Candy had dealt with a lot over the past few weeks: more rules, learning her magic field was unstable, finding out there effectively was an expiration date on Cameron being considered alive and part of Paddlewick, plus enough godsdamn pamphlets to light a fire that could be seen from Outer-Cone.
Then there was the self-defense class. It had empowered her somewhat, given her cathartic release, and taught her deflective techniques, but it also reminded her of just how much her body had changed. She was smaller. Shorter. Weighed less. Her arms didn’t reach as far.
Before the change she wouldn’t have thought to list "height perspective" as a major transition. But now?
She used to look Marcus in the eye. Now she had to crane her neck up. She couldn’t reach things at the market stalls. She needed a stool just to reach the cups at home. She’d even considered reorganizing the kitchen for her convenience.
Sure, she expected boobs to be weird. She still had no idea how bra and dress sizing worked, and she hadn’t realized how much clothing would cling to her differently. How waistlines worked. How her center of gravity shifted. How moving through the world as a woman wasn’t just about roles; it was about angles, reach, gaze, and weight.
Some changes were obvious. Others crept up on her. Like how people interacted.
She’d noticed men, especially younger ones, would glance at her, then quickly look away when she caught their eyes. Not all of them. But enough to notice. It was like they were trying to act like they hadn’t been looking at her in the first place. Was it a law? No if it had been she’d have known about it as Cameron. She brought it up to Marcus while shelving laundry one day.
“They’re checking you out,” he said flatly, as if it were obvious.
Candy dropped a towel. “What the hells? No they’re not!”
“Sorry,” Marcus said, raising his hands. “It’s awkward, but true. Have you seen yourself now? Full lips, big boobs, an hourglass most women would kill for. Need I say more?”
“No,” Candy snapped, face heating. “Just... stop describing me.” But still. It lingered.
Marcus had tried to brush it off with, “Hey, you remember how it is. Don’t tell me you never looked at women, then got caught and pretended you were just admiring the curtains or something.”
She did remember, which made it worse. Further, learning how to be a woman in Paddlewick was one thing; knowing when to say "sir," how to curtsy, how to behave, that was part of the system. But deeper than that were the subconscious responses.
As a man, if he, if Cameron, had walked by a woman, there might be a flicker of caution. A little guardedness. As Candy, she passed other women and saw none of that. They didn’t brace. She was no threat. They also didn’t care. Well, they didn't care in the same way they used to. Not like that.
There was a strange blend of warmth and cattiness. Backhanded compliments. "You’re so brave to wear your hair the same way every single day." Stuff like that. Women were both more accepting and somehow ruder at the same time.
And, confusingly, she was treated better in general.
It was something she’d heard about in the mirror scry network, Glimmermaids, what Cleavendale called men that were more or less women now (a term she liked better than shemale, which is the word Paddlewick used), saying they were treated with more kindness or understanding than they had been as men. Doors were held open for them, women didn’t look at them with suspicion, and small talk was started with ease. Candy was beginning to see it too. She smiled at a vendor and got a cheerful smile back. She apologized to a stranger she had bumped into and the woman had said, "Oh no, hun you’re fine."
She hadn’t been called hun in her old life. A few terms of endearment sent Cameron's way would have been nice.
All of it felt... layered. Every gain came with a loss. Every loss came with unexpected grace. But she was adapting. Whether she wanted to or not.
Still, nothing, not even the public spankings, had made her feel quite as powerless as the godsdamn pickle jar.
It started with something small. She reached up to get a cup for tea and realized she couldn’t quite grab the one on the top shelf. She cursed softly, dragged over a stool, and grabbed it like she was stealing from the gods.
She was shorter now. It wasn’t just perspective. It was a dominance shift. The world loomed. And then she saw it.
A plain glass jar of garlic-dill pickles. Sitting smugly in the cupboard. The kind that used to pop open in her hands like it knew who was boss.
She gripped it. Twisted.
Nothing.
She tried again. And again. She banged it on the counter. Ran it under hot water. She muttered a minor curse involving brine spirits and kitchen hexes.
The lid refused.
Of course. Jar makers were clearly sexist.
She was mid-struggle, rubber glove on one hand, tea towel in the other, when Marcus walked in.
He blinked. "Need help?"
Candy froze. Jar in hand. Eyes locked on him like a predator offered pity.
"No," she said flatly.
To his credit, Marcus didn’t argue. He backed slowly out of the kitchen like she was a skittish animal about to maul a pantry.
She hated this. Hated it. Because this moment, this one moment, was the stereotype.
"Can you open this, honey?"
She’d heard it in scrycoms. In jokes. In training pamphlets. If she was stuck as a woman she was damn sure she wasn’t going to be that woman. Candy Elwood would not be a trope.
Over the next hour, she tried everything short of divine intervention. Wooden spoons. Wrist leverage. Base taps. Verbal threats. She both cursed at it and actually performed a curse. Nothing. The jar remained sealed. Superior. Smug.
Finally, defeated, flushed, and furious, she stomped into the parlor, shoved the jar into Marcus’ hands, and stared. Say nothing, her look warned. He furrowed his brow for a moment, then twisted the lid. It popped. He handed it back, still silent.
Candy turned on her heel and walked away with the dignity of a crowned woman pretending the throne wasn’t on fire. She would never speak of this again. Later, after she’d eaten all the pickles, she took the jar outside and smashed it with a hammer.