. I actually hoped that you and I could speak about the possibility of a business relationship of sorts, one that I think could ultimately benefit us both, should it result in the successful creation of a product I am trying to craft." With that, she used her head to nod downward, gesturing vaguely at herself. She wore a simple green, long sleeved dress and her hair was tied in a ribbon. Other than the bag she wore over her shoulder, there was no place for her to hide a weapon or anything of the like. The dagger she usually wore on a leather belt around her hips had been purposely left at home for this very reason.

"I can see that you take security very seriously. I'm willing to consent to a search of my person if it means we can have a private conversation. Your guards may check my bag as well. I have only books, a quill, and ink."

The tension in Cam's spine started to rise when the woman didn't respond. He saw her look around, noticed the calculation in her eyes, and felt his hand want to twitch towards the dagger on his own belt. He kept it steady. The guards at the door were faster than he had ever been, and they weren't even pretending to not be staring at the little woman before them. That tension started trickling away when she did move, a calm, smooth gesture that belied her lack of aggression. She spoke well, voice also steady and unthreatening, and he let himself blink for the first time since reaching her.

Her words brought a new wave of energy to his bones, this one excitement, a dull thrum of hope that stemmed from this woman--Temperance Towers, not a name he recognized from court, though it was safer to err on the side of politeness given his distance from Skia. He had been consumed with frustrated wonder after speaking with Lady Thornhill about magic containment in Arynn Frey. But the means of digging into that route had seemed elusive at best, leaving him looking for other solutions for his many problems with the women of his facility. But something about the way the woman had spoken of her own control, the confidence with which she offered a mutually beneficial . . . product? His wariness didn't even try to compete with his curiosity.

"No need for a search," Cam said. A rueful smile flickered across his mouth. "You probably know as well as anyone that the danger in a woman is generally all in her tongue. Please, let's go to my office to discuss."

He stepped back and stood to the side, gesturing for her to come in and walk beside him through the foyer, up the grand staircase, and down the hall to his office. He tried to walk leisurely, to convey casual disinterest, lofty politeness. The foyer and halls had been left as they had been in their heyday decades ago, with rugs and paintings and silver candlesticks as though the place were actually still a stately manor. The unsightly side of her was kept tucked away.

He tried to keep his voice casual as he asked, "How did you come to hear of the Beldam--and find us?"

There was an intensity to all three men that was unmistakable, but while the two guards were obviously much more physically threatening, she felt far more tension from the man directly in front of her. Cam Pyetr might not have been the type to overrule and unruly witch himself, but he clearly called the shots. The other two men could not, would not make a move without his say so, and that made him much more dangerous than them.

But, after a few tense moments, he seemed to change. The subtle shift in his body language was clear to her, if not the two other men, but she'd still expected to be searched so when he said it was unnecessary, she finally exhaled and let her hands hang freely by her sides. "Yes, I cannot argue with that," she agreed with a smile. Words were far more powerful to witches than any dagger.

As he gestured, she followed, one hand gripping the strap of her bag, the other swaying by her side. As they walked, her eyes grazed over her surroundings. She could have spent ages examining the details in the decorations. It had an old feel and smell to it, not unpleasant, but instead...somehow nostalgic, perhaps because it resembled the kind of decor found in so many other places she had visited with her grandmother as a child.

"I've worked as an apothecary for the last ten years," she began to answer his question, though her eyes were not focused on him as she did so but instead still admiring the paintings as they passed. "I've done my best to help any and everyone who has come to me, because healing is what I'm most passionate about. But I've seen my fair share of witches suffering through a loss of themselves. Sometimes they stop coming to me. I inquired after a specific witch some years back, and the Elder of my coven told me about Beldam."

Pulling her attention away from the walls and back to Cam, her smile remained a pleasant one. "As for how I found you, I'd prefer to keep that to myself, but I assure you that the location will remain as secretive as it seems you prefer to keep it. Regardless of the outcome of our discussion, the last thing I would want to do is put any innocent lives in danger, and I think making your location common knowledge would be of the opposite effect."

Cam deliberately turned his face away from the woman when she told him her profession, hiding the surprise and delight that crossed his features. He was a bad liar; he'd known it since he was a child. His reactions always gave him away. His face was too thin, he thought, and any change in muscle tensing showed like a giant flag over his head. In his youth he had tried to eat his way into hiding, but he'd never managed to plump his face enough to fill out his cheeks and cushion the vein that liked to pulse on his forehead when he was excited. Like now. Each piece of information she shared added fuel to the fire. She was a healer, and she understood the dark side of magic wielding. She had treated some of these extreme cases herself, so she would be more likely to understand the high order of the facility. A coven Elder had sent her--that was compliment enough, coming from someone who no doubt knew an ex-resident. And she wasn't on a mission to "expose" the Beldam or undermine its work with bad publicity. Had he summoned her with wishful thinking?

Of course she could be lying. Cam let himself look at her as she spoke her last words, inspecting her face for any tells of a subversive motivation. He saw nothing untrue, and he tucked away his mistrust just enough to make room for excitement to rise again.

They reached his office and he let her go in before him. It was a sparely decorated room, not very large, with the focal point being his enormous desk--a family heirloom--two chairs positioned in front of it, and a couch against the wall a few feet off to the side of the desk. Behind the desk towered a window that took up most of the wall and looked out over the rear lawn, which stretched for half a mile of short, frozen grass before reaching a high stone wall. Beyond that, the cliff and the sea. This room too hadn't been redecorated since his grandfather had used it.

"I appreciate your candor and discretion, Lady Towers." Being as she had a trade, he doubted that she actually was a noble, but it didn't hurt to err on the side of politeness. Her words about suffering witches made him think she had a philanthropic streak that might have come from an overprivileged childhood . . . she wouldn't have been the first noble he'd heard of to give up the wealth and title of nobility for a Cause.

He stepped over to a small table by the couch and lifted a snifter and a glass.

"Brandy?" He would pour or not based on her response, two cups if she agreed or none if she declined, before heading to sit at his desk, which was still strewn with stacks of papers and open ledgers from his earlier work.

"I must confess, most women who come to the Beldam aren't here by choice. Even our female staff members are generally those who graduated our program and simply have nowhere else to go. You are a practiced healer, a member of a Coven . . . what is it you think the Beldam can offer you?"

It seemed far too crass to ask what she could do for him, though that's what his pulsing vein wanted. And he didn't want to get his hopes up. He had tried a few times to recruit skilled tradeswomen to join his team, but all were scared away, either by the remote location, the little he told them of what containing magical prisoners involved, or the mountain's worth of information he didn't. This woman turning up felt too much like the fairytale of the perfect youngest daughter arriving of her own will to save the cursed beast. In other words, a trap.

As they stepped into his office, her entering first, she looked around at it. She'd expected it to be a little larger and more decorated given how every detail of the outside halls had been done so, but instead his office was a little more minimal. The window, and view out of it, was what drew her attention most. The view felt both beautiful and lonely in a way.

"Of course," she said, pulling her eyes back to him from the window. "And you can call me Temperance, or Ms. Towers, if you prefer. I'm no noble lady," there was no bitterness, anger, or distaste to her words or tone. She wasn't bothered by the fact that he had called her a lady, nor was she bothered that she wasn't one. Everyone had their place in Nevermere, and she was perfectly happy with hers. Most of her patients, noble or not, called her by her first name (the occasional few elderly women called her by her nickname), and although it might have seemed improper to some, it was ultimately up to the two people involved in the conversation. Though she was proud of her family name, Temperance did not want to be constantly judged strictly on the merits of her family. She had worked hard for what she had, and ultimately her success came from that hard work.

As he offered her a drink, she nodded. "Sure, thank you." She plucked the strap of her bag from over her shoulder and took a seat in one of the chairs on the opposite side of his desk, settling her bag in her lap. As the glass was handed to her, she took it with a widened smile. "Thank you, Lord Pyetr," she said, resting the glass in her lap, atop her bag. Once he sat down and directed his question at her, she straightened up some. She took a sip from the brandy, licking the excess from her lips as she glanced at his desk and found no coasters to use - if he did have some, they could very well have been hidden by the excess of paperwork strewn across the desk. He certainly seemed like a busy man.

Digging into her bag, she plucked a spare piece of blank parchment and folded it four ways, sat it on his desk as a barrier and put the glass on top of that. "I would like to study your patients, if you would allow me. I have a theory that I would like to research, and Beldam has the biggest collection of study subjects that I could possibly hope for. It's clear that every woman here is here for a reason. They've been deemed dangerous and incapable of controlling themselves, or their magic. It may take some time, but I would like to develop of potion that could help them...regain their senses, so to speak."

There was little known about the inner workings of the human brain, but Temperance had a good grasp on emotion, and she felt that played a big role. "If my research results in a potion that can help them, I would like to petition the crown to be the only Witch allowed to make the potion. If they do not accept that petition, two things are likely to happen. One being that the ingredients and process will likely be made known publicly and therefore you will have access to it. The second being that they keep it strictly for military use, in which case I assume your witches will still benefit from it, as many are here to be reformed and returned to the military, are they not?" She paused, reaching for the glass to take another sip.

"However, if the petition is allowed, I would owe you a great debt for your role in my research. At which time we can agree between ourselves on compensation and your means of access to the potion for your patients. In other words, you will have access to the result regardless, as long as I am successful, and I very much intend to be."

Cam saw her examining his desk and thought for a brief moment that she was searching for a weapon, a letter opener or a statue that she could use to kill him. The thought disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, but he still felt silly. Years of dealing with dangerous women had made him jumpier than he liked.

He watched her careful and precise movements as she folded a paper and then put her drink atop it. Was his desk too dirty for her...? Then he heard his mother's screeching reprimands from his childhood every time he put a wet glass on polished wood. He couldn't stop the grin that came across his face, distracting him from her words. He tried to quell it and failed, instead taking a sip of his own drink to hide his mirth. Why did he feel like giggling? Excitement was a dangerous emotion; it made people uncareful.

Finally commanding his features, Cam wore a thoughtful frown, resting the whiskey glass against his chin as he stared at her, drinking in her words and racing on fantasies. A potion to regain their senses. If this woman had a tenth of the competence she projected with her calm demeanor and eloquent speech, she could be invaluable to the operations of the Beldam even if she never produced something as far-fetched as a cure. Cam had his own theories about why women acted the way they did, and he had spent years of his own trying to make sense of why women lost their senses. Perhaps a woman, though biased, balancing knowledge with ambition--she hadn't even held back that aspect of her goals--could come closer than he ever had.

Even if she failed, Cam would gain something from her work.

"You come with an extraordinary proposition, Temperance," he said at last. A tingle chased down his spine as he said her name, a name that epitomized the Nevermerean's highest value, the thing most of the residents here lacked the most. Or maybe it was the brandy. His eyes were intense as he set his glass down directly on the wood--on a corner of the desk that was dull and watermarked--and leaned forward, lacing his fingers together under his chin.

"There are conditions, standard rules for all my staff, that I would need you to agree to before I could approve," he said. "First and foremost, what you witness and learn here can never become public knowledge. This place is necessary, but it is not . . . palatable for most civilians. They would not understand what we're trying to do, how our methods are conducted with the best intentions. You would not be allowed to stay and work here unless you signed on as a contracted staff member. That contract binds you to the fate of the Beldam, and any attempt to spread slander or cause unrest within these walls or outside of them would make you liable to the facility's meting of justice."

There was really no nicer way to say it. When it came to the Beldam, snitches got stitches.

He was right. It was a big promise to make. "I know it must seem like a near impossible task, Lord Pyetr," she agreed. She'd thought this through thoroughly, but she couldn't deny that she had her own doubts. Regardless of that, she had to try. The idea had taken root in her now, had sprung itself upon her waking and dreaming worlds, and had far surpassed the need to stake a claim for her future children. If she could work this out, it could very well make the lives of hundreds upon hundreds of people better.

Unlike Cam, Temperance did not bother to hide the elation that took hold of her expression when he began speaking of the expectations that would befall her once she began working in Beldam. He had not, was not, denying her request. There were stipulations, of course, she had expected as much. Thomas had been very thorough in his research of the Beldam before allowing her to visit it alone, so she knew that security and secrecy were of utmost importance. But she really had expected more questions, more push back, and instead Cam seemed happy to welcome her to his staff. So she grinned, and she didn't hide it. A bit of excitement may have found it's way into her tone, but the volume and quality of calm continued to carry over.

"I understand, yes," she said. "In any case, it would not benefit me to slander the very institution with which I'm retrieving my research. If anything, I would think that would discredit both me and my work. I cannot say that I will agree with whatever methods you speak of, but that is the very reason my research is so important." She took another sip of the brandy and once more placed the cup on top of the parchment and rested her hands in her lap.

"So, if it is a contract I must sign to become an employee here, I am happy to do so. I should hope that my specific task would be in research and development alone, and that I would not be expected to physically handle any of the patients, of course. I do still work a daily job, so I may only be able to come once or twice a week. If you have a preference for which days, I am happy to work around the schedule you prefer." With that, she met his eyes, still smiling. "Did you have any questions for me, Lord Pyetr? I feel that this work will force us to be very honest with both ourselves and each other, so I'm an open book, as they say."

The initial part of her response made some of the tension leave his shoulders. He hadn't had the luck of conversing with sensible, logical women very often, especially given the type he normally spent his day around. The head on her shoulders seemed ready indeed to bear the burden of what the Beldam faced. When she went on to mention her day job, Cam's head dipped until his mouth was behind his interlaced fingers, partially obscuring the twist of his mouth.

"Well, about your day job . . . that's one of the other rules." His voice teetered on apologetic. "All staff must stay on the grounds at all times during shifts, and our shifts are week-long. We have a barracks for the men, and the servants' quarters at the back of the mansion have been converted to rooms for the female staff." The risk of smuggling, being followed, the lengthy trip between the facility and the closest city, and the logistics of maintaining a daily roster of guards and shift changes had been too much for Cam's grandfather, so this odd live-in system had been developed. "Most of the guards work three weeks on, one week off. They're assigned day or night shift and different tasks and wards, of course, but the minimum is inflexible. You could come as frequently or as infrequently as you needed, of course, but you'd have to stay in week-minimum increments."

It sounded almost silly explaining it out loud, but it would have taken too long and given too much information to a yet-untested person to even try to summarize the complex work schedule he used to keep guards alert, to avoid prisoner-guard romances, to ensure no one got lax around their prisoners, to make sure the women always knew that their guards were perfectly organized and in control. It was part of a mind game that kept the machine running, and as tempting as it was to give this woman carte blanche at the prospect of a useful outcome, he knew he couldn't risk the integrity of the system.

And he hoped she wouldn't ask him to.

This condition was unexpected. Though it had been a trip to the Beldam, and his reasoning made enough sense, she still hadn't given it much thought prior to her arriving. Of course, allowing staff to live or sleep on the grounds during shifts was not so different from the way the military operated and many of the people locked away in Beldam, and therefore also their staff, were prior military. They would be use to that kind of scheduling, and she supposed that having people - even staff - coming in and out would make it easier for slip-ups (escapes?) to occur. She didn't want to argue that she should be the exception, but this would certainly be a harder sell to Thomas.

She took a breath, nodding and giving herself a minute or two to think it over. As long as she was consistent, she could make it work. "Perhaps, then, I could work one week on, two weeks off? That would give me time to further study what I have learned while here and prepare my regular patients' potions a week ahead of time so that they do not go without."

She was pushing it. After Malsumis had destroyed her greenhouse, putting everything back together had not been easy. It was time consuming work, and it left her a little behind. "I could come back in two weeks and we can begin my rotation from there. I'm fine sleeping among the female staff, in fact I might like to speak with them as well if you would permit it. Finding out what makes them different from those who could not find success in rehabilitation would also be extremely helpful."

Eying the brandy on the desk, more lost in thought than thinking of the liquid itself, she nodded once more, this time to herself rather than to him. "I will have to speak to my partner about it, but should he approve, that is what I think will work best for us. Does that sound alright to you, Lord Pyetr?"

Cam could hardly believe his luck. He'd felt for a moment like this opportunity was slipping away and had considered what alternatives he could offer--but she had agreed! He was nodding before she finished speaking. The mention of a partner was both a relief and a small problem he made a mental note of. A partner, assuming she meant in her practice, would be able to cover her workload, meaning she might be able to come even more often. But a partner was also someone who might learn things they had no business knowing.

"One week here, two away is perfectly acceptable," he said. "I will speak to our head of staff about making sure there's a bed and locker ready for you. She might even be able to swing a private room." He grimaced. "A closet, probably . . . but private."

The other rules, he thought, wouldn't be nearly as controversial. He rattled them off with the speed of someone who listed them often: No visiting a resident in her cell without a guard escort in the room. No group meetings without his approval and appropriate guard presence. No gifts or favors for any of the women--they ought to request an audience with the director if they needed something. No taking correspondences or messages to those outside the facility--another request that went through the director. No discussion of world affairs or political happenings outside the Beldam. No impromptu changes in resident treatment plans or schedules. No activity after dark. Report to a guard immediately if you see whispering, muttering, or any other sign of attempts at magic by any resident.

When he'd finished the list, he sat back a little and took a gulp from his glass before opening a desk drawer and pulling out a short stack of papers covered in small, tight script, still talking.

"All the rules are written here in the contract." He quickly filled out a few blanks--minimum of ONE week... Purpose: Research and treatment development... "One staff member joked that it would be quicker to write down the things that are allowed, but safety is of utmost importance."

He set the stack of papers in front of her and pushed a writing utensil across the desk.

"If you're willing to sign now, I'd be happy to give you a tour of the building. There's a somewhat special event going on soon; a resident is set to be promoted from Level 3 to Level 2 after remarkable improvement. She'll give you a sense of what we consider success here." He looked meaningfully at the contract. "Unless you had any concerns you'd like to discuss?"

"There's really no need to make special accommodations for me, Lord Pyetr," she said, hands waving lightly in the air as he spoke of securing a private room. "I think it would be best for me to be treated similarly to your female staff. Even though our reasons for being here are different, I don't want them to feel like I think I'm any better than they are." Because she wasn't, not really, at least not in her own eyes. If they were former patients who had successfully completed their rehabilitation then she had immense respect for them. It was no easy feat to sink into that darkness and then pull yourself back out.

As he rattled off the rules, she nodded along. She had no problems with any of those things. She would have to remind herself about the gifts part - it was just in her nature to share things, but she wanted to respect the rules Cam had set forth for Beldam. There was a reason for all of them, of that she was sure, and the last thing Temperance needed to do was cause upheaval in the place that gave her research it's best chance at succeeding.

Nothing else jumped out to her as a problem. Though she was wildly aware of the goings on of Nevermere, the possibility of upcoming war, and the goings on of other kingdoms, in truth she paid little of it much attention. Her days were spent in her cottage or her greenhouse or her garden. That is where her patients came to see her. Melody, her maid, did most of the grocery shopping. Thomas told her what she needed to know about what was happening in Skia. It might be a bubble, but it was one of her own making and she liked it just fine. Besides, current events wouldn't help her research. All she needed to know was about the inner workings of the witches minds and she wouldn't benefit from putting them in a panicked state.

As he slid the parchments over to her, she took them and began to look through them. Most of what she saw were the things he listed. It was very thorough, and she chuckled lightly at the joke that it would be easier to write out the things that were allowed. It was a lot, but again, she understood the necessity of most of it. "May I have just a moment to read it all through?" She asked, and then turned her eyes back to the contract. She read every word; her father had taught her that, always reminding her that contracts could get you in trouble. He had learned in business that a persons signature is their word, and they would be held to it. So she read it all.

When she was done, she turned her eyes back up to him. "Would I have able to get a copy of this for my own records? Once both copies are signed, you may seal my copy if you like. I'd just like to be thorough throughout the whole process. This research could potentially change a lot." She smiled, picking up the fountain pen he'd slid over to her. She knew she really shouldn't sign it until she got Thomas's opinion on the matter, but the sooner they could schedule and start, the better.

So she leaned forward and dipped the pen in his inkwell, and signed the contract given to her. Then slid them both back over to him. "No concerns come to mind at this time, lord Pyetr," she said, grabbing her glass for another sip. "Only hope that something good will come of all of this."

Cam tried not to be too eager as he reached across the table to pull the signed contract to himself. There were no guarantee this witch would be able to actually him, but the calmness of her demeanor, the gentleness of her mindset, even the diligent thoroughness with which she'd read the contract (even though he'd basically sat staring at her the entire while, watching for even a hint of a frown) all seemed to him more promising signs than he'd witnessed in years. He had started hoping that there might be a better solution outside of Nevermere--and of course there were avenues to explore there--but to find this gem of an instrument right in his homeland, volunteering her service like a true patriot . . . he never should have doubted his beloved country.

He had eventually busied himself with filling out another copy of the same contract while she read the original, so he was able to give that to her now, trying his best to stifle the grin that wanted to steal across his mouth. His mother had always told him his teeth were too big for his face and he needed to smile less to hide them, but it was hard to follow that now. He wanted to lift his glass and touch it to hers for a toast, but practically it would have been awkward to try to lean across the desk, and he'd already finished his drink anyway.

Tucking the contract into a drawer and locking it with a key on his belt loop, Cam rose energetically from his seat.

"Well then, let's get down to the dining hall. Leiser should be all set up for the promotion." He ushered her out of the office and--as they walked back through the hall, down the steps, and then towards a side hall that led to a grand pair of doors that were open--kept up a rolling monologue.

"Administrative, therapy, and training rooms are on the second floor. Level 2 and 3 residents stay mostly on the third or fourth floors, and then there are rooms on the higher floors all the way up to the towers. Some residents are housed in the cellars, which have of course been converted to suitable living and confinement space. Meals are served in rooms, and therapy or training is done either in one of the second floor offices or in the bedroom, depending on the resident. We can, of course, make sure you have an office to use, but you will most likely still need to visit some residents in their rooms if they aren't fit for transport." He barely paused for breath, making sure to not leave space for questions about what the Levels entailed or anything else about the prisoner treatment. First, a positive event.

Through the great doors of the dining hall where the two posted guards nodded at them as they went in, there were still tables set out as if the mansion was ready to host a great banquet. The long tables were set in a U-shaped formation, as if the king and his family would sit along the short middle at the head and his nobles would sit in descending rank along the side tables, glaring at each other across the gap between the tables big enough for servants and dancers and jesters to move freely. But the walls were bare, the wood of the tables and floor scratched and unpolished, and the chairs that lined the tables were sloppily repaired or mismatching. Only the staff ate in this room now, in shifts or hurried meals. 

At the inner crux of the U, a guard stood beside a tall, broad man, facing the head of the tables. Both men turned to look as Cam ushered Temperance in, and as they did, they parted enough to reveal a thin woman sitting in a chair in front of them. She was barefoot and wore a plain grey dress. Her hair fell unkempt and untidy around her head. Her eyes were the only part of her face that was visible. The lower half was covered in a mask of hardened black leather.

"Ah, Director, so pleased you could join," the tall man said. He was older, wrinkled despite his huge size, and his sharp eyes fixed on Temperance. "Will we be putting the bridle to use again so soon after freeing Pella of it?"

"No, no, no, Leiser," Cam said quickly, a hand jumping to hover protectively over Temperance's shoulder that he let fall to his side without having touched her. "She is  our newest staff member. We've come to witness the promotion."

"Oh," Leiser said, his eyes even more curious now. His mouth opened, but then he shut it, eyes flickering to Cam, before he nodded and he turned his back on them again. "Pella, you joined our facility in the spring of last year after being convicted of undermining your commanding officer and disobeying a direct order. For a time, you behaved admirably, showing great growth in your understanding of your duty and the tenets of correct conduct. However you revealed to us at the end of this past autumn that your secret heart for insubordination and treachery were still alive when you attacked a guard who was performing an ad hoc inspection of your chambers in the middle of the night for suspected contraband."

For a brief moment, perhaps too fast for most to see, the woman's eyes flashed with anger and indignation over the mask on her face. Then the expression was gone, and her stare was carefully empty again.

"To aid you in recovery from your self-harming ways and to ensure you would be able to deeply learn the value of obedience, you were fitted with this bridle to help you understand what true self-control is. Having demonstrated exceptional behavior and compliance with guards and your lessons over the past season, your bridle will be removed and you will be moved back in with the other Level 2 residents, free to drink, eat, and speak at will. Orren, please unlatch her."

The guard stepped around the back of the chair and used one hand to tip the woman's head forward. With the other, he flourished a key from his pocket, lifting it and waiting for Leiser's nod before he brought it down to the band that held the bridle in place on her head. As soon as the lock had clicked, the woman reached up, her hands like claws as she yanked the mask off her face. There was a pop as a ball, connected to the mask by a short chain that jangled with the motion, pulled free of her lips. Saliva that had pooled behind the mask dribbled down her chin and the front of her dress, but the woman only sat with her head lowered, jaw stretched open, sucking in deep breaths, as the guard took the bridle and set it on one of the side tables.

"Freedom is the reward for obedience," Leiser said, beaming and spreading his arms magnanimously. Then he started clapping, turning his smile towards Cam and Temperance. Cam joined the applause, sneaking a glance at his companion for her reaction, to see if she understood the greatness of this achievement. To have a renegade go from attacking a man to obedience so quickly--a single season!--meant that at least the therapies and training were effective in cases where a woman could be changed. Obviously, they didn't have all the answers here at the Beldam, but here was a woman who would, he hoped, never again question authority out of place. That was something to be proud of.