The Second Half

Stacy had been studying for hours. Hours. Actual hours. Reading. Memorizing. Quizzing herself.

And hating every second of it.

At some point, she'd stopped fighting the process and started treating it like exam preparation. Read a section. Repeat it aloud. Summarize it. Commit it to memory. Create a mnemonic. Repeat again.

She hated how good she'd gotten at it.

The Master Manual rested open in her lap, pages marked with little slips of paper she'd fashioned out of torn notebook sheets she'd found in the desk drawer. Purpose. Household Etiquette. Emotional Stewardship. Conflict Resolution. Proper Presentation. Responding to Praise. Responding to Correction.

She'd learned more about being someone's property in three hours than she'd ever wanted to know in her entire life.

Finally, with an exhausted groan, Stacy closed the binder. The sound of the cover snapping shut felt oddly satisfying. Done. Finished. No more.

She set the book beside her. For a moment she considered throwing it. Actually throwing it. Across the room. Maybe out the window. Possibly into the sun. Her fingers twitched.

Then another thought surfaced immediately.

It is not your responsibility to disturb the home. You bring order, peace, and pleasure, not chaos.

Stacy scowled.

"I hate that," she muttered.

The words of the manual felt natural now. Far too natural. Not compelling. Not controlling. Just...

Available. Waiting. Like she'd memorized a particularly annoying song lyric and now couldn't stop hearing it.

"Hate. Hate hate hate."

Her voice was quiet. Measured. Controlled. Another lesson from the manual.

Raised voices contribute to household stress. Express yourself calmly. Be soothing. Be grounding. Be pleasant.

"Oh, shut up," she snapped at the imaginary author living inside her head.

She was done. She'd fulfilled the order. She was free now. Free to...

Well... do whatever the hell she wanted. Inside the house she couldn't leave. As a person who apparently wasn't legally a person. Living in a reality where she belonged to her former stepson.

Fantastic.

Just fantastic.

Stacy planted her feet beneath herself and stood. Or at least tried to. Halfway up, her knees abruptly softened. A second later she was sitting on the bed again. She blinked.

"What?"

Another attempt. Up. Dizzy. Down. Back on the bed.

"What the fuck?"

Third time. She pushed harder. Managed to reach full standing height. Victory. Then the room tilted slightly. Moments later she found herself seated once more, staring at the comforter.

Silence.

A terrible realization began forming.

"No."

Evan's voice echoed inside her head.

Go study the manual and figure out what to do with me.

Her eyes widened.

"No."

Figure out what to do with me.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," she said, glaring at the ceiling. "I did study."

No response from whatever magical entity she had hoped was listening.

"I studied!"

Still nothing.

Then quietly. Very quietly. In a perfectly controlled indoor voice.

"I studied, asshole."

Silence.

Then the rest of the command repeated itself.

Figure out what to do with me.

Over. And over. And over.

"Shit."

She'd only completed half the order.

Study the manual: Done.

Figure out what to do with him: Not done.

Apparently magic was an insufferable pedant. With a groan, Stacy flopped backward onto the mattress. Exhaustion settled over her. Not physical exhaustion. Mental exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion. Existential exhaustion.

Why had this happened? Seriously. Why? Yes, she'd been mean to Evan. She could admit that. She'd criticized him. Manipulated him. Used guilt. Used pressure. Been selfish. Been difficult.

Fine.

People were difficult all the time. People argued. People hurt one another. People behaved badly. They didn't get magically transformed into servants because of it. Normal people got therapy. Or divorced. Or just stopped talking. They didn't get auctioned off.

Yet here she was. Stuck. Trapped inside a house that apparently obeyed narrative logic instead of physics.

And trapped with him.

An annoying brat. A twerp. Barely more than a boy.

Your Master is the man of the house. He is the only man for you. Treat him accordingly.

Stacy groaned.

"I don't need this information."

Unfortunately, she had it. Every chapter. Every lesson. Every horrible little inspirational quote. Burned into memory.

She wasn't compelled to obey. At least not mentally. She still felt like herself. Still angry. Still sarcastic. Still capable of telling Evan exactly where he could shove the Master Manual. Even if it hurt a little. Still...

The information existed now, whispering in her brain, giving her terrible advice. Like having an unwanted university degree.

So what was she supposed to do? Play along? Become the maid? Become the servant? Become the slave? Was that what reality expected? Was that what Evan wanted?

No.

That much she knew. For all his faults, Evan looked miserable. Confused. Scared. Guilty. He most definitely hadn't wanted this.

She hated admitting it. Absolutely hated it. But the latest catastrophe wasn't malicious.

Stupid? Yes.

Short-sighted? Definitely.

Disastrously misguided? Without question.

But malicious? No.

The idiot had been trying to help. He'd just happened to be catastrophically bad at helping. That thought softened her anger ever so slightly. Not enough to forgive him. Not even close. But enough to see him as another victim instead of solely the architect of her suffering.

Maybe talking was the answer. Maybe they needed a new agreement. A pact. No more potions. No more magical solutions. No more mysterious old women selling life-altering liquids. Just two miserable people trying to survive whatever nightmare they'd stumbled into.

When your Master is distressed, be a soothing balm. Be demure, obedient, calm and healing.

Stacy pressed both hands against her temples.

"I swear to God."

The thought kept going.

Households flourish when emotional stability is maintained.

"No."

Anger creates disorder.

"No."

Patience creates harmony.

"NO."

Silence returned. She exhaled slowly. The worst part wasn't that the manual was persuasive. It was that parts of it actually sounded reasonable. Manipulative. Horrible. Patronizing. But occasionally reasonable.

And she hated that. Because hating something was much easier when it was entirely stupid.

This thing was clever. Insidiously clever.

Was it helpful?

No.

Not helpful. Never helpful. It was a curse.

Just because it contained some useful advice didn't make it good.

Stacy paused. Frowned. Wait. Was that her thought? Or the manual's?

"Oh, come on."

Enough. She needed to stop thinking. Stop studying. Stop spiralling.

Talk. That's what she needed. Communication. Adults communicating. That was healthy. That was normal. And that was her plan. She knew what she was going to do with Evan.

She planted her feet down. Stood. But this time, she stayed standing. A smile crept onto her face.

This was progress. Finally. One successful action. She crossed the bedroom. Opened the door. Stepped into the hallway.

No resistance. No dizziness. No invisible force shoving her back onto the mattress. Apparently the magic approved.

Wonderful.

She listened. Silence. All she needed now was Evan, himself. No problem. A quicky walk to the top of the stairs, a shout of his name, and he'd come running.

Then she remembered something from the manual.

Avoid shouting through the house. Your Master's comfort matters much more than your petty needs.

"Oh for the love of..."

Stacy inhaled. Ignored the advice. Mostly.

"Evan?" she called.

A pause.

Then, more softly:

"Can we talk?"