is sealed.

A steward brings the dish and the ribbon and the little iron, and they press the wax onto your stomach because that is the only clean-enough skin left that is not a breast or a bruise. It is hot. You flinch and the lead ticks, and the steward waits until the pool settles into a red oval above your navel before he lifts the iron. The envoy’s signet comes down while the wax is still soft. You feel the bite of the ring through the heat, a crest you will not see, and he holds it there long enough that the hall understands the pass is being taken off a woman’s belly.

"Done," the envoy says, voice scraped. "Your border. My shame. If you put her name on the copy as Sera I will deny the night and keep the pass."

The king does not argue the name. He turns the ring on his hand.

The beads that had been crawling jump to the setting that folded you on the rug, nipples and clit together, and there is no pastry to hide in and no instruction about fruit that can save you. You try to keep the wax still. That is the last useful thought you have. The seal tugs when your stomach shakes. The envoy’s hand leaves the signet too late and a smear catches the edge of the crest, not enough to void it. You come with nothing left to aim, a weaker wet after the last two, and then the weaker one keeps going until it is not pleasure so much as the body emptying the night out of itself.

Sera’s voice breaks. The collar ring knocks the wood. The blindfold is dark and then darker.

You do not hear the king tell them to take the dishes. You do not hear whether the envoy stays. The beads are still in you when the hall drops away, and then even that is gone.

Black.