Under The Yoke by S. M. Stirling

Author:S. M. Stirling
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Science Fiction/Fantasy
Published: 2010-07-11T03:12:48.421000+00:00

Lovely, Tanya thought, as she watched Solange sing. The piece: French music had reached its absolute peak in those two generations before the Great War. The voice: it had a smooth purity like mercury on dry ice, soaring without the slightest hint of strain, and enormous range. Solange herself: living disproof of the old operatic convention that singers had to be barrel-built.

She stood beside the needle-player in a long white gown and embroidered vest, head thrown back and eyes closed in the transport of her craft. The early-afternoon sun was filtered onto her face through the green and crimson of the rose-vines, moving in shimmering patterns of light, shade, color. Leaf-tinted light on white silk, an onyx ripple on the long cascade of black hair, salmon-pink glinting on the pale fine-grained skin of her neck and shoulders. A classic French face, oval beneath a broad smooth brow, short straight nose, a delicate cleft in the small squared-off chin, and a cupid's bow mouth with a long upper lip; she had a dancer's figure, slender limbs and curves more subtle than opulent.

The music ceased and Solange stood for a moment outlined against the sunlit falling water of the fountain; then her sooty lashes fluttered open to reveal the strange violet rims around the iris of her eyes, strange enough to be a slight shock every time they were seen.

Exquisite, Tanya thought, with a moment's helpless frustration; she would never be able to capture that on canvas.Exquisite, like a piece of jewelry by Fabergé, or a Fragonard painting.

"Exquisite," she breathed.

Solange smiled, nodding to Marya and Chantal before switching off the player and coming to kneel gracefully beside the lounger.

"I'm pleased you like my adaptation, Mistress," she said demurely, peering up from the curtain of her hair.

It drifted along Tanya's flank, and she shivered slightly at the ghost-feather touch, running her fingers through the cool strands. They smelled of sambuc-jasmine perfume, mingling with the pleasant natural odor of clean sun-warmed skin.

Solange sighed. "Mmmm… It really needs a live orchestra and another singer, for the original."

"Well, the music, yes. Must get a recordin' made, next time we're in Tours. Mais je parle ď toi, ma douce," Tanya continued, as her free hand dipped one of the strawberries into the sugar-dusted cream. She took it between her lips and leaned forward; Solange giggled, held her hair aside with one hand and propped herself on an elbow to meet the Draka. They nibbled inward from opposite sides of the berry until their lips met; Tanya smiled through the kiss, and chuckled as Solange delicately licked the juice from her chin.

"Just thinkin'," she said. The serf completed the task with a linen cloth from the table and knelt back, resting her cheek on Tanya's stomach. The Draka stretched, feeling the slow warm movement of the summer air over her skin, the soft resilience of the samnite beneath her, the butterfly brush of Solange's lashes; savoring the mingled tastes of strawberry, cream and the mint flavor of the other's mouth.

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