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Once upon a time in the lands of bones and betrayal, a duchess birthed twins. The duchess and the duke thought it was a great achievement to have an heir and a spare. In fact, raising twins was such a great achievement that they told no one about it. Instead, they made a deal with the younger twin: they could be their brother sometimes, you know, when said brother needed a nap, and other times, they could be a vague, sisterly shape in the background of portraits, hallways, gardens, wallpaper, and parties. The twin thought being a boy and a girl was a fine thing, and so he accepted. He did not waste time in learning the importance of his role and how it protected his brother.
Because of course, one day, the protection failed.
After the blood, the fire, and the theater, the lone twin ran into the arms of his greatest friend, a young noble lady from a neighboring house. It was she, a failed magician, who accompanied him and shared his secrets when he was allowed girlhood. To her bosom he explained, through hiccups, that, with his brother’s untimely death, he needed to be his brother on a permanent basis, and lords could not associate with ladies.
“They are taking—they are going to separate us,” he gasped around the beating heart in his throat. “My brother is dead and I must be him. Jane—Jane, I cannot live.”
Snowflakes added tears to her pale cheeks. She embraced her companion more tightly and asked, “Do you trust me?”
His wet eyes shimmered huge and hazel. “With my life.”
The companions packed the items necessary for the journey, snuck to the stable, saddled their noble steed, and ignored any questions from servants. Instead of directing their mount on the familiar paths of the estate, she directed the gelding on the Eastern Road.
The twin cried, “We are not going—!”
“We are,” she insisted and spurred the horse out of reach of the trailing servants, out of their ancestral land, out of the traps in the forest. Only then did she dismount the gelding and indicate her friend should do the same. Once both riders were on the ground, the gelding slowed to a walk. “By alternating between walking and trotting, Horse can keep this pace for long hours. If we sleep rough, our leaves, flowers, and trees can conceal us. We will make the border in a week.”
He spluttered. “Do we really dare? Are we—are we getting married? I know the age for marriage without parental consent is less in Gretna Green, but the Carcosa legal system does not recognize such marriages.”
“I am going to do worse than marry you,” the noble young lady pronounced with flourish. “I am going to get you pregnant.”
Upon this answer, the twin swallowed his tongue and could not dislodge it until well into the deepness of midnight. Stars twinkled and tempted them to go further on, but the gelding was much too agitated for further riding. When next they slowed to a walk and dismounted, it was to enchant the pine tree’s skirts longer, feast on nuts, drink from waterskins, and find some dying moss for a pillow.
Besides one heartstopping incident with a rat and a squirrel, nothing of note happened as they traveled the Eastern Road, cut southwest through a thinned, ordinary forest, and hurried through a grassland plain—which in early winter was more sticks, mud, and slush. When the Three Trees stood before them, they’d reached the border.
No matter what angle the Carcosan border was approached, these three pine trees appeared. The shimmery, warping rainbow edging the space between the trunks and branches surprised the companions, but they pressed onward after a brief examination.
With his companion walking at his shoulder, the twin held the gelding’s reins tight, patted his neck, and murmured many reassurances while they crossed the border. As a result, the gelding was completely indifferent to the process. With his attentions preoccupied, the twin saved his impressions later to appreciate: how iridescence washed over the bones of his brown hand, his companion’s steadying inhale, cold cherry juice on his tongue; the utter lack of scent.
They arrived at the other land.
“It feels the exact same here,” Jane pronounced.
She must have said that only because it did. Before, they’d been in a wide, snow-dusted plain with three pine trees. They stood now in a wide, snow-dusted plain with three pine trees. Ben ruffled the trimmed stems of winter plum growing out of the back of his head—still there. Disappointment tasted like licking dry lips.
“Wait, I—no, I feel nothing,” Jane said. She stared behind, at the three trees. “I cannot feel them. Weak as my skill is, usually I can muster some semblance, some sympathetic notion. It is like they are not there.”
“They’re, their, there,” Ben could not resist saying. “I cannot feel their pollen or nuts either.”
Jane mounted Horse in one fluid movement, and Ben clambered up after her. Skirts had been exchanged for trousers long ago in a Poisson village, as the classic Carcosa response to wayward, bedraggled boys was “ew,” “get away,” or “sorry, I have no money or work.” Cutting the top knot of Jane’s lustrous hair had caused Ben to fiddle with the strands in sad manner, but she insisted it would grow back, more amethyst than ever. Mounted double, he could bury his face in her nape and take great gulps of her fresh oat scent.
“Are you screaming?” Jane asked.
“No?”
“The Hole is screaming. Look,” she gestured at the space between the pines, their branches bowed with snow. “Like, something tore through it with great ripping force and slithered right on through.”
“Is that what we are to call the border now? ‘The Hole,’” Ben sighed with a smile. “Fair. Having plunged through the Hole, let us trot on to Gretna Green.”
Having neither compass nor map, Ben held his watch chain up in a straight line while Jane did some calculations with the shadow. Somewhat confident in their direction, sure they would not be pursued, and quite close to their goal, it was the perfect time to panic.
When they next walked beside Horse, Ben asked, “What if the elders were lying to us?”
Jane patted his shoulder. “They are definitely lying to us. What about exactly?”
“That the foreign pagan deity can help us. We know remarkably little about them. Carcosa loves power. If this deity had power, would we not know the deity’s every thought and movement?”
“Elders also hate giving the impression that they are weak. If the deity is immensely more powerful, more powerful than a singular family, no one would be able to learn anything. Even our families, with their notable, historically-held alliance, do not quite like working together. That we actually like each other is completely novel.”
Ben suppressed the impulse to seize Jane’s free hand and instead repeated, mildly, “We are the best of friends.”
Jane’s fingers found his. “And soon to be husband and wife.”
Ben’s smile bloomed. “And soon to be husband and wife.”
“You’re the husband because you kill the spiders,” Jane said.
Ben disguised a chortle with a cough. “I do not kill them. I capture the spiders and release them back out of doors. Spiders are an important part of the ecosystem.”
The trek to Gretna Green was mercifully short—and yet more merciful with its large road sign identifying it as Gretna Green. Gray stonework homes crowded together, with little space between them. Birds sung louder in smoky skies and were still barely heard over the crush and hubbub of people in round, crimson hats. The initial streets were mud, which turned to cobblestones, which turned to more regularly repaired, flatter cobblestones. The stonework on the homes, too, changed as they reached the town’s center, becoming more ornate and housing fewer people, judging by the lack of laundry and the increase in front gardens.
Horse expressed interest in these front gardens, paying especial attentions to any with hanging greenery he could reach with his mouth. Jane yanked the reins. “Stop it! Let us find a church.”
A concern wormed through Ben’s chest. “Jane, do you know what a church looks like?”
“Well, they are supposed to be important. Therefore, they must be tall,” she mused. “Let us seek out the tallest building in this rich neighborhood.”
This endeavor took time.
It was not until dusk that the intrepid companions found a building with a steeple attached to its roof. From the outside, Ben could hardly distinguish it from its fellows—for all the world, it appeared a townhouse with a massive pointed hat on top. But it was tall and the twin lampposts on its black rod gates held piercing, steady, humming light. “Can Horse fit?” he asked.
“You might have to stay out here with him,” Jane said. “I will try knocking.”
“Jane, are you sure—” but she had already dismounted, scampered to the door, and knocked with the shiny brass knocker.
More clear, weightless light flooded the front garden. Ben squinted and shaded his brow. Even though he and Jane were not far separated, he failed to hear the hushed conversation she had with the shadow past the doorstep. When Jane returned to his side, his anxiety slowed but did not dissipate.
“We are welcome!” she said, her eyes shining. “We will have proper food and baths before the wedding!”
“That is good,” he said. “Can they put up Horse?”
“Around the back!” Jane said.
They dutifully took Horse around the back, in which there was an empty stable with two stalls. A red-haired hostler took the reins from Ben’s hands. “Welcome to the temple,” they said. “Are there any special care instructions for your fine, alive animal?”
Ben shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Not anything too special. He has had a long journey and would benefit from some soaked oats in addition to alfalfa hay.”
The hostler’s golden eyes lit up. “I hope you forgive the question, but are you from Carcosa? Your accent, the way you tongue the words…?”
Jane replied, “We do hail from Carcosa. Are you familiar with the land?”
The hostler nodded and grinned wider than was strictly proper. “I am most familiar.”
Ben’s spine trembled.
In short order, they were admitted through the servant’s entrance and greeted by the most proper butler Ben had ever seen. Polished cuffs, a demure yet smart suit, slicked hair, and posture harsh enough to slice cheese: it was like someone had plucked the dictionary definition of “butler” from Ben’s head and placed it before him. The man clicked his heels and announced, “Baths and light suppers have been prepared in the green bedroom, if it pleases you.”
“It does, Jeeves,” Jane said. “Thank you.”
“Ma’am.”
All was as the butler Jeeves promised. They devoured a light supper of breads, deli meats, cheeses, fruits, and hearty red wine. And more: Ben noted the bathwater never cooled or dirtied; that the portraits on the walls all depicted one man in various different fancy dress. Along the way to the room, the hallway alcoves held strange items, such as a policeman’s helmet, books of Baruch Spinoza, a workaday brick, and a pot of leather polish. Still, Jane and he had the most refreshing sleep and were woken by the butler Jeeves with a steaming tray of breakfast.
“Are we nervous for the nuptials, ma’am?” Jeeves asked.
“Not in the least,” Jane said, tapping her spoon on the boiled egg in its stand. “Are you?”
Jeeves said, “It would not be my place. Many masters and mistresses have a great fear of aunts and uncles, and you must protect yourselves. I have taken the liberty of laying out appropriate attire and having the clothes you arrived in properly burned.”
“Thank you, Jeeves.”
He nodded his head in a short bow and, upon straightening, stiffened his posture further. “If I may be so bold, ma’am, may I point out the irregularity of two betrothed people sharing a bed the night before their nuptials?”
Before Jane could offer her own subtle answer, Ben interjected, “It is a singular Carcosa custom. We thank you for allowing us our peccadilloes.”
“Indeed, sir.” Jeeves arched a brow. “Will that be all?”
“Yes, thank you, Jeeves.”
Behind Jeeves’ back, Jane gave him a subtle double wink. That is to say, she blinked at him.
The wedding itself was a small affair. Ben dressed as a groom and walked arm in arm with the bridal Jane down the aisle of the chapel. Surprisingly, the person he had mistaken for the hostler was their priest. Perhaps in response to his questioning look, the priest-cum-hostler smiled. “Given my special interest in Carcosa, my colleague allowed me to perform the ceremony. As I live on ideas, I find your idea of priests delightful.”
The ceremony was simple as a sprout breaking through the earth. The priest recited the well-worn ritual words in an unknowable language that made Ben taste iron in the back of his tongue. Jane’s pale hand signed her name on the marriage certificate is great purple ink. Her dress’s short, puffed sleeves were trimmed with lace in an ivy pattern, and below the bodice’s dipping v shape, great pleats flowered outward. The short cut of her hair suggested an overcoming of illness, and the impression was no entirely dissuaded with the fever brightness of her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, and the yellow posies forming her bridal crown.
Ben doubted his own appearance came close to Jane’s radiance. His pulse thudded hot in his neck. Jane held his hand. He was grateful that his heat did not make the certificate burst into flames upon the last flourish of “Buren.” They were married.
“Excellent,” the priest said. They clapped their hands, though no sound was produced by the gesture. “It is my understanding that you also wish a child from your union?”
Jane nodded. “Oh yes, and it would be preferable for Ben to carry it.”
Gold eyes impossibly aglow, the priest turned to Ben. “What a marvelous notion! Do you agree?”
Ben swallowed the lump in his throat. “My parents will acknowledge the match only if the child is indisputably mine. A child will push me—us—into the light and out of the secrets.”
“You have great expectations for a child,” the priest pointed out.
“It only has to live,” Jane said, “to survive.”
“Would that was the only imperative parents would give their children,” the priest said, clucking their tongue. They snapped their fingers. “A deal has been struck.”
Ben has sure the only doors in the chapel space had been the ones they’d arrived through. An inexplicable second pair of doors swung open to his left. The priest said, “Your wedding suite. I hope it will be to your liking. As always, I am here to serve.”
The spouses crossed the threshold.
☀️🌙
“Is this...your bedroom?” I asked.
Jane observed the fine four-poster bed in the distinct emerald colors of Neville House. Two white armchairs cozied up to a lit fire, while a tea tray offered repast if we needed. Jane nodded. “Somehow, it is.”
“Did the priest bring your bedroom out of Carcosa?”
Jane flitted and fluttered and muttered, which blustered the lace on her dress in the most charming manner possible. “No, there are some flaws. Look, this wainscoting is missing the notches we struck from play fighting. The tea leaves smell not of Neville mint, but a vulgar variety. I peeked out the curtains and saw a black, swirling abyss. I conclude this is a very good simulacrum of my childhood bedroom.”
“Oh,” I said. Thinking of nothing else to say, I mentally chided myself for being lame in speech. The tension in my shoulders did not disappear. “Jane, are you certain—”
Before I could finish, Jane marched over, yanked me by the tie, and kissed me. Warmth flooded my cheeks from that smack on the mouth, and the unrelenting pressure softened me down to the bones. Jane whispered, “Stop doubting that I’m choosing you. If we’re going to change Carcosa, we need to make trouble. To fly, you need to forget that the ground exists. Now help me unbutton and unlace.”
With shaking hands, I did as instructed. Whenever I paused, Jane would coax me with more kisses, which led to many pauses. Menswear is quicker, so I much more quickly found myself landing on the horsehair mattress with a whompf. I flattered myself that Jane’s body was not a completely unknown landscape to me, but each time a new instance of glory. My poet’s heart yearned.
Jane crawled up beside me and bestowed her warm kisses again. My hand cradled the back of her head and those woefully short violet-black tresses. Her violet eyes glittered and her lips puffed with bruising. “Husband,” she said. A single pink finger trailed its nail down my sternum, into the lush valley of my breasts, leaving an aching, redder line across the cherry wood-colored skin. I heaved with breath.
“Wife,” I said, and it was like a sunrise over a spring field. My ears rang with the birdsong of the heart, my head burbled with new light, my nose craved her new morning oatmeal smell, and my abdomen tightened to a ready furrow. Wife!
Jane’s large hand cupped the swell of my breast. I said, “Is this the time to get back at me for seducing you in the library?”
“I was meant to be reading,” Jane said. “You distracted me. Like this.”
Her palm descended past the curls of my sex and gave it a rough rubbing. Of their own accord, my legs opened to grant better access. Her fingers slid up and down my cunt, bracketing my pleasure. Eyes squeezed shut, I spasmed, squirmed, rolled against her; hid against her clavicle. My breathing jagged as the tinder of her ministrations provoked sparks. I opened my mouth to beg and a moan came out.
“You like that, hmm,” Jane said, triumph in her dewdrop voice. “How about this?”
Her finger hooked against the side of my sex’s hood. I whimpered. Humming gold burst across my nerves; my nipples throbbed; the comely oat smell of Jane, Jane, Jane my whole world. I shook and released in a free fall, like an inferno in love with its own flame.
With my skin thrumming like wildfire, she manhandled my slim waist until I was on my back. She dived between my shaky legs, aligned our cunnies, and rocked. She glided rough, and my clit surged with sensitivity against hers. I grabbed her ass, spreading my fingers as far as they would go, and gripped hard. The wet rubbing of our joining could not distract me from her breasts dangling just out of reach of my mouth. Jane panted, “My female husband, I’m going to put a baby in you.”
“Please, Jane. Please. Do it,” I said. I did not know how it would happen, but I craved it with my soul.
Sensing her cue, Jane taunted me more. “Hmmm, you are a breedable little girlboy, yes? You are going to grow fat with my child. Everyone will know it was me who knocked you up. Everyone will look at you and know you were fucked by me.” Arousal spiked my clit upward. Our friction begat passion hard enough to shake the bedframe. Florid color painted Jane’s cheeks. My thighs agonized under the bombardment, only to be soothed by the next volley. “Get pregnant!”
I smacked her ass with all the strength left in my hand, and her orgasm had her falling in my arms. I kissed her temple, groomed back the loose, sweaty strands of her hair; listened to her heaving breaths. My knees gave in to a slow collapse. My heart pounded against hers.
Jane spoke first. “Are you well?”
I considered and let a devious grin of mine show what I was considering. Before Jane’s mouth could form her protest, I flipped us over. “Let us ensure it takes,” I said.
“Ben, you need not—mn.” Jane’s thought must have been interrupted by the tongue thrust into her quim. My nose prodded between her lower lips and slid against her cunt’s dripping wetness. I laved at each labia and tongued at her inner pink. Jane juddered into my face, filling me with her intoxicating animal smell. I rewarded her with a powerful suck of her clitoris that had her nails digging into my scalp, pulling up my plum blossom stems by the root.
“Ben,” she breathed. “Ben!”
I would not stop. I would only entrap her more. Like a vine set loose, I flung a free hand upward and onto her breast, swirling a nipple with my thumb. Jane screamed. Her hot wetness flowed, and I was the plant greedily sucking up her juices, feeding myself upon them.
I wormed up beside her, as victorious as the snake in the garden, and nuzzled her shoulder. After she caught her breath, she said, “I think we made Baby.”
I needed to head this notion off at the pass. “As the one going through pregnancy, I have one request. May we please not name the child ‘Baby?’”
Jane bristled until I planted a kiss. “I would call them something else as an adult,” she wheedled. “I would maintain accuracy.”
“You cannot call our child ‘Adult Baby’ either.”
When Jane returned to her pouting, I worked on getting the blankets over us rather than under us and tidying up the evidence of how we wrecked our love upon them. All the while my poet brain worked, and by the time I snuggled up to my wife (wife!) again, I had a solution. “What do you think of ‘Benji’ as a name?”
Jane hummed. “A portmanteau of our names for the person we created together?”
“Benjamin + Jane = Benji.”
“I like it,” Jane announced. “We will welcome Benji to the world.”
And so it was.
☀️🌙
When the twin and his bride returned to Carcosa, the twin was visibly six months pregnant. The great hubbub that occurred when they disappeared was dwarfed by the greater hubbub upon their return. Many were shocked to learn that, in the other land, men could get pregnant, producing female husbands and male wives. Rumors of families, desperate for fecundity, making discreet trips to Gretna Green increased. As for the twin, the young noble lady, and their offspring, if they have not died, they are still living, and doing so happily.