Lavorra’s abused mind repairs itself

She has got to stop getting knocked out.

Lavorra’s head pounds furiously, and several other body parts - between her legs and down her throat for starters - feel tender. Free from the blissful mindlessness of Sir Henry’s spell, the less appealing aspects of her treatment here make themselves known.

Bastard.

She sees herself as if from a bird’s eye view, tottering around the tower in a daze. Cooking for him, dancing for him, singing; bent over his desk and knelt under it, lounging on his bed, bouncing on his cock.

She pulls herself to her feet with some effort, her joints achey and stiff as if awakening from an ill-advised midday nap. She catches sight of herself in the glass of one of his cabinets. Her hair falls in a perfectly brushed waterfall, straight and silky. Her cheeks are rouged and her skin powdered.

Bastard! Turned me into a doll!

Where once there was a sea of only happy thoughts and the desire to serve, now Lavorra finds herself in the grip of divine wrath. Vengeance is going to be a bitch and that bitch’s name is Lavorra Velaria.

She musses her hands in her hair, then winces, suddenly very aware of how tight her damn corset is, clearly chosen by someone with no regard for the delicate balance between presentation and comfort. She moves to the nearby desk, searching around until her hands alright on an opulent silver letter opener. There might be more than one use for this. She slices through the back of her sweeping white gown with relish, and manages to hook the first few laces of the corset, severing them.

Lavorra breathes - actually able to breath more regularly now in a fitting she’s more used to - the bustier relaxing around her pillowed breasts.

Her tenderised mind begins to weave itself back together, still fragile after what? Days? Weeks? However long it has been in the grip of that bastard’s spell. Her memories return, and with them an urgency which rushes alongside her anger.

Melira. Zeya. The village - how long have they been left waiting?

Fire in her eyes, Lavorra stalks barefoot to the study door. Wizard or not, he’ll get what’s coming to him. She pauses, frowning as she hears muffled voices from beyond the door, and a series of rhythmic wet slaps.