Confession

My Lord Almighty, I beg you… no, I implore you, with my entire being, with my whole soul, with everything I have left—"

– Ugh, ugh – the quiet, yet distinctly authoritative masculine baritone interrupted the inner prayer, a voice coming from behind the opaque wooden lattice of the confessional.

Lauren flinched and gasped in surprise, cursing in that moment how soft and breathy her voice now sounded and how, even from a simple shudder, her… breasts trembled.

– I am listening to you, my daughter – came the calm, even slightly gentle voice from behind the lattice, but it only seemed to intensify the feeling that had been tormenting Lauren for the past month.

Daughter. God, how hard it still was for her to accept the fact that, by the will of fate, the heavens, or the Almighty himself, her body had decided to change. And when? At the very moment when she, still Count de Valmont, was receiving congratulations after his five-thousand-strong army had utterly crushed the forces of the Duke of Orléans, bringing such an important, long-awaited victory to his country. And precisely at that moment, lying in his campaign tent—modest, yet still befitting a general with all its comforts—and dreaming of how the king himself would descend from his throne, reward him, and name him the savior of the nation… it happened.

Lauren drew in a shaky breath.

– Holy… kh-he… – she began, trying to give her voice a rougher edge, but immediately realized it was now impossible, and instead of any attempt to sound like before, with that same husky authority, only a soft, delicate sound escaped her throat. Lauren clenched her teeth. – Holy Father… I…

– My daughter… – the priest repeated even more gently, but as if deliberately emphasizing that “daughter,” perfectly aware, like everyone in the kingdom, of who she used to be, – You have nothing to fear before me. I am here to hear you.

Lauren felt those words wash over her with a mixture of shame and anger. ‘Nothing to fear’?! Count de Valmont had never feared anyone—others feared him!

– Holy Father, do not speak so! I… – Lauren faltered, hearing her own heavy breathing and cursing how tight the corset had become, how large her already far too noticeable breasts were, how the tight ties of that ridiculous woman’s cap pressed into her chin, the one she was now forced to wear, – I… I am not a “daughter”!

A short, yet unbearably heavy pause hung in the air. One could hear how, behind the lattice, the priest himself was trying to reconcile everything the entire country had been gossiping about, while at the same time hearing how “she,” the one who not long ago had been the conqueror and benefactor of this holy abbey, was now breathing heavily with that soft, feminine breath.

– The ways of the Lord are inscrutable, my da… daughter. You must be grateful for this – yes, he was doing it deliberately. Not “child,” and certainly not “my son” would fit here. The entire Church, in the person of the Pope himself, having shown favor, and then the rest of the world, had given a clear message regarding this “strange” situation: to recognize God’s child, Countess de Valmont, as a woman (after, of course, thorough examinations), and not to argue with God’s will. And who was he, a simple priest of the Abbey of Margorly, to argue with that, even if deep down he sincerely sympathized with the countess and how abruptly her life had changed from that moment on.

Lauren lowered her gaze, and that only seemed to burn her from within even more. This sight, this neckline, these slender hands! She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to scream.

– Grateful? I’ve lost everything. They even took my family estate because I… – her voice broke, turning thinner, almost childlike, – because I am now… unable to lead it. By law. By that damned law. They said a woman cannot hold a majorat. That I must… marry. Or go to a convent. Or… – she faltered, feeling her throat tighten from the rising tears, which Count de Valmont had never allowed himself to shed, – …or become someone’s property.

And again, that silence—but this time it felt even more tangible. So much so that Lauren could hear the priest slowly exhale through his nose.

– The Lord hears you, my daughter, – he said, now without that deliberate softness. There was something tired in his voice now, almost human. – and He does not grow angry at your imprudence. But still, as a woman, you must not allow yourself such thoughts, and certainly not give them voice. Your sacred duty is to bear children and to be a support to your husband, humbly accepting the role that has been granted to you, – the priest finished, lowering his voice slightly, as if drawing a line.

Lauren sharply inhaled, feeling everything inside her tighten.

A support… to a husband?

For a moment, an image flashed before her eyes—something that had happened just a week ago. Then she, in yet another ridiculous, uncomfortable dress she was now forced to wear constantly, stood in the great hall beneath the heavy vaults of her ancestral estate, and beside her stood him.

Old, carrying an unpleasant smell, with crooked teeth—Velmont de Raben. A senior friend and, in some way, even a mentor to Count Renault, but now the man who admired her beauty and explained that marriage to him was the only way to preserve the estate, the name, and even her dignity, adding that, given “her peculiar condition,” it was unlikely anyone else would want to take her as a wife.

Lauren froze, feeling cold sweat form on her large, heavy breasts, which now seemed to be the only thing both men and women looked at when speaking to her, and how that drop slowly slid into the cleft, down to where the tightly laced corset was already digging into her skin.

– A gift…? – she whispered, feeling the urge to argue again, but understanding it was useless, – I… I only pray to God, Holy Father, that He will return everything to me.

And again, silence, in which Lauren could hear her own nervous, uneven breathing, with that cursed, faint tremble at the end of every inhale. She hated it. Hated how her body now behaved too femininely, against her will.

– You are asking for the impossible, – the priest finally said quietly after several agonizing seconds. – And you know it.

Lauren suddenly raised her head, and the cap slipped slightly, tightening the ribbon beneath her chin.

– No, – she hissed, clutching the fabric of her dress. – No, it is not impossible. This was… done to me. Which means it can be… undone.

– Do not tempt yourself with such thoughts, Lauren, – he said more firmly now, – Do not anger our Lord, especially while you are in His house.

– I… – Lauren began, but the priest’s voice cut her off.

– Enough, my daughter. – Lauren froze, feeling how that last word hung between them like a heavy door slammed shut forever. – If that is all, then I suggest we end for today. Come back when you are more reasonable, and when you accept the proposal of Lord Velmont de Raben.

With those words, a loud creak sounded from the floorboard shifting beneath the priest’s feet as he stood up, and in some strange way it resonated inside Lauren as well, where it felt as though something of her last “masculine” self trembled—something she had been trying with all her strength to hold on to within herself.