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The young man known as Gabal put his horse between the mob and the girl they’d torn the outer garment from. Her hair and face were exposed to the world and there was already a mark on her cheek from something. He gave a contemptuous glance at the mob and cast a force barrier between him and them. A second, concerned look told him that his wife on her horse beyond the girl was also behind the barrier.

“Why are they doing this?” he asked the girl on the ground.

“They say my mother’s mother was ravished by a djinn. Now my father is dead in the fighting and I have no brothers to protect me,” her face held no hope for herself, “They say I’m a part demon who will destroy the village if they don’t destroy me.”

“I have a baser opinion of human nature than that, I’m afraid.” He surveyed the mob again, “How many of them did you turn down?” He ignored her shocked expression, “Give me your hand,” extending his own towards her. When she took it, he pulled her up onto the horse behind him, getting her to use his foot as a step up.

“Where are you taking the demon?” It was a large middle-aged man in the front of the mob, stone in hand, who challenged him.

“She doesn’t look, smell or sound like a demon to me,” Gabal gave him a grim look, “So I’m taking her far enough away that you can’t taint your soul with her murder.” He spurred the horse away, prudently keeping up the barrier until the three of them were out of arrow range.

“We will speak of this at the camp, my husband,” said his wife firmly as they rode away.

“Yes, my dove,” he agreed.

Later that night in one of their tents Gabal’s wife, Ulema, was helping their guest with her hair. “You are,” Ulema said, not unkindly, “In a difficult position, Zenobia. You have no family and you cannot go back to that village.” She made the village sound like something bad she had tasted.

She paused and Zenobia was sure she knew what was coming next. Everything about Ulema said ‘noblewoman’ although her husband was a foreigner. There were worse fates than to be a servant in a noble household. Zenobia had already decided that she would say yes.

“Have you considered marrying?” That was not the question Zenobia had expected. “My husband is a good man, despite his foreign peculiarities. He washes as regularly as the faithful, he doesn’t drink alcohol and he doesn’t demand pig meat for his meals. His duties for the caliph keep him busy though and I am often alone – I could do with the company of another wife. He is not rich but he has the caliph’s favour,” Ulema assured the other girl seriously.

“But you’re noble and I’m-,’ floundered Zenobia.

“He married me,” dimpled Ulema, “To save me from being executed for my father’s crimes against the reign of the caliph. He rescued you from being stoned by a mob.”

“Oh...”

Fourteen years later the two eldest sons of Gabal had decided that their eleven and ten year old brothers could be trusted with the family’s biggest male secrets. The littlest ones were having their afternoon nap and they had picked a shaded corner that they could occupy against both sisters and younger brothers. “Father’s given name,” whispered Jibril, “Isn’t Gabal at all, it’s Gaius!”

“But that’s a name from Frangistan,” whispered Musa, the youngest of the group, “How did Father get here?”

“Well,” Jibril looked around carefully before tucking back into the group, “He had to leave his home one night on the fastest horse he could find to outrun the enemies who were coming to kill him. He-“

“Father, Father,” their eldest sister Farrah, twelve, ran past screaming at the top of her lungs, “Daddy! Jamila’s in trouble. Daddy, help!” The boys could hear a growing babble and roar in the direction she’d come from and they realised they were missing something. They abandoned the story and went to see what was happening.

Their other twelve year old sister was standing in the top of a whirlwind that raised her well over the head of any adult they knew. She had her arms held out from her side as if she were balancing and a look of concentration on her face. The whirlwind was steady underneath her but there were signs of earlier destruction. The space was surrounded by their younger brothers and sisters who weren’t napping.

“She’s got it under control,” commented Umm Razin, their father’s sword–wielding, youngest, fiercest and fourth wife, “Good girl.”

Then their father was there, staff in hand and launching himself into the air by his own magic. Jibril cast a little spell so he could hear what was going on.

“What happened?” asked Father.

“I tried to use wind to clear the dust from where we wanted to play,” Jamila was trying her hardest to be brave, Jibril could tell, “I only get a spark of fire or a cup of water so I thought that much wind wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I think this is more than a spark or a cup of wind, don’t you?” Their father was still thinking, Jibril could tell. “You’ve got it under control, that’s very good. Now, can you come down or disperse it?”

“I don’t know how,” Jamila confessed.

“All right,” Father sounded reassuring, “You need to let little bits of wind leak, like something being strained through a cloth, very slowly. Try now.”

Jamila nodded, the whirlwind wobbled a bit, and then she concentrated. Slowly the whirlwind shrank. By the time Farrah came back with rest of their father’s wives, Jamila was no more than her own height off the ground.  A few moments later the last of the whirlwind dissipated and her feet were back on the ground. Her father gave her a fierce hug and, “Well done!” Followed by, “Now I think I understand where your magic lessons, and your brothers’, are going wrong – not enough consideration of the elemental.  We’ll work on that tomorrow. Now,” he looked around, “Was anybody hurt?”

After a general negative response he led Jamila over to her mother and handed her over for general tidying. “Zenobia, my jewel,” he said to that lady, “I may have to reconsider my opinion of why people thought your grandfather was a djinn.”

At least the spell only affected her reactions to one man. Laksa didn’t think she would enjoy feeling this way about every man she saw. One was quite enough.

Only she didn’t see enough of Ernst, whether alone or in company. They were barely allowed to be alone, probably wisely given her condition.  Ernst preferred to take her out for walks in the park, tours through museums or art galleries, and, on one glorious occasion, a climb to the top of the cathedral dome. He’d kissed her there, on the top landing of the stairs in a sliver of cover and shadow with no safety or privacy for anything else.

It had been what she thought of as a ‘proper, grown up’ kiss. At nineteen she was old enough to be married. She’d grown up in the country and from observation had a general grasp of what was involved in procreation. She’d gotten detailed information from the sister of one of her guardians after she’d become engaged but she’d no practical experience. In her world, unmarried girls didn’t get practical experience and, oh yes, she wanted that.

“We,” Ernst had said, “Are not going to do anything which will upset a sword-wielding religious fanatic.”

“My guardians aren’t sword-wielding religious fanatics,” had been her protest.

“Liebling,” his affectionate one armed hug then was almost as dear to her as the cathedral kiss, “They’re Knights of the Church – they’re supposed to be sword-wielding religious fanatics.”

Ernst seemed to like her, which was hopeful given that he was not under the effects of the spell as she was. She also knew that he was trying to walk a delicate line between building affection between them and aggravating her problem.

One month. She only had to last out the month. She could do that.

I went from being slung over someone’s shoulder to standing on my own feet in a matter of moments and then the bag was pulled off my head. Frankly, I didn’t feel much safer than I had with the bag over my head. I cannot recommend trying to stand on your own two feet with your ankles tied together and your arms bound to your sides. To add to my discomfort I was standing in the middle of an inscribed magical circle. There was nothing about the situation to put me at ease.

I had been walking from the library and the book store back to the house I shared with my guardians when I had been grabbed, a hessian bag had been pulled down past my shoulders and I had been hoisted up over someone’s shoulder. I hadn’t heard an outcry, not even from my maid who’d been following me, so I surmised that my abductor had taken me into some type of invisibility or overlooking spell. I kicked and pummelled and shrieked of course. All that got me was a pause somewhere my captor must have felt safe and myself bound and trussed before being put back over his shoulder. At least my captor smelt clean with an odour of good quality soap and freshly laundered clothing. Also, all that picking me up and carrying me didn’t seem to make him exert himself – I am small of course, but even so...

And now I saw my captor for the first time. Broad faced, broad shouldered, coarse blonde hair tied back in a queue, good quality clothing but with a slightly neglected air: it was the man two of my guardians referred to as the Badenisch pig farmer, Ernst von Voellinger.  They, and thus I, knew who he was because he was a person of interest in the theft they were investigating, that of a dangerous book from the episcopal palace. A book that fitted the description of the one currently open on the lectern in front of von Voellinger.

The circle around me was transcribed in red. The scent, presumably of the ink, was a mixture of blood, wine and roses. “Your guardians should have minded their own business and kept their noses out of my affairs.” My captor’s speech had only the faintest trace of a Germanic accent. “If they had, I would be using someone else to test whether this book is what it is purported to be,” he looked me up and down without changing his expression, “Someone willing.”

“The book was stolen from the archbishop’s official residence,” I pointed out calmly, “They’re Knights of the Church. Its theft is their business.” I decided I needed to keep him talking. “What is this spell supposed to do?” I wondered if I could fall over and damage his sigils so he’d have to start writing them all over again.

“Lust.” He raised his arms and began to chant, the Latin-Germanic syllables rolling over the top of the question I tried to ask. I tried falling over. Not only didn’t it work, the wall of force I fell into bounced me back to upright.

The spell didn’t take as long as you might imagine and although I felt a shiver go through me as von Voellinger pronounced the final syllables, I didn’t feel any different afterwards. “How do you tell if the spell worked?” I asked.

He looked at me, oddly I thought, and said, “Start telling me about me. What do you want to do?”

“Polish the buttons on your coat,” I said promptly, “They’re tarnishing. Straighten your collar. Tuck that stray piece of hair over your left ear back in where it belongs.”

“You sound like my mother,” he dismissed, “This spell does not seem to do what it says.” He turned several pages discontentedly.

“I sound like a wife,” I corrected, feeling annoyed that I needed to state the obvious. “I’m not your mother and what I’d really like to do is slide up inside your clothes with you so I can be next to your skin.” Which is when the door splintered in and my guardians arrived.

He arrived at the gate in his usual pose, empty hands outstretched and wearing a plain brown robe. My uncle was back. Every time he came he screwed us over and every time he came my father let him in. Just like last time.

“Ah,” his smile seemed genuine enough as he looked me up and down in my plain black garment, “You must be Armidia. Give your old uncle a kiss and a hug?”

“I’m Laksa,” the annoyance was allowed to creep just so far into my voice, “Armidia is the pretty blonde one.” He should at least have known my name.

“But you are pretty, my dear,” his voice didn’t oil at all, “Don’t dismiss yourself so.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Uncle Reys.” I stepped aside to usher him in. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to see Father?”

“Of course,” he took my unspoken invitation and strode into the manor, “How can my life be complete, my rehabilitation final without a heartfelt reconciliation with my dear brother?”

“Indeed.” I closed the door behind us. “The rest of the family are in the Brown Room.”

“A most pleasant outlook, as I recall.” Uncle chatted of inconsequentials all the way through the house, nodding pleasantly to those servants we passed on the way. I also nodded to them and Uncle did not see the looks we passed between us.

I opened the door to the Brown Room myself. “Please go in Uncle, the family will be so happy to see you. I’ll just be a moment, I left some sewing in the Morning Room.”

Uncle Reys stepped into the room, booming jovially, “Sebastian, Maria, children, how good to see-.” That was when I slammed and locked the door behind him. The two surviving menservants dragged the pre-positioned chest into position as we heard Uncle Reys scream. That would have been when the rest of my family looked up from what they were doing – it had been a cow. Better that than what they had been feeding on before we’d confined them. We let the oiled rope roll out as we made our way out of the building and lit it before we closed the front door again.

It wasn’t the only ignition point of course and we all cried as we watched the house burn, the flames enlivened by the tubs of oil and other combustibles we’d spread through the house. We watched to make sure that none of the monsters that had been my family escaped.

On his last visit, Uncle Reys had left behind holiday gifts to be opened in their season. Jewellery cursed with the hunger, that all consuming hunger. My family became monsters by his deed, rending their servants, friends and uncontaminated kin before we managed to trap them. I had only escaped the curse because Armidia and Rovillia had claimed two necklaces each. Our youngest sister, Serrina, had been their first victim... It had seemed only just to wait till Uncle Reys came by so we could destroy all the monsters together.

My only concern now, as the embers of my home fitfully glow under the dawn light, is to wonder how much of me is like Uncle Reys.