The next morning, Marigold and Lavender go walking by the sea-shore, on a bright beach of rainbow sands farther down the coast from Annabelle’s fishing shack.

  Seagulls wheel overhead, crying and circling, and the sand underfoot squishes gently and sticks to their bare feet. Lavender is wearing a white straw hat with a sunflower pinned to the brim, and a flowing blue sundress whose ragged ends dance in the wind; Marigold wears her same deep green dress from yesterday, newly patterned with thistles, but has set aside her silver circlet, trusting to her new draconic heritage to ward off the worst of the heat.

  The sun shimmers off the water, and shells and worn-down seagss lie at the water’s edge, a strange memory of a busy world in this new-born nd. Lavender and Marigold walk hand in hand, neither leading the other. The beach stretches on for mile after mile, and there are many treasures to be found; Lavender is collecting the best pieces of seagss and the most beautiful shells in a small basket, which she has looped over her arm.

  They talk mind-to-mind about nothing things; sights they’ve seen in this new world, what settings they should put the weather generator on, how many shells they should pick up and how many they should let the ocean keep. The tide pools wander on and on, and eventually a mixture of pebbles comes in on a strand that hasn’t been broken down as much by the sea.

  Lavender takes a ft stone, and skips it out onto the ocean; five bounces, then it sinks into the sea. Marigold smiles, but demurs to skip her own. And on they wander, feeling the texture of the smooth ft pebbles against their feet.

  There’s nothing to do; and yet that’s the best thing that could possibly be done.

  I missed this, Lavender sends to Marigold. Sharing time. It’s been too long since we were st in VR together, and this… is easy, simple, straightforward, perfect.

  I missed you too. Marigold’s mental voice is tinged with warmth, and an undercurrent of distant sorrow.

  Let’s stay here a while. Lavender looks up at the wheeling seagulls, then closes her eyes to listen to their raucous cries. It feels right.

  Okay.

  Lavender spreads out a bnket the color of the sky — the true sky, with all its subtle variations in color, all its shades of blue and violet — and sits, and listens to the waves of the ocean and the gulls overhead.

  Let’s dream together, Marigold sends to Lavender. To something soft and gentle. You choose.

  Okay. Lavender cues up a track both her and her wife know and love, a fluttery orchestral piece of light airiness and flow, and starts it. The soft strings of the piano and violin wash over her and Marigold, and bear them away.

  Lavender closes her eyes, and listens, and drifts. To the lulling sounds of the waves, she imagines an underwater world where she could drift in the currents with her Marigold, to treat with mermaids and hold each other in a bubble in the middle of a coral garden. She dreams of lying with her head on Marigold’s chest, being lulled to sleep in her arms. Then the dream opens up, and she’s in space, looking down on the ocean from a great height, seeing a whole blue marble from in the void.

  She takes Marigold’s hand, and follows her onward as the piece comes to a close.

  Lavender opens her eyes, and looks over at her Marigold, her chest rising and falling evenly.

  Wordlessly, she sends the images in her mind to her wife. Every one of them of her.

  Marigold smiles, and sends her back her own images. Lavender on her knees, grovelling before her. Lavender kissing the sand between Marigold’s feet. Lavender kissing her feet, each in turn, and cleaning them of sand with her tongue. Lavender writing harsh words all over her body in felt-tipped marker, lowering herself even further, submitting herself even more to Marigold’s control and making herself Marigold’s bitch. Every memory is suffused deeply with the warm glow of arousal.

  Lavender blushes, and looks away.

  Mine, Marigold sends. Mine forever.

  Lavender reaches out, and entwines her hand with her wife’s.

  Yours forever.

  Pet, Marigold sends. Brush my hair.

  Lavender nods, the flush on her cheeks intensifying, and weaves together a brush from emptiness, solidifying it from a set of thoughts to a physical object using the in-game editors. It is a soft, broad brush, with slim soft bristles that give rather than pulling at hair; a dedicated detangler, with a back of soft green and white waves, and a slim handle that fits just so in the hand.

  She shifts so that she is seated behind Marigold on the bnket, and kneels in, and begins to draw the brush ever-so-carefully through her wife’s hair.

  Stroke, stroke, stroke. Each swish of the brush through Marigold’s hair catches only a little, pulling free a few paltry strands of dark hair each time. But Lavender is careful; she works the tangles bit by bit, doing her utmost to preserve the length and beauty of Marigold’s hair.

  At first Lavender works from the bottom down, stroke by stroke; then higher, higher, longer firmer strokes, swishy and light as the hair falls free, her other hand carefully angling Marigold’s head just so for each stroke.

  It is simple, repetitive, meditative work; and the feeling of being one with her Goddess flutters in her heart, of tending to the thing she finds most precious in the world, of helping, in some small way, to add to Marigold’s beauty. She strokes ever so delicately around her Goddess’ horns, the ridges of her scaled neck, the sweep of her ears. It feels right. It feels proper. It feels like everything is where it is supposed to be. It feels like she is serving her purpose.

  Strand by strand, she works out Marigold’s hair, brushing free every tangle; and then she sets the brush aside, on the true-sky bnket, and haltingly begins to braid Marigold’s hair.

  The pattern is unfamiliar to her; she has only done this twice before. But she finds her footing with a small lookup of a visual guide, and braids, hand over hand in the small of Marigold’s neck, and then down, down, along her back, over under over under.

  It takes a while. The sea ps on the shoreline, and Marigold adjusts her position a few times, forcing Lavender to shift along with her. But in the end, the braid is finished, and all things are as they should be.

  Marigold turns on the bnket, and takes Lavender’s head in both hands, one palm on each of her cheeks; then she leans in, and very gently presses a kiss to Lavender’s forehead.

  “For your earnest and dedicated service.”

  Lavender’s eyeshes flutter, her body thrilling at Marigold’s touch; and then Marigold stands, and Lavender is left on her knees at her Goddess’ feet.

  Marigold reaches out, and takes a firm handful of Lavender’s hair, digging in her nails firmly.

  Lavender sighs, softly, and presses in and clings to Marigold’s legs, embracing them firmly, her cheek pressed to Marigold’s thigh.

  “Good sve,” Marigold says. She drags her nails through Lavender’s hair, pain and comfort mixing in the touch. “Make me come.”

  Lavender ducks her head beneath Marigold’s deep-green skirt, and puts her tongue to work, briskly, efficiently, not dragging it out at all. Marigold isn’t actually aroused by penetration; to her, it’s purely about power. This service, then, is simple: it is Lavender’s duty to give Marigold an orgasm whenever she wants one, by way of contrast. It’s the power differential that makes the scene for her: the physical sensations, by contrast, are not at all the point.

  Lavender suckles hard at Marigold’s clit, and Marigold lets out a soft sigh, her thighs clenching, then taps Lavender’s shoulder with her hand. “Enough,” she says. “Good.”

  Lavender slips out from beneath Marigold’s skirts, her face still stained with Marigold’s juices, and ys her head against Marigold’s thigh one more.

  Marigold’s fingers wander along the backs of Lavender’s fox ears, and gently scratch behind them.

  “Well enough for today,” she says. “Come, now, and walk with me. Who knows what we may find around the next cove.”

  Lavender gathers up her basket and dismisses the true-sky bnket. With her head bowed, she offers her hand to her Goddess.

  Marigold reaches out, and takes it.

  ~*~

  Marigold and Lavender wander for a long, long time, following the coast over hills and dells, from sandy beaches to broken wracks where hot volcanic gss spills into the ocean. They see trees and mountains and soft sweet dells. They wander along game trails and see flighty deer and songbirds; they rest amid icy peaks and sleep in hollows of snow, fresh-cut into bricks by sim-assisted hands.

  For a long, long time, they lose themselves in thought meeting thought, dreaming over the ndscape as they walk together. Each night they rest in a different pce; each day they journey farther and farther. Gradually, they become accustomed to each other’s company.

  They are not always together. At times, Marigold will recluse herself to some anonymous hollow, or Lavender will wander away over the forest floor to see something for her own. Sometimes they share aloneness together, each reading their own book or pying their own game. Sometimes they rise and sleep at different hours, in pces where they stay for some time.

  Neither of them suggests going to see Annabelle. This is for them, them alone; and Annabelle has said that she will wait, in slow time if she must, until they feel they need her again.

  Spring turns to summer; summer turns to fall; fall turns to winter; winter turns to spring. The snow that’s cloaked the nd in white begins to melt again, and the girls descend out of the mountain as the pins below defrost.

  A year and a day, from their second marriage. A year and a day of nothing but each other.

  They share the st day of their honeymoon in a small log cabin among the pines of a mountain dell, and sit out on the porch of the lodge listening to the rain patter and drip off the roof above. Thunder rolls far in the distance; here they need not fear a lightning-strike, so they are free to let the drizzle fall past them onto the railing of the deck.

  Today Lavender is wearing a soft pink top with gold detailing, pink arm-warmers and thigh-highs, and a soft little pstic cage over her returned girlcock. She kneels between Marigold’s legs, gently kissing her feet while her hand presses into her chastity cage; it is a dedicated service day today, and Lavender has been pying with settings in her character customization that let her feel enough to come through her cage while still giving her the harsh bite of the cage’s small length.

  Marigold watches the rain and listens to the thunder, and Lavender rubs, rubs, rubs at her little cage, feeling the strain of her girlcock against the pstic, her lips occupied with kissing and tending to her Goddess’ holy feet. It feels right, perfect, having to struggle for orgasm while tending to her perfect wife. She grinds in her hand hard against her caged cock, her thoughts hazy, her body tense as she ps at Marigold’s soles, her body twitching with each kiss as subby thoughts run through her mind.

  “Good girl,” Marigold says after a few minutes, her other foot settling on Lavender’s colr. “You may come.”

  Lavender pushes just a little bit harder, and her twitching girlcock dribbles out a tiny, weak load onto the pnks of the deck, which vanishes moments ter as the automatic cleaning functions of the game come into py.

  Marigold nods, satisfaction in her eyes. “Good. You should always be thinking of me when you come.” She leans forward in her chair and picks up Lavender’s leash. “Do you think you’ve been trained well enough, over this past year, to earn a little sck?~”

  Lavender blushes and ducks her head. “That is up to my Goddess to decide.”

  “Good girl.” Marigold makes a show of considering, tapping her fingers to her lips. “I suppose I can let you see Annabelle again. Since you’ve been such a good sve.”

  “Yes, Goddess,” Lavender gasps out. “Thank you, Goddess.”

  “You’re welcome,” Marigold says. “Now, best go pack our things, darling pet. Tomorrow is a big day.” She reverses the leash and hands it to Lavender.

  “Yes, Goddess.” Lavender bows her head, and takes her own leash. She’s been dismissed; the day is finally over.

  Tomorrow she gets to see Annabelle again.

  ~*~

  It has been a quiet and peaceful year, and filled with much joy; but by the end of it, the absence of anyone but each other has become like a loose tooth, a lingering unwholeness that one’s tongue keeps coming back to to touch and to test. Lavender feels it more keenly than Marigold does, but Marigold feels it as well; something not quite solid, not quite perfect. Her dearheart is troubled, and bored when she is gone, and Lavender’s fluttery heart will not sit still and stay with her. In her mind, she is beginning to be elsewhere.

  And so, at st, they return from their long wanderings to their old shared house with Annabelle.

  Much has passed. Marigold has tried chastity py with Lavender, and Lavender has proven too undisciplined to survive a long-term regimen; Lavender has built shrines and temples to Marigold, out in the wilderness where they are a secret between the two of them, and has lived for a time as her honest worshipper, groveling at her feet each day. Lavender has learned how to braid properly without a guide, and much about her Goddess’ habits and routines; Marigold, in turn, has been working on a novel, which she has shared some few selections from with Marigold. The grooves of their connection have worn a year deeper.

  It was not a perfect year; even in this perfect pce, sometimes they hurt each other, rather than holding each other close. There are arguments, now and then, when the yoke of Marigold’s discipline proves too heavy, or when Marigold wants space that Lavender is not giving. Two people alone is not a world; and though they love each other so, so deeply, they are not perfect repcements for every human on earth. Lavender is at times irritated by Marigold’s dislike of food, when she herself indulges when she can; Marigold is at times irritated by Lavender’s fluttery heart, which longs for new and bright things every day and is unsatisfied with slow rhythms.

  But it has been a year together, and not apart; and for all the imperfect pces where they do not quite mesh, they are still whole, and free, and each other’s.

  I will rest for a time, Marigold sends to Lavender. You may have your Annabelle now. Just remember that in your soul you belong to me.

  Yes, Goddess. The response is rote, easy, ingrained. The habit of obedience is beginning to wear into Lavender, now, for all that she is not a perfect trainee.

  And Lavender goes through the old house, room by room.

  She finds Annabelle at her computer in the study, drafting an email at only a hundred times speed. Her avatar moves as if she were pushing through thick treacle: each single key-press that is lightning-quick to her takes a full four seconds for her to tap out in Lavender’s world.

  Lavender goes into her interface, and searches through the saved exoloads.

  Exoload memory of 1 year ago, marking from retive dive against Annabelle; Context shift and force Annabelle to dive.

  And she is thrown back, back, back, a year and a day ago, to the day she was married - no, to three and a half days after she was married - where her year with Marigold fits into a few days of retive time.

  And Annabelle is suddenly moving as fast as her —

  She startles, leaps from her chair, grabs Lavender and crushes her close as close —

  “You’re back,” Annabelle says, a grin coming to her face.

  “I am,” Lavender says, her rusty old voice seeming unfamiliar in her ears after a year spent speaking mind to mind. “I am.”

  Annabelle gently unhugs, and smiles. Looking through her interface, she scans for the exoload. “A year and a day, huh?” She raises an eyebrow. “I should have guessed. You must have so much to tell me about.”

  Lavender smiles, and crushes Annabelle close. “I missed you,” she says.

  “I missed you too,” Annabelle replies. “But it’s good that you got a proper honeymoon. Come now, tell me all about your travels.”

  She smiles and strokes a hand through Lavender’s hair.

  It’s strange, seeing Annabelle again. Lavender remembers her doubled; as a person she hasn’t seen for a year, an old fme; and as a person she loves deeply and has been busy away from for just half a week after her wedding. It doesn’t quite reconcile…

  But she knows in her heart that she loves her.

  “Can we eat together?” she asks. “I haven’t had a sit-down meal together in a year.”

  “Please,” Annabelle says. “Be my guest.” She gestures to the door out of the study, and the stairs down to the kitchen.

  Lavender nods, and leads the way.