One evening a rotten carriage, pulled by a set of mares looking just as bad, brought three women to our door. When they stepped out I was dizzied by the heavy sway of the redheaded leader’s breasts. The other two were quite young, close enough to my own age, but all were equally dressed for their trade.

There was a sickening wave of emotions for my father right then. Disgust—how could you disgrace your dead wife’s bed with the juices of women whose names you wouldn’t remember in the morrow? Envy—how utterly enthralling these women were, and then how I would have joined my cold mother for a chance just to feel their warm embrace.

I ran off to my cellar, seeing it as this ridiculous hiding place for bones. Weeping with my face in my hands helped; taking breaks only to—well. One night while spying on Father through a bedroom window, I saw two of his voluptuous companions do to him, one hand on top of the other, what I did furiously and frequently to break up the crying.

Hours must have passed before I emerged, for it was dark and the wind licked cold. As I walked up to our side door, it swung open, almost toppling me over. The three women filed out in their slightly rearranged attire. The night did not conceal the return of the redhead’s jiggle, a sight that sent my soul wailing back into the cellar.

This time, however, before I could make my retreat, one of the young ones thwarted me. By the light of the moon and a street lamp I saw her: fair skinned, golden-eyed. Her hair was the color of dew on lilies, which she wore in braids that ended at the crack of a backside I already held visions of. Perky breasts exposed their contours under an evilly cut garment, and above them were eyelashes that batted at me.

“Hi,” she said as if talking to someone capable of speech. “You’re Augy’s boy?”

“By blood,” I managed to squeak out, utterly amazed at my own response.

I don’t know if it was because we were both standing as still as Lirelet statues, or if it was because I was still mouthing by blood to myself in half-astonishment, but I didn’t hear their ride pull up. It was her glance that notified me. Once pulled out of whatever jackassery I was surely swirling around in, I heard the full rattling of the carriage and smelled the low-burning lamps affixed to its mean wooden face.

“Time we’re off, Somyellia,” the endowed leader confirmed. The motherly tone wasn’t lost on me—both in its oddity and its ability to soothe—as she and the other pranced down our wooden steps. This time I didn’t stare at her tits. It was as if she never had them.