The Merchant's Daughter

This story has an interesting, convoluted past. The first part started nearly a decade ago as a seminar assignment that was to deal with life changes and start with three single-word sentences in present tense to draw the reader right into the story.
Since we were getting half a dozen such assignments every week, to save time I appropriated a minor NPC from a DnD campaign I was running at the time. She became the main protagonist. And as often happens to me, I got so enamored with the concept that I completed the story not much later – obviously submitting only the first part at school.
And now I came across it again, polished it a little, translated from my mother tongue into English, polished a little more…
Sorry for my rambling, here is:


The Merchant's Daughter

I'm sitting. Reading. Eating.

I'm sitting on a comfortable upholstered chair at a massive mahogany desk, in Father's office with a view far into the country.

I'm reading our agents' reports from all over the above-mentioned country, with open accounting books and archived missives to check them against.

I'm eating honey pastries all the while, holding them in my left hand away from the desk and important documents.

I have an inkpot and a quill ready on my right, on my left the cook had placed a bread basket overflowing with pastries and a decanter with apple cider next to several coloured tassels hanging from the ceiling.

I am not lacking for anything. Except Mother. A year ago we would have sat here together, laughing at our agents' tricks and excuses, cracking jokes while writing our letters… All that has changed. I am alone. A pleasant pastime turned into a boring routine. And there's ever more of it. We are growing. We have ever more branches, ever more employees and ever more agents willing to swindle not just our customers but the consortium too.

Just like now. Does our Whitebridge agent truly believe I am not familiar with the fees we pay to hire a river ship? We shall not tolerate this. Quickly stuffing the rest of the pastry into my mouth, I lick my fingers and flick the crumbs on the carpet (maid will clean it up). Then I reach for a new sheet of parchment and start calligraphing first letters.

Dear Sir... You have been weighed and found wanting, I sadly cannot write;

please revisit a minor discrepancy in Lot No.3254. It must have slipped your mind that Winter is long over, since you have paid winter carrier fees instead of summer ones that are currently in place…
We are expecting you to cover the resulting shortfall from your own pocket, as well as any potential damages, and hope this mistake will not be repeated again.

Ottilia A. E. Fattore, mppria.
Representing Etienne V. Fattore,
President of the Iron Consortium

I place the finished letter into a basket on my right, for outbound correspondence, my left hand reaches for another pastry. But the bread basket is empty. A quick glance at my grandfather clock tells me it is half past ten. A long wait till lunch. I pull the yellow tassel.

The maidservant is late, she must be chatting up one of our teamsters. Again. When the door finally opens, I'm already immersed in another report. “Bring me another full basket from the kitchen, Adele.”

„Ehh… it'll be lunch soon, Miss, you don't want to spoil your appetite, do you?”

This makes me raise my head and frown, my eyes bore straight into her face like two drills. “Bring – me – another – basket.”

She meekly submits, “Yes, miss.” And she's gone.

This has changed too. A year ago, Mother would firmly say, “No, Ottilia, you've had enough,” and pinch my tummy for emphasis. But then a year ago I could have never imagined eating a full basket over the course of my morning in the office, let alone two. Our mornings were full of laughter and merriment, it felt completely different. For one thing, my clothes haven't felt as confining. I pause my reading to slide the belt below my waist. Today my office is silent like a graveyard – so I fill the silence with my crunching.

***

I have barely covered and filed in all our agents' reports before lunchtime, I have more correspondence to deal with in the afternoon. When the gong finally announces the noon meal, I sigh and rock my body to stand up. The maid may have been right, though I hate to admit it. I shouldn't have eaten the second basket, I'm felling full already and an eight-course lunch awaits.

This is new too. Mother would have uttered a couple well-chosen sentences on the pitfalls of gluttony and that would be it. But Mother is gone. And the cook does everything to the First Merchant's liking.

I slowly waddle to the dining room where another comfortable chair awaits me on my Father's right hand. My Mother's chair, it creaks when I'm sitting down. I am out of breath, trying to surreptitiously loosen my dress while I take stock of my surroundings.

Lunch is going to be a small affair today, I can see just a couple of our senior accountants plus deacon Orontius who fell in love with our kitchen. And Father invites him often since the deacon is also the closest confidant of our Duke. He is sitting down next to me now so I put on a pleasant smile and pretend to listen to his diatribes against sins of the flesh. As if trying to prove his point, he keeps stealing glances of my deep cleavage, nearly salivating.

Luckily my Father arrives soon after. Fattore the Merchant draws your attention at first sight. What he lacks in height he more than compensates in width. Clad in blue and scarlet silk, wearing massive gold rings and a necklace he appears more regal than His Majesty himself. Nearly nobody would ever guess his father went from village to village, buying out raw hides. And those in the know would never dare remind him of it.

No wonder, he already wields greater power than most hereditary nobles in the kingdom. For the public he embodies – fully and literally – the Iron Consortium. And those in the know (I've been one of them for the last eight months) know he's already bought or squeezed out most other associates – more or less legally - and today he owns nearly three quarters of the company himself.

He is by far the wealthiest man in the duchy, our Duke included, he may well be the wealthiest man in the country. And yet he prefers to stay in this provincial city nestled in the mountains. Because here he has within his reach the mines that brought him his wealth. And – I speculate – also because here he is out of reach of our king who likes to borrow from his wealthy subjects and never pays his debts.

Since I have been accompanying him at every major negotiation for the last two years, I know even the highest lords hold him in high respect. Strangely, my thoughts take a detour in an unwelcome direction, while Mother was going with us, everyone kept telling me I look just like her. Nowadays these same nobles assure me how much me and Father are alike. And when I see his nearly spherical body enter the dining room, I am beginning to wonder whether it is always meant as a compliment.

Fattore the Merchant slowly waddles through the hall, even slower than me since his gut apron would not let him go faster. He bends forward a little, I get a traditional kiss on my cheek and then he positions his buttocks on a specially reinforced bench at the head of the table. The feast may begin.

Servants bring in the first course right away, meat broth with wurst and rye bread, and I find out I am not nearly as full as I feared. I start stuffing myself again happily. Broth is followed by a fish pie, a selection of patés and roasted young hare with olives, and fried vegetable salad. By now I am slowing down a little, merely tasting here and there. If only it weren't all so good!

Main course today is capon roasted on oranges. I'm washing it down liberally with wine, yet still I leave more on my plate than servants are used to. Unlike the penultimate course; it was my Mother who brought the secret of ice cream to our lands and all summer I can never have enough of this cold creamy goodness. Especially now, thanks its added bonus: its icy cold mass soothes my overstuffed stomach.

I barely sample candied fruit, pastilles and sugared almonds, glad that the lunch is over. I am gathering my strength to stand up when I realise servants are still here, seemingly waiting, looking to the double leaf door. They are opening it now, revealing a giant cake carried by two more maids. Father smiles, enjoying my confusion. “I know how much my daughter loves sweets so I asked the town baker to prepare a small surprise for her. I hope you are happy, Ottilia, dear.”

I struggle to keep smiling, „Certainly, Daddy.“ I'm not getting out of this. And when I see Adele cutting nearly a quarter of that monstrosity for me, I sink into the depths of horror.

She brings it to me personally, with a malicious look nobody else can see. „Bon appetit, Miss.“

Looking at the huge portion in front of me, it takes all my actings skills to cover up the terror I am feeling at the moment. I would swear I can't swallow a single bite right now. But I can't disappoint Father! I turn my head left to look at his face, forcing my facial muscles to convey a mixture of surprise, joy and gratitude.

Yes, he's looking at me, urging me to have a taste. I widen my lips even further in a fake smile and take a deep breath to get my stomach ready for the worst.

RRRIP!

Panicking, I swallow the first bite without chewing. I am faking noises of enjoyment, though even if I were swallowing ash right now I would not know it. Meanwhile my left hand frantically gropes about to find the source of that sound. A second of uncertainty, another, one more, then my fingers find a yawning gap in the left flank of my belly.

The good news is that none of the other diners can see it and although the ripping sound seemed louder than a gunshot to me, nobody else appears to have noticed, too busy with their own cake. And even better news is that, thanks to a suddenly loosened dress, I caught a second breath. My stomach expands even further and I attack the cake like possessed.

When the last crumb is gone, I know I won't be able to stand up. Luckily Hassan the guard is foresighted enough to jump to my chair and help me stand up… or rather lift me up on his own. I press my left arm on on my hips to cover the gap and bid farewell to the deacon as conventions demand. I turn my right side to him, suffer another flood of empty phrases and lascivious looks of that old lecher. Better for him to ogle my abundant curves than notice that.

“Please, convey my thanks for an excellent feast to your father, my dear. And thank you for a most pleasant company. I hope we meet again soon.“

“I trust so too, Your Worshipfulness,” I nod, highlighting my tiered chin. I'm not lying even, “trust” isn't “hope” nor “look forward to.” And I know I'll see him here again before the week is over. “It has been a pleasure.” This is a lie, a blatant one.

He bends down from his six feet to kiss my chubby hand and nearly buries his nose in my burgeoning cleavage. Only then he finally leaves and I can disappear in the drawing room. I am not going upstairs to my rooms, I wouldn't be able to in this state. I close the door and collapse on a couch. „Adele!“

Door immediately opens – but it is only Father. “My dear, I have a, uh, business meeting that will keep me occupied the whole afternoon.… and maybe evening too. Should anything unexpected happen, deal with it in my name. As always, you have my full confidence.”

I know all too well what kind of a 'meeting' it is but I am so full that I can't manage more than just a nod which draws out my chins from hiding again.

“See you then, sugarcake.”

Sugarcake. Now that's new. Couldn't he find a less offensive pet name? But then, he is right, I am an overfed beached whale. Just like him.

As soon as his figure clears the doorframe, a maid runs in. “Did you call me, Miss?”

“I did.” I gather my thoughts again. “Help me undress and pour me a shot of digestif.”

“Yes, Miss.”

I am breathing heavily, my stomach seems to grow an inch each time I inhale. Luckily it is no longer confined in my dress. I am trying to massage the hard ball I can feel under a generous layer of fat. I have never eaten so much in my life but I'm not swearing not to overeat ever again. I know myself too well for that.

It takes the maid an eternity to come back with the digestif. My stomach is settling down a little and I am getting sleepy, tired after all that exertion…

***

I wake up slowly, grudgingly. But work awaits. I force myself to open my eyes and the first thing I notice is my green and red dress the maid has put on an armchair opposite. This reminds me of that little 'accident' I had at the dining table. By now the whole household surely knows about it. Oh well, at least I don't need to climb the stairs now. „Adele!“

„Yes, miss?“

„Help me dress.“

It takes a joint effort to press all my folds into a new vise. „This green dress ain't likely to last you long either, Miss. It can't be let out any further.“ Adele looks meaningfully at the lard pot of my belly but doesn't dare add, so stop eating like a pig.

„Well, then run to the seamstress and tell her to come tomorrow. Say… at ten. But first help me to the office.“

„As you command, Miss.“

It takes me an hour to finish the first letter. I'm still feeling sleepy after a rich lunch, the office feels like an oven in the afternoon heat, no wonder my thoughts are dragging like treacle. Mmm, treacle…

I drive off any thoughts about eating, I still couldn't eat a bite. I rise vigorously to shake myself into activity. A bit too vigorously, I still haven't got used to my new body. My fattened belly slams into the desk. Mahogany is heavy, I couldn't knock it down no matter how hard I tried, even in times when I had been strong, not fat. But fat carries its own inertia. The inkwell starts dancing on the desktop, spiralling towards my lap.

I hate the thought of being doused with ink. Both my hands shoot for the inkwell, catching it in the last second. I place it back, carefully, then I lean both my hands on the desk. I am gasping for breath and watching my gut beat its rhythm on its reddish brown surface. I truly am a fat out-of-shape pig.

After I finally caught my breath, I walk to the window and open it to let fresh air in. A bad idea. Outside heat dazes me again, it is high summer. I retreat into a shade, enjoying the view. I can see a fertile lowland unfold below me, with a spyglass I could see towns and villages scattered like white pearls among golden fields. Even without it, if I strained my eyes a little, I could find a sparkling white bridge spanning the river that carries water from our mountains.

That bridge sends my thoughts in another direction altogether. Suddenly I envy Father the freedom with which he can devote all afternoon to his pleasures, not having to fear consequences, condemnation from society. Why him and not me? I turn around quickly, making the outlying parts of my body jiggle again, and sit down at the desk again. It is time for a fresh parchment and red ink. Hello, my love.

Love, huh. A strange word. Do I know its meaning? I did love Mother, I think. Why would I be thinking of her all the time otherwise? And Father? I feel respect towards him, boundless admiration, a little apprehension and the tiniest bit of contempt. I wouldn't call that love.

And Leo? I like his company, I laugh at his jokes, I giggle and blush like a common maid when I am with him. He stokes my fire, I long for his touches, I wish for more than a few stolen kisses. But I am also aware that he is naive, even a bit dense perhaps. Plus indecisive, easily influenced (all it takes is a pair of big breasts, such as mine). And mainly, one day he'll inherit the family title, offering me an easy way to join the aristocracy. In fact, he doesn't have a single negative trait. But is this love?

Hello, my love.
I keep thinking of you every waking minute, I cannot bear our separation anymore. As soon as you can, come to the city, use whatever pretence you need. You may say I found a discrepancy in your subjects' taxation. It will not be a lie.
But please come. I wish to see you, to hug you, to caress you and kiss you… Father is away every afternoon and door to my room is wide open.
Your Loving O

I regret that I have nobody to bet with anymore. I am willing to bet he will come running as soon as he gets my letter, riding his horse to the death. And if he doesn't, I'll eat his hat. No, I take that back. I'll eat his horse.

I write his address in playful strokes.
The Honorable
Leonardo du Pont, IV,
Palace by the River,
Whitebridge

I use my private seal on the letter. On a whim, I pull out a scrap of paper, writing “Lady Ottilia Fattore du Pont” on it. It has a nice sound to it. I quickly tear the scrap into a hundred pieces and pull the blue tassel. Our courier runs in so fast he nearly trips over the doorstep. “Have you called, Miss?”

Looking him up and down I note with surprise how much “little Charlie” has grown up. The son of our cook, the little boy that used to run around the house so much that Father named him our “courier.” First as a joke that eventually turned into a real job with a real wage. He's saved me so much walking this last year… And today he would be looking down to me even if I were standing up. Since I am sitting at my desk, his gaze falls downwards onto me, focusing somewhere below my face. Charlie did grow up indeed. I let out another sigh and deeply inhale, knowing what it does to my chest. Then I look up sharply, piercing him with my eyes.

He turns beetroot red, turning his head away in shame. Should I be offended by this commoner's insolence? I'm delighted that he still finds me attractive. I smile widely, “Yes, I did.”

Trying to reach for the letter basket, I am leaning forward a little more than necessary to offer him another good look. “Here. I have two letters for Whitebridge. Willy's going there tomorrow with another batch of pig iron so give them to him to deliver. And tell him if he forgets I'll have him for lunch, raw,” and I wink at him.

“Yes, Miss,” he tears his look away from my boobs long enough to wink back.

“This letter goes to Brux, tell Hansi to pass it on…”

As soon as Charlie and all the letters are gone, I stretch sensuously in my chair. True, there is still some work to be done but nothing which couldn't wait for tomorrow. Now I am finally free! It is time for the red tassel. Soon I hear heavy steps in the hallway. My personal guard barely fits in the door, just like Father, but unlike him there's not an ounce of spare fat on Hassan's body.

“Yes, Miss?”

“I'd like to stretch my legs a little, Hassan. We'll browse the market, drop at the jeweller's perhaps, visit the orphanage.”

Hassan, too, wouldn't be here were it not for Mother's demise. Father fears losing me as well so I am not allowed to leave the house except in the company of this overmuscled gorilla. And he doesn't care how much my private life has suffered because of that.

***

My midday stuffing long forgotten, I unerringly head to a stand I haven't seen in the market square before, led by my fine-tuned sense of smell. The seller is still young but she can already boast a true baker's figure. Even though next to me she still looks small.

I order several samples, eager to have a taste. Her sweets are fine, unusual, somewhat plebeic in their taste but… I wouldn't be swallowing them this fast if I didn't like them.

“They're good,“ I praise her with my mouth full. „Did you make them yourself?“

“Those are my Mom's recipes,“ she boasts, unaware how painful a subject she's bringing up.

“I'm not asking you whose recipe it is but who made them,“ I repeat rather forcefully.

“M-me, Ma'am.”

“Where are you from?”

She mentions a village to the West of the city, adding: “I'd come to the market more often but it's a long way. So I sell here only when someone else is bringing his goods.”

“You could live at my house, bake for me and sell leftovers at the market.” Heh, leftovers.

“Eh… I'm engaged.”

“Doesn't matter. There'll be plenty of work for your man too.”

“Eh…”

What's her problem? Everyone here knows that I always get what I want. Could it be that she's not local? Does she think I am just a capricious little girl playing a big lady? I am not playing. “Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. Ottilia Fattore.”

“Viola, Ma'am.“

“Miss. I own half that house over there,“ and I point to our facade.

“That palace?“

A palace? I have been to a couple palaces and know all too well what our house is lacking. Father keeps talking about adding a new wing but he's all talk… True, to a simple countrywoman it may seem like a palace. “Yes. Are you interested? I can show you around the kitchens and servant rooms – you'd have a room free to yourself, and your man, if you like. So, coming?”

“I would but I still have goods to sell.”

I look around, showing a half silver to the first street urchin. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Miss Ottilia.”

“Watch this stand for a while and it's yours. But should a single piece be missing, I'll sic Brigitte on you and you'll be sorry.”

He nods eagerly while I take Viola's arm and guide her to the house. I use my salesman skills, elocution and all the tricks I learned from my dear Father so when we are returning to the market a couple minutes later, my new protege is firmly convinced she won't ever find a better job than the one I'm offering her right now (the best thing is, it's likely to be true).

The urchin gets his reward, I even split with him some of the new batch of sweets I just bought and then I turn back to the baker one last time to remind her: “I'm expecting you and your wagon tomorrow evening. And tell your man that we always need more bearers.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

I am not correcting her anymore and hurry, as much as my body can hurry, to the orphanage.

***

“Three times six! Come on!” a prim old maiden with a bun is questioning the classroom. “It's not that hard, come on, Maria, Michael, anyone!”

Children must have conspired to sabotage her 'exemplary' lesson. Sitting next to the door, I overhear a boy nearly as old as me, whispering: “What good will it be to me on the street?”

“You'd be surprised,” I tell him, enjoying how startled he looks. I raise my voice, standing up. “Unless you learn to count, anyone can cheat you and you'll never get rich. So study maths, children. I hope you get better at it by the time I'm here again,” I smile angelically at the surly teacher, leaving to continue on my tour.

I get to see tidy (because bare) orphan rooms, a busy workshop, a pocket garden where several ragamuffins are picking vegetables. By that time my feet are killing me and I am relieved to plunge into an armchair in the director's office. There's more and better furniture here than in the rest of the house, but it all looks old and worn, dingy almost. Like in an old aristocratic palace fallen on hard times which it actually is.

An older girl brings me a jug of water. Thanking her, I grab it and voraciously pour the cool liquid down my parched throat. Behind a desk, I can see the understanding smile of a striking brunette, a slim but curvy Miss Director Brigitte de Coutering.

Although she's nearly a decade older, we've easily found a common ground. We both have a business to run, we both have had to fight men, subordinates and superiors alike, to make them take us seriously. We both have far more important issues to deal with than picking the right attire for a coming ball and finding the right dance partner. We've started talking at one such ball, both left alone in the corner. And we've found how much we have in common.

“I can see you've gotten wider again,” she jibes as soon as the orphan is gone. Most of all I like we don't have to sugarcoat anything when speaking with each other.

“Sure, and I can see you've got a second gray hair. Or is it a third one?” We both laugh. I reach into my cleavage. “Let's deal with the bothersome details first,” I say giving her my regular cheque.

“Believe me,” she grows serious, “your kindness is no detail for me.” Seeing my dismissive look she quickly changes topic. “So what's new?”

“Oh, same old, same old, you know it,” I say, adding a couple tricks our agents tried recently. We cover the latest gossip, laughing at the expense of the garrison adjutant who challenged Giovanni of Velegor to a duel.

„I heard the lady in question, whose honour was supposed to be in jeopardy, was Bianca, a daughter of Melquiond the publican,” Brigitte fills in gaps in my knowledge. “As if she had any…” Than she goes on to tell how (and why) the Duke may soon be chastised by the Royal Chamber for neglecting his duties since he remarried and adds an anonymised tale from our small criminal underworld that her lover rules with an iron fist.

And then she halts. “But I keep talking and talking and you look like something's bothering you. What is it?”

“Well,” I take another deep breath, threatening to burst my dress. I ought to stop doing that. “I have told you about Leonardo sooo many times.”

She nods.

“And as you just kindly noted, my figure is getting ever more… spatially expressive,” for emphasis I slap my belly, filling out my lap. “What am I to do?”

My only friend keeps nodding. “I suppose diet is out of the question?”

“Have you gone mad?” I pretend to be offended. “Just now I've hired a new baker for my house. I'm asking you how to keep his interest no matter my weight.”

“You of all people shouldn't have the least problem with it. All you need to do is display your strengths,” Brigitte mischievously shakes her upper body, making her breasts undulate, “and he won't see anything else. It won't even come to his mind you could have any weaknesses. Plus flatter his ego here and there, occasionally – but not often! – show him your favour and he'll follow you everywhere like a faithful dog.”

“Yes, I thought so much myself. Which brings me to my second question. I'm planning to finally show him my favour, as you nicely phrased it...” my friend's eyes widen a little, “and I'd like someone more experienced to tell me the hows and whys.”

“You are seeking practical instruction, to sum it up.”

“Weeell…” I feel myself blushing, “I meant how to reach the desired outcome and avoid the undesirable one, how to make him…”

“You have come to the right place,” and Brigitte lowers her voice.

***

By the time this illuminating discussion run its course it is already getting dark outside. And sadly, the wind has turned. It is now blowing straight from Father's foundries and I imagine my gentle skin getting prickled by layer upon layer of coal dust. Another reminder how dirty our money is. As soon as I am home, I shout: “Adele! Ready a warm bath for me!”

“Yes, Miss. Would you like supper to be served first?”

Although I haven't eaten since the baker's stand – more than four hours ago! - it is so hot I don't really feel hungry. “No, no need. Just bring me some leftovers from lunch to snack on.”

Then I see her look, praising me for my restraint. It infuriates me. How dare she judge my eating habits? I add, “Yes, only a couple patés, a capon, fish pie and what's left of the cake. Plus pastries. Bring it from the kitchens. Father has returned yet?”

“Yes, Miss. No, Miss.” She lowers her head, defeated, and I feel petty but sweet satisfaction. I got my way again. By the time I reach my rooms on the third floor, my triumph pales. Breathing heavily, I have to rest at every landing. Perhaps I should really restrain myself a little. Or move my chambers to ground floor.

It is a relief to tear those confining clothes off my body. I am trying to wrap myself up in an azure blanket but no matter how I try, it is just too small. In the end I sit down bare naked, spreading the blanket over my private parts like a cape. Just in time to hear knocking. “Come in!”

Adele is leading a parade of servants who bring five large platters to me all at once, perhaps she is trying to point out how much food I've ordered. They don't even fit on the table, the fifth one had to go to my dressing table. “Your snack, Miss,” she says, stressing the irony.

“Thank you,” I nod as if it were normal. “Should I still be hungry, I'll call you again. Otherwise let me know when the bath is ready.” I haven't felt hungry but as soon as I eat the first bite, my gluttony overcomes me. I attack food as if I hadn't eaten for a week. By the time my chambermaid comes back to take me to my bath, all platters are empty. And I am beyond full.

With her help I descend the stairs, one step at a time, careful not to displease my overfilled stomach with an unwise move. I am reminded of my father again, this is how he walks too. Am I really so much like him? No, no, that's a line of thought I don't want to explore today. I am looking forward to a bath. A wonderful refreshing bath. At last!

It is a relief to feel my pounds buoyed up by water again. What was that principle my tutor once mentioned? A body submerged in a liquid is buoyed by a force… this body is buoyed by a more than significant force, which is proven by the dome that stubbornly stays above the surface, shaking like a bowl of jelly. For a moment I am overcome with doubt again. Shouldn't I give up daily feasts that are adding to my volume? What if Leonardo runs away screaming when he see me naked?

But then I recall Brigitte's words. Selling strengths while glossing over weaknesses? I've been doing that since childhood. And my 'strengths' have grown so big I can barely see the dome below over them. I use my hands to make sure it's still there. I caress its giant pale expanse jutting out of water. I try to massage it to settle my stomach but soon I'm distracted, imagining my lover's hands that would soon be touching me just like this, and this, and this…

***

Morning sun sneaks into the drawing room, its rays split in half a dozen mirrors to illuminate all its corners. I am standing between them like an overgrown half-naked nymph.

„Chest forty nine inches, waist…” the helper is stretching her hands to stop wobbling fat, “waist forty nine and half inches, hips fifty six inches…” I can hear the following numbers too but I'm not listening anymore. I've never been a thin girl. Mother used to say I have a cute tummy. How could it be bigger than my chest? Yes, my stomach is full of rich breakfast but still, too much is too much.

I can't believe my eyes, watching myself in a trio of mirrors that the seamstress put up around me. In the sideview my gut draws the most attention. Where did this sack of lard come from that lasciviously crawls down my crotch? How could I put on so much in a single year? The middle mirror mercilessly shows my puffed up chipmunk cheeks, a face round like a full moon, all its features dissolved in fat, framed with a wobbling second chin. And also arms wider than the young seamstress' thighs and thighs twice the size of her waist. Is it even possible?

Yes, I can see myself in the mirror every day but only now I see the changes that last year has wrought on my body. Have I gone too far in eating my sorrows away? Should I at least eliminate midmorning snacks? Half-dazed I listen to the seamstress. Madame Violetta flutters around me like a hummingbird around a hippopotamus, buzzing all the time.

“Beautiful golden locks like yours, Miss, could best be complimented by azure silk quilted with golden thread. We can offer you a good price on it,” and she throws one role over me, “pushing up the chest and tightening the waist to firm up the body, just like the latest fashion from the Eternal City demands-”

“No, no, no, no way,” I interrupt, “definitely no tightening. My waist must remain free.” How could I eat my fill in it otherwise?

She considers that, frowning. “Very well, in that case we can drape the cloth around your midsection, raise the waist up under the chest…” all the while rolling me in more cloth.

A maid interrupts her musing. “A messenger from Mrs. Margarethe is here, Miss.“

“Bring him in.”

“But, Miss, you ain't properly dressed.”

“Doesn't matter.”

Erik, Margarethe's stable boy and messenger, is still a boy. Let him look if he wants, I don't mind. Here he comes. Tall but skinny, he searches the room for a safe place to look at but there are mirrors everywhere. In the end he fixes his eyes at his boots. “Good morning, oh, exalted lady. My mistress sends her regards, she assures you about her undying friendship and, uh, since we already have a new month and household expenses are getting ever higher…” he trails out, unsure how to finish the sentence.

“Yes, yes, of course,” I gesture at the side table. “I have August allowance ready. But first tell me, is my Father satisfied?”

Erik blushes like always but I am not asking to torment him, no. Father's satisfaction is important to me. You could say it is the most important thing in the world of mine. Margarethe du Poitvin is here as a wife of a certain border regiment captain serving in our mountains. While he spends all his time riding his stallion among mountaintops, she rode other stallions, going from one ball to another. Somewhere, somehow she met my Father, it could even have been the same ball where I met Brigitte.

Father is convinced nobody knows about his little tryst. The captain does remain blessedly ignorant but since I have full access to all our expenses, it took me less than a week to figure out what's going on. I may have been outraged at first that he forgot about Mother so soon after her death. But then reason clamped emotions and I reached a mutually advantageous settlement with the adulteress.

I pay for her extravagant lifestyle that a mere poor captain could never provide. And she keeps Father occupied at all times so he doesn't even think about straying elsewhere. And – Gods forbid! - marrying again and producing a male heir. That can never happen. I'd rather make Margarethe the best paid whore in the whole kingdom.

A year ago I wouldn't have the stomach to pay her. But a year ago I wouldn't have a reason to (nor a stomach this size). A year ago Father's consortium was a big, beautiful toy but nothing more. Today it's everything to me. It is all I have left and I'm going to keep it at all costs. Even if Father remarries, there are ways to ensure a marriage remains barren. And I won't hesitate to use every single one of them, if needed.

„... and they are going to have a picnic by the waterfalls this Saturday,“ Erik finishes his report.

By the waterfalls, huh? That's at least half a day on horse, one way, and since Father has to take the carriage, more like full two days. And Leonardo should be here by that time… I glance again at my bulges that the seamstress is traying and failing to hide in azure silk. “The cheque for your mistress is weighed down by a gold piece for you. Take it and you can go.” I wave away his stammered thanks. “Adele?”

“Yes, Miss?”

“Bring me my midmorning snack. And don't stint on the food like yesterday.”

“Yes, Miss.”

The nobles were right. I am my Father's daughter. Through and through.