Pound of Flesh

"A girl after my own heart."

She gave a light laugh, the sound shivering around me.

"Of course I'm after your heart.  They're tasty."

It was always difficult to tell if Pim was making a joke of it or not.  There was no obvious evidence that she was serious but one could never be certain.  So many men disappeared these days and I was not keen to be one of them.  That was why I employed her.

'The enemy of my enemy. . . '  And Spicers were just about everyone's enemy, maybe because we didn't understand them.  They were frightening, you never quite knew what they would do.  You never quite knew what they were capable of.  And no one certainly understood half of why they did what they did.

But I knew for certain that I would rather not die or disappear or whatever it was that was happening.  So I employed Pim.  That was months ago and I can still remember the chill that skittered down my spine while I tried to convince Pim to work for me.  How does one convince a Spicer to work for you. . ?  No one knew what they valued, not really.  But we both had known what I had wanted.  I had wanted safety. I had wanted freedom.  And I had been willing to bargain with a Spicer in an attempt to get it, though Pim warned me that there was a possibility that she was not a fool-proof protection (and that I was quite a fool).

"We should probably leave soon, shouldn't we?"  I wanted my freedom, but here I was at an evening tea party.  The tea parties were open to men and to the more elite of our smaller society.  Getting in was difficult for women.  For men, the hard part was getting out.

The look she gave me in response to my question told me beyond a doubt that the Spicer was female.  Only females can manage an expression that informed me that I was so daft that she was surprised I could breathe without detailed instruction.

Of course, Pim had emphathically informed me that I seem to be incapable of following instructions.  I couldn't say she's wrong; neither could my mother.