“That dress does look amazing on you.”
It was a pale shade of blue that seemed precisely calculated to bring out Summer’s eyes. It showed off her long legs with a hemline that nailed “daring” without tipping over into “tarty”, and the fit was much the same, hugging her body just enough, but not too much. (“I had to get it adjusted,” Summer had told her earlier. “Whoever said your boobs stop growing after two years was an idiot!”) But the capper was that it was off-shoulder on one side; it bared Summer’s left arm completely, showing off the beautifully tattooed vines and flowers wrapping around her from wrist to shoulder. Whoever had selected the dress had both impeccable taste and a really good eye for what would make Summer specifically look incredible.
That was quite a contrast to the other side of the mirror, where Persephone looked like a sack of shit wrapped in an ill-fitting tux. Or at least that’s what she thought of her reflection. In reality, she knew that it was a very good tux fitted by a very good tailor, and that if she ever ran into a man who looked like she did, she’d think he was probably rather attractive to people who were into that sort of thing. But the fact that she saw this man in the mirror made all the difference. She wanted him gone.
Well, she was already working on that. Perhaps she should think of tonight as his retirement party; by this time next year, hopefully nobody would be calling her “Mister” anymore.
One new addition to the man’s face—her face—was a thin red line on her right cheek. The cut Albert had left had healed enough to no longer need bandages, but it was still visible. She wondered if it would scar. A permanent souvenir of her time as her loathsome uncle’s nephew, right where everyone could see it.
Next to the man, Summer’s reflection smiled. “Thanks!” she said. “You know, you make a cute butch.”
“I-what?” She looked at Summer, startled out of her spiral.
“You make a cute butch,” she repeated. “You know, one of those girls who looks better in men’s clothes than a man ever could? You can really rock that look.”
Persephone smiled and looked in the mirror again. She could sort of see it, just a bit. “I think I need to grow some boobs before I try it for real,” she said. “But thanks.”
It did help a little to think of herself as butch, but she couldn’t sink too deep into that mindset; she needed to be Chase tonight, not Persephone.
“So,” Summer said. “Let’s run through this so I don’t mess anything up: Your uncle is Albert Chase.”
“Correct.”
“He’s the Marquess of Cainewood.”
“Right.”
“He’s addressed as ‘Lord Cainewood’, and he’s the kind of arrogant toff who’ll care about that.”
“Exactly.”
“And you don’t have a courtesy title because you’re not actually Albert’s daughter.”
Persephone was a little surprised she knew that bit of protocol. “Right. A firstborn son—or trans daughter—would use one of Albert’s lesser titles as a courtesy. But I’m not his child, so I don’t.”
“Is Cainewood a Scottish title or an English one?”
“English,” Persephone said.
“So you don’t use ‘Mistress’ or ‘Master’ like you would for a Scottish title.”
“That’s correct.” And even more obscure. “How did you even know that rule? Go on a wiki dive?”
“No,” Summer said. “I told you I’ve done this before, didn’t I?”
“It’s just more detail than I’d expect you to know, is all, unless someone taught you.”
“Now, what did you promise about my secrets, Penny?” Summer said with a sly smile.
Persephone waved her hands placatingly. “Fine, fine.” What, had she secretly attended an old-fashioned finishing school?
“In any case,” Summer said, “you’re just ‘Miss Chase’, or ‘Mister Chase’ for tonight. And I think that’s it?”
“That’s it,” Persephone confirmed.
“Good, then you can satisfy my curiosity. Where is Cainewood, anyway?”
“It’s in West Sussex, sort of near Brighton. About an hour south of London. A village and a castle.”
”Your family has an English castle and a Scottish castle?”
Persephone blushed a little. “Well, we do now; my uncle bought Duncraven off some distant cousins, like, forty years ago or something. I could bore you with the story of where the family got its money, but yes, there’s rather too much of it.”
Summer shook her head. “It’s not that. I’m just wondering—your uncle is an English peer, has an English castle, and doesn’t have a job or a spouse up here. So why’s he living in Scotland?”
“He likes Duncraven more,” Persephone said with a shrug. “I’ve never asked why—we aren’t exactly close like that—but at a guess? Cainewood is so big and impressive that it’s literally a tourist attraction half the year, and even when it’s closed to the public, it still needs a large staff. Uncle Albert prefers people in small doses, and Duncraven can be maintained and secured with a staff of four.”
“Couldn’t he just get, like, a house? In London?”
“I suppose, but then he wouldn’t get to cosplay as a feudal lord at home. Get you a castle that can do both, you know?”
* * *
When Summer and Persephone walked in, it was to little fanfare. Persephone was merely one of many wealthy and privileged guests there, and Summer was even less important.
That suited Summer just fine—it gave her a moment to take the place in.
The Hogmanay Gala (“Uncle Albert,” Persephone had explained, “would never use a Scots name when an English one will do”) was a lavish affair. Hosted by the Lord Provost—Edinburgh’s mayor—it was held in an enormous dance hall with a row of massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Perhaps a couple hundred guests, Summer estimated, in a room that could have fit a hundred more in a pinch. Champagne and hors d’oeuvres and classical music and dazzling dresses and sharp suits and desperately boring people. The usual for this sort of event.
It was a shame to waste the evening on this kind of scene. Edinburgh had a well-earned reputation for going hard on New Year’s Eve; Summer could think of a half-dozen parties, public and private, that she’d probably enjoy more than this one. But duty called—Persephone needed her. And there was always next year.
Next to her, Persephone nudged her with her elbow. “There he is,” she said, nodding to their right. “Tall guy, gray hair, cane.” Summer turned her head and spotted him.
Albert Chase looked to be around two meters tall and had a full head of close-cropped gray hair. Though clearly not a young man, there were no signs of ill health. His tux was tailored to fit a trim, muscular form; the cane he carried appeared to be for fashion, not function. His face was angular, sharp, a little thin in the way of an ascetic; his mouth seemed fixed in a disapproving frown that only deepened when he looked their way.
“Should we go see him?” Summer asked.
“Probably,” Persephone said. “He won’t be happy if he thinks we’re avoiding him.” Persephone offered her arm to Summer, and as soon as she took it, they were on their way.
When the two of them approached, Albert greeted them with a sharp, “You’re late, boy.”
“Apologies,” Persephone said mildly. “Getting around the city without a driver is always slower than one would hope.”
Albert grunted and looked Summer over, rather more slowly than she would like, though he seemed to take more pleasure in making her uncomfortable than in actually appreciating her appearance. She almost said something, but a glance at the still-healing cut on Persephone’s face silenced her: The man was clearly volatile, and for Persephone’s sake she needed to keep him happy for now.
Up close, she could see that his cane was ivory, carved in the shape of an elephant’s head and trunk. When their eyes finally met—his were a dark, cold gray—she realized they were almost exactly the same height.
“Summer,” Persephone said, “may I present the Marquess of Cainewood, my uncle. Uncle Albert, my girlfriend, Miss Summer Nesbitt.”
“How do you do,” Albert said in a gravelly voice, holding out his hand.
“Charmed,” Summer politely fibbed, shaking it daintily.
Albert shifted his grip on the cane, lifting it by the shaft. He touched the handle to Summer’s chin, tilting her head first to the side, then up, appraising her like statuary at auction.
Summer clamped down on her first angry urge to slap the object away. Let him believe she was cowed; it’d make it all the easier to get Persephone away from him. She instead tried to pretend she was back in her second year—she had never flinched away from Aunt Bea’s hand—though the ivory tusk nipping at her jaw made it difficult to maintain the fiction.
“Well, boy, she’s very docile,” Albert said. “And certainly finely made. A touch of plastic, if I’m not mistaken, but it’s tasteful.”
Amazing that he could tell. There was a tiny white scar on her chin that hadn’t quite disappeared, but it was barely visible even before she covered it with foundation. “I work in cosmetic medicine,” Summer said evenly. “It pays to be beautiful.”
“Quite so,” Albert said to her. He lowered the cane and looked to Persephone. “But she’s so tall that you look even more runty than usual in her company. I don’t know why you put up with it.”
Persephone shot Summer an apologetic look. “It doesn’t bother me,” she told him with a shrug.
“And Chase is enough man for me, Lord Cainewood,” Summer said, flashing her a quick smile. Technically true, given that her preferred quantity of man was ‘none’.
Albert’s gaze lingered on Summer’s tattoo for a moment, but he didn’t say anything about it. “Well, boy, don’t let me keep you two from the rest of your evening.”
“Thank you, Uncle Albert,” Persephone said, and she steered Summer away.
“Jesus fuck,” Summer hissed once he was out of earshot. “I can see why you want to stab him. Zero concept of boundaries.”
“That was even worse than usual,” Persephone said with a frown. “I think he was trying to provoke you.”
“I’m sure. I hope I performed adequately?”
“You didn’t do anything he could have found fault with; I think we’re okay for now. So, what do you want to do next? Dancing? Talking to someone?”
“After that conversation?” She snatched two champagne flutes from a passing waiter’s tray and handed one to Persephone. “Drinking.”
* * *
It’s fucking astonishing that I’m the only one who can see it, Summer thought to herself.
About an hour had passed since Albert’s dismissal. In that time, Summer had seen Persephone lordmoding while dancing, socializing, and pretending not to admire women’s outfits. And she was so bad at being a boy! She only relaxed on the dance floor when Summer took the lead (thank you, Indira, for those interminable second-year lessons). As unfinished as her girl voice was, when she was trying to use boy voice, she had to hold it in her chest with an iron fist. And she seemed congenitally incapable of letting a pair of Louboutins or a slit skirt pass within eyeshot without a whispered comment to Summer.
Yes, her speech and mannerisms were all exactly the ones that had been trained into her—but none of them came naturally. How had anyone ever thought the girl was anything else?
Then again, Summer was especially attuned to this—she was almost certainly the only feminization professional in the room. She’d been known to spot eggs months before they cracked. Occupational hazard.
Case in point: Persephone had stopped to chat with one of her old university fencing teammates, a man called Henry who’d been a couple years ahead of her. They’d quickly settled on discussing the most recent British fencing championships, but not exactly in the same terms.
“I mean, Johnston was a monster,” Henry said. “Did you see what he did to Gowen? Bloke didn’t stand a chance!”
“He was rather impressive, wasn’t he?” Persephone replied. “Still, Grover kept it close at the end.”
“Grover had it easy,” Henry scoffed. “Those Brixton chappies bent over for him so fast, you’d think they wanted it.”
Henry’s date, a woman named Renée who’d been stealing glances at Summer’s tattoo since they started talking, caught her eye. ‘Boys,’ she mouthed, and Summer stifled a giggle.
She should probably say something. Preferably without swearing; she didn’t want any bad rumors to get back to that bastard Albert.
“I love your dress, Renée!” Summer said. And she did—it was a floor-length, full-sleeve gown of sheer white fabric with a soft pink bodice and skirt underneath, delicately embroidered with white, pink, and red flowers and petals. It looked stunning on Renée, who was slim and would’ve been nearly as tall as Summer even without her heeled sandals. (Persephone was struggling to keep her eyes off it, poor girl.)
“Thank you!” Renée said, flashing a toothy smile. “It’s a Temperley—I’ve been modeling for them lately, but I swear I end up sending back half of what they pay me!” She leaned closer to Summer, looking at Summer’s arm. “That’s a gorgeous piece, by the way,” she said. “What does it mean to you?”
“Well,” Summer said with a soft laugh, “I love making plants grow; always have. But I got it when I was at uni—my dormitory was covered in ivy, even looking out the windows, and I wanted to remember it.”
Renée snapped her fingers. “That’s what I’m thinking of!” She gave Summer an appraising look. “It wouldn’t be Saints, down in Almsworth? Dorley Hall?”
Wait, what? Was Renée a Dorley girl?
Actually, now that Summer was looking for it…yes, probably. Mrs. Prentice was very good at making faces, but Summer was even better at reading them; the boy she’d been had only needed a few weeks to notice the subtle similarities in many of the sponsors’ noses and brows. Not that he’d known what to make of them—both disclosures had been surprises.
But Summer didn’t have to stand around wondering whether the two of them had an auntie in common. There was a protocol to identify yourself to another Dorley graduate, even with undisclosed people like Henry and Persephone listening to them.
“Yes, actually!” Summer said. “I started in 2014. Perhaps you know Tabby? Or Maria?”
“I have met Tabby, actually! Fantastic cocktails. And Maria’s quite talented at drinking them!” They both giggled. “Anyway, I met Jane in 2021.”
And now Renée knew that Summer had been sponsored by Tabby in the 2012 intake, while Summer knew that Renée had been sponsored by Jane in 2019.
“You were on staff with her, right?” Renee continued. “She told me a story about you once.”
“Really? I hope it wasn’t too embarrassing.” Like the time they’d broken Summer’s strap-on. That was definitely not a story for an event like this.
Renee laughed. “No, I think it was about you giving her good advice. Anyway, she’s invited me along to a few events at the Hall—I’m surprised we haven’t met!”
“Ah, well,” Summer said, “I, um, haven’t been back in a few years. Long trip down there from Scotland.” It wasn’t something she really wanted to talk about. “How’s Jane doing? Goodness, we haven’t spoken in ages!”
“Better than ever. She’s not staff anymore; she finally finished her postdoc work last year!”
“Really? That’s great news!” Summer said. Jane had quit sponsoring? Wild—she’d been a sponsor longer than Summer had been a girl. “Must be a load off.”
“Definitely,” Renée said. “She’s gotten married too—they just got a house in Almsworth, actually. Her partner Ames has roots in the area.”
Married, too? Had things really changed that much without her? “Well, I’ll have to look her up if I’m ever down that way,” Summer said with a smile.
“Ah,” Henry said, looking over Persephone’s shoulder, “I believe that’s old Randy and his wife coming in. Renée, darling, have I ever introduced you?”
“I don’t believe so,” Renée said, flashing Summer a look that said she’d like to continue the conversation, but what could you do when your boyfriend was bored?
“Well, they’re people you’ll want to meet. It was nice catching up with you, Chase. Miss Nesbitt? Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Summer said. “And send my love to Jane, Renée?”
“Absolutely, Summer!” The two girls hugged, careful of each other’s makeup. “And it was lovely to meet you too, Mr. Chase.”
“Just ‘Chase’ is fine,” Persephone said. “I’d say to use my first name, but nobody ever does.”
“I’m sure,” Renée said, and she winked at Summer before she and her boyfriend left.
Persephone frowned after her. “What do you suppose she meant by that?”
Summer giggled and lowered her voice. “I think she means that you malefailed, sweetie.”
“Really?” Persephone looked alarmed. “I hope nobody else can—“
“Probably not,” Summer said soothingly.
Renée had probably guessed she was trans because she’d seen her share of AMAB people with three months of HRT standing next to sponsors, but she couldn’t tell Persephone that. What could she say instead?
“The thing is,” Summer said, “her friend Jane? We used to hook up occasionally. So Renée probably knows I’m a lesbian. And so if I’m dating you, it’s more likely you’re a closeted girl than a boy.”
“Huh.” Persephone paused. “Dorley Hall? That’s where you transitioned?”
“Yes,” Summer said. What a strange coincidence—in the six years since she’d left the Hall, she’d never met another Dorley girl in the wild. Who would’ve thought it would happen tonight? “My old dormitory.”
“And it’s where you dated Autumn, and where your trans friend Tabby lives, and where you ‘used to hook up occasionally’ with Jane? Sounds pretty queer.”
“Sweetheart, you have no idea,” Summer said with a grin, taking Persephone’s hand. “Now come on—let’s dance!”
They wove through the guests, but halfway there, a snarl of partygoers blocked their way. They hung back, waiting for the crowd to clear.
“Fine,” a gray-haired matron said nearby, “keep the lout. I won’t pursue him. Maybe she’ll learn something, or maybe he’ll be his usual disappointing self. Either way, that’s your problem now.”
“Glad we could come to an understanding about this.”
Summer stopped cold as the other voice registered, turning to confirm her suspicion. She would recognize those clipped, precise tones anywhere.
“Now, you must come to see Annette’s new show, Maggie,” Elle Lambert continued. “Her new work is even better than—”
Next to Summer, Persephone let out a squeal that practically outed her all on its own. She had seen the woman too. “Auntie Elle!” she exclaimed.
”What?” Summer said.
* * *