Mara the Washer-girl

'Did I... did I really hear that?' — Morzer thought, pressing his ear to the door while keeping one eye on the hallway, making sure no one in the darkness of the night noticed his ridiculous pose. He swallowed hard. His narrow shoulders ached from the tension, and his breasts, hidden under the rough fabric of the shirt, quivered slightly with every breath. And that reminded him again that he was no longer Morzer the thief, the trickster, the master of the body-swapping ring, but some village girl with trembling hands and soft hips that he still couldn’t help but notice every time he moved.

The ring, which once gave him the power to slip from body to body, had turned into a curse. He only wanted to escape his pursuers and, for disguise, took the body of a laundress — but got stuck. It had been three days now that he walked in her body, in her torn tunic, feeling how the fabric pulled unpleasantly across his breasts, rubbed against his nipples, how the belt dug into his waist. And the worst part — Mara, the girl whose body he now inhabited, was still lying unconscious in his own body. Everyone knew that swapping with someone else was only possible if one returned first to their original body.

— ...and he claimed he could stop the war. Can you believe that?

Morzer had caught his own name a moment earlier, but still couldn’t understand how it connected to the politics the two were discussing — Krazus Bergold, the castle warden, and Arvel Torr, the crown’s advisor, a dry old man with long gray mustaches and a voice like parchment rustling.

— Morzer, — Krazus said, leaning back in his chair and slapping his palm on the table, — a thief, yes. He was supposed to run, yes. And I’m not surprised he managed to sneak into my chambers last night despite all the guards. But, Arvel, my dear Arvel, he was very convincing.

Cold sweat broke out on Morzer’s skin. What? Morzer? In Krazus’s chambers, saying he wanted to help end the war? But how? His body — the one that held Mara’s mind now — was lying in the catacombs at the edge of the city, where poor Mara had wandered just at the very moment he, in panic, activated the ring after drinking far too much sleeping potion.

'That’s impossible. She woke up? But...'

— Well, well, well, — came a voice from behind, making Morzer flinch. He spun around sharply, his breasts swaying under the apron, his hair sliding across his cheek. Standing before him in the dark was Agatha.

Agatha, the castle cook, broad-shouldered, with hands scarred and burned from ovens and boiling pots. But her eyes — cunning, piercing — were the kind that made any laundress girl instantly lose her voice.

— What do we have here? — she drawled, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms over her breasts. — Little laundry girl sitting at the lord’s door? Listening with her ears like a mouse under the floor?

Morzer felt the blood rush to his face. His lips trembled on their own.

— I... I just... — the words stuck in his throat for some reason, and his voice broke into a high note.

Agatha stepped closer, and her wide palm landed right on Morzer’s shoulder. The pressure was heavy, strong. He felt the tunic stretch across his breasts, his nipples painfully scraping against the rough cloth. He sucked air through his teeth, fighting the humiliating sensation.

— Ah, you — Agatha hissed — stupid girl. Do you think Krazus will forgive you if he finds out the servants are hanging their ears at his door? He’ll put you in the stocks tomorrow. And the whole village will laugh at you, standing there... — she gave his apron a sharp tug, making Morzer’s breasts jerk forward in a ridiculous way, — ...with your red face on display.

Morzer nearly groaned from the shame. His own body was somewhere in the catacombs right now, maybe, for some unknown reason, weaving conspiracies and making promises, while he was stuck in this girl’s body — weak, small, unable to fight back even against a woman.

— I’ll go — he turned, but Agatha grabbed his arm.

— Nope. You’re either going to Krazus right now and telling him everything, or you’re coming with me — her voice was low, thick, carrying such confidence that Morzer suddenly realized he had no choice.

Agatha squeezed his wrist tighter, like an iron band, and dragged him away from the door. Morzer followed obediently, feeling his breasts bounce foolishly under the apron. Every step reminded him of this body’s weakness, its softness, its vulnerability. Inside, he was boiling: 'I am Morzer, thief, shadow of the streets, the one who looted Duke Lorrin’s treasury alone! I, who outsmarted the guards in the White Quarter! And now... now this woman drags me like some naughty servant girl!'

— Where... where are you taking me? — his voice cracked, high and pathetic.

Agatha didn’t even turn her head. Her heavy steps echoed through the empty corridor, and her hand clutched Morzer’s wrist so tightly he already knew there would be bruises on this body.

— Somewhere you’ll finally be useful, girl — she rasped. — Since God gave you a pretty face and a pair of tits, let them serve a purpose.

— Wh-what?! — Morzer stumbled, his breasts bouncing painfully under the apron. He froze, staring at her broad back. — You’re insane, I...

— Heldar’s had his eyes glued to you for a while — Agatha cut him off, stopping so abruptly that Morzer nearly crashed into her back.

He blinked, not understanding right away.

— Who?

— The scribe — she turned and smirked, curling her lips. — Heldar. Pale little boy who carries parchments for Arvel. Always sneaking past your laundry room and staring at you like he’s got mice crawling in his belly — Agatha finished with a snort, then yanked Morzer along the corridor again.

— Nonsense — he exhaled, trying to pull his hand free, but instead only jerked his breasts harder, making them jiggle under the tunic in a humiliating way. His cheeks flared hot. — I... I won’t!

— You will — Agatha said simply, as if stating the sun would rise tomorrow. — Or I’ll tell Krazus myself that a servant girl was eavesdropping at his door. Do you want the stocks? Do you want the whole village to watch your tits spilling out of your shirt while the boys pelt you with mud?

Agatha spoke so calmly and confidently, as if this was a conversation about something obvious.

' I need to get to the catacombs, not all this crap! Damn that bitch!' Morzer tried to pull free, but Agatha only squeezed his thin wrist tighter, and a smile flickered on her lips.

— He’s in the catacombs behind the castle — she said evenly, as if nothing was happening, while dragging Morzer forward.

— In the catacombs? — Morzer squeaked, feeling a sudden rush of hope. That was exactly where he needed to go.

— In the catacombs — Agatha repeated, as if savoring the way his eyes lit up. — But first, you need to dress up.

She yanked him forward, and soon they were in the pantry by the kitchen. Morzer — once a thief and master of every trick, once the owner of the body-swapping ring — now looked like a trembling little girl. His past victories — slipping into Duke Lorrin’s treasury, the daring theft of the altar chalice in the White Quarter — all of it now seemed like a silly fairy tale. Because not a single one of his skills could help him against Agatha’s heavy hand and the soft body he was trapped in.

Agatha opened a chest, the lid creaking, and with a smirk pulled out an outfit.

— Here — she said, holding it out — just for you.

Morzer stared. It wasn’t a dress, it was pure mockery: a bright yellow skirt down to the floor with embroidery, a rough lace blouse with a deep neckline, and over it all a corset clearly meant to push up his breasts so much that even the blind would stare.

— You’re mocking me — he rasped, stepping back. — I’m not...

— You’re going to the scribe — Agatha cut him off. — And he needs to forget that a servant girl was sneaking under the lord’s doors. Which means you need to look pretty. And... compliant.

She stepped closer, pressed the outfit to his breasts, the fabric sliding cold against his skin under the tunic. Morzer felt his nipples stiffen from the touch and looked away in panic.

— I’m not a whore! — he hissed.

— Nobody’s making you a whore — she snorted. — At least no more than you already are. Put it on.

She pressed the bright yellow outfit harder against his breasts and yanked sharply at the collar of his old tunic. The fabric rustled, sliding down, and Morzer felt the cold air of the pantry brush against his skin.

— Agatha! — he squeaked, clutching his hands to his breasts, but that only made him look even more pitiful, the soft flesh pushing forward awkwardly between his fingers.

The cook snorted with satisfaction:

— Oh, come on. With your curves, trying to hide is like putting a chest in the middle of the street and thinking no one will notice it.

She shoved the skirt at him. Morzer, blushing, struggled to force his legs into the heavy fabric, stumbling and tangling himself. The skirt rustled across the floor, the tight waistband squeezed his waist, and for the first time the thief realized that any attempt to run fast or slip into the shadows would now look like pure comedy.

— Gods... — he muttered, feeling the rough lace of the corset scratching his skin. — In this, I won’t even fit sideways through a doorway!

— You don’t need to — Agatha said calmly, starting to tighten the laces. She pushed his breasts up so they spilled from the neckline, displayed as if for show.

Agatha stepped back, narrowing her eyes as she looked him over.

— There. Beautiful.

Morzer clenched his teeth. 'Just get to the catacombs and to my body. Then switch back. The main thing is that I still have the ring in my pocket and I...' The thought broke off, his eyes widening in sudden realization. His gaze darted to the laundress’s dress lying on the bench. Mara’s dress — its pocket turned inside out. Empty.

— Where... where’s the ring? — the whisper escaped in a squeak.

Agatha didn’t hurry. In the candlelight her fingers lazily played with something dull and metallic. She raised her hand. On her thumb was the familiar black band. The swapping ring.

— Looking for this? — she turned it slowly, as if testing its weight with her teeth.

Blood pounded in Morzer’s temples. The corset, tightened to the point of creaking, wouldn’t let him breathe, his breasts heaving heavily from the neckline.

— Give it back — he rasped. — It’s mine.

— Finish the job, I’ll return it — Agatha said casually, as if she were talking about a spoonful of sugar.

And at that moment Morzer realized just what kind of shit he had gotten himself into.