Nandi

Timon made some last adjustments to the summoning circle and moved back, taking care to erase his hoof-prints as he did so. Then he set himself to wait, standing some twenty paces away. The sorcerer Forgilgatman would be ‘porting his apprentice to the centaur Land “sometime after dawn” according to his letter. But old Forgil was likely to oversleep.

The centaurs living near the borders of their Land were passingly familiar with ‘flatfooters’ - humans - and Timon knew more about them than most. He had actually lived in human lands for a time, as a young stallion, and had known Forgil there. Now he was a border guard, and the natural choice to meet Forgil’s apprentice. Contrary to rumor, the centaurs (or at least those on border) didn’t dislike flatfoot human visitors. However they did have a good reason for wanting to keep track of them.

The sun was well above the horizon when the air above the circle began to roil. The portal cracked open, and wisps of smoke - incense from hundreds of leagues away - leaked through. The portal opened wider, and a lithe, dusky-skinned woman stepped through, her feet a yard in the air above the ground. She looked down, and began to wave her arms in the complex pattern that formed a spell against falling. The portal closed, and the woman floated gently down.

Then, just as her feet touched the ground, red ribbons appeared out of the air around her. They tripped her, and she squealed in dismay as her sandals went flying. The ribbons then moved in like cheerful serpents, pulling away her green-and-yellow dress and tying her hand and foot, until she lay half-naked and completely helpless on the grass. Timon snorted with amusement and trotted forward.

Her skin was even darker than Timon had first realized: Almost the color of charcoal, except for the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet. Her teeth gleamed white in her round face as she smiled up at him. “Hello Sir, I’m Nandi. Master Forgilgatman’s apprentice.”

“Call me Timon.” He smiled back at her, and nodded at her bonds. “Is this the problem old Forgil mentioned?”

She shrugged. “I’m afraid so. Master Forgil calls it ‘the Curse of the Crimson Bands.’ Whenever I cast a spell - like I did now, to keep from falling - they appear, and...” She shrugged again. “Master Forgil thinks it’s because I keep overcasting my spells, and he says that you can help with that.”

Timon nodded. He already knew about Nandi’s problem from Forgil’s letter, but he didn’t mind watching her as she repeated the explanation. She was a pretty thing, with a merry glint in her dark eyes and tightly curled hair like black coral. Her feet - the peculiar flat feet of humans - stuck up in the air due to the way her ribbons had bound her wrists and ankles behind her.

“Master Forgil tried tickling me, to drain me enough so I could practice without overcasting. But I’m not very ticklish. That’s why he sent me here. He says that centaurs are the most expert ticklers in the world.”

“Some of us are,” Timon said. “I’m not, particularly, but I’ll be taking you to someone who is. Did Forgil tell you about the Prophesy?”

She squirmed, and managed to roll over onto her side. “Master Forgil explained it very clearly: ‘Alja Kentaros mor kental velator velex bartaros mel Uru, nor Kentaros yonvel morkap i patalos’ “ she quoted “‘If the Kentaros should ever fail to visit merciless torment on foreigners who enter the Land, then will the Kentaros suffer betrayal and ruination’ So,” she spoke the formal words: “ ‘I surrender myself to the law and custom of the Kentaros.’ “

Timon’s smile grew into a grin. “You seem more surrendered than most human maids.” He bent down and picked her up, putting her over his shoulder. “I’m glad you understand,” he said in a voice grown serious. “There’s no malice involved, you know. But then, there needn’t be malice in a betrayal, either.”

“I know,” Nandi said. “But I’m not very ticklish. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

Timon’s grip was strong and solid as he carried Nandi slung over his shoulder. He could easily have overpowered her, Nandi realized, even if she hadn’t been tied. However he also knew how to control his strength. His hands were irresistible, but not brutal, as they held her in place for the short trip.

It ended in a glade where another centaur waited, amid a variety of devices built to restrain humans. There were stocks made to imprison both single victims and groups, tables for holding down victims with their feet suck in the air, posts to which victims could be tied kneeling, and various other pieces of wooden furniture, including a ‘witch’s lover’ - a fat log with straps to hold down the victim while her feet stuck out past the end. Nandi shivered with remembered fear and pain. Her village had tied her one of those, when her talent had first manifested.

“Ho, Kratos,” Timon greeted the other centaur. “This is Nandi, the apprentice sorceress I told you about. She’s just arrived, and needs to earn her pass tokens. But she says she’s not very ticklish.”

Kratos raised his eyebrows. “A challenge, eh? Now you stop looking at that log,” he told her, pulling her attention away from the witch’s lover. “It’s over-rated. We’ll use this one.” He took her from Timon and knelt her on a fleece, belly against a fat post. “Now hold still.” A steel knife cut the magic ribbons binding her, and they vanished into mist and nothingness. “Interesting,” Kratos commented. “Now hug the post.”

In a few moments, he had her bound in place, well secured with leather straps. The post Nandi hugged was polished smooth, neither warm nor cool, but with a pleasant woody smell that complement the well-worn leather straps. One strap bound her wrists on the far side of the post, and two more went around her waist and thighs, holding them in place. Behind her, Nandi felt Kratos fasten her ankles with another set of leather straps.

Timon, watching, asked, “You’re not frightened, are you?”

“No.” She smiled at him. “But Master Forgil already tried this sort of binding post, and it didn’t work. I’m just not very ticklish.”

“We’ll see,” Kratos said from behind her. “I think I know a few tricks he doesn’t. Now, no spellcasting.” He came around with leather thongs, tying her thumbs down to enforce this. “You have nice skin,” he commented as he finished the knots. “I’ve never seen anyone with skin this dark before; not among us centaurs nor among you flatfooters.”

“I’ve set the gnomen,” Timon called from the nearby sundial. He picked up a bucket and walked back to Nandi, holding a dipper of water for her. “Drink,” he ordered. “You’ll be glad you did, in a bit.” Nandi obediently drank. Kratos then took the bucket around and splashed the water over Nandi’s feet. When he took a brush and began to scrub them, Nandi smiled involuntarily. The scrubbing didn’t tickle, exactly, but it did make her soles feel unexpectedly vulnerable.

“That wasn’t part of the real tickling,” Kratos warned her as he set the bucket down and picked up another pair of leather throngs. “Timon, do you want to help me with this?” Timon took one of the thongs, and the two male centaurs each tied one of Nandi’s large toes to pegs set in the side of the kneeling platform for that purpose. Now her feet were even more thoroughly helpless.

“And now...” Kratos said. Nandi felt his fingers brush over her soles, lightly. Lightly and smoothly over soles that suddenly seemed absurdly huge and sensitive. Nandi breathed in sharply as she felt the fingers suddenly wiggle. It tickled! It tickled enough to make her squirm, to make her start giggling. Nothing had done that before, not even when Master Forgil had cheated and attempted tickle-magic on her.

“I though you weren’t ticklish,” Kratos said as he methodically worked his fingers up and down her soles. Lightly. Gently. But without pause or letup.

“I... I’m... not,” Nandi managed to get out between giggles. “I... wasn’t. But... this...”

“It tickles, does it?” Kratos said smugly. He continued the tickling: The gentle, continuing touch that made Nandi giggle and squirm and pull at her bonds. It wasn’t bad. In fact, it felt delightful. But it didn’t stop. She couldn’t escape. Her feet were held exposed and vulnerable to the tickling, with a perfect helplessness that made the tickling all the sweeter. It went on, and on, and on, and she sighed in regret when it finally ended.

But only briefly. Another touch, even softer, brushed her feet with delicious torment. “This is the wing-feather of a vos hawk,” she heard Kratos say behind her, distant beyond her giggles. “It’s especially effective, isn’t it?” But of course Nandi couldn’t answer. She could only laugh, rocking back and forth, pulling fiercely but futilely at the straps that held her in place, completely helpless, so that she could not possible escape that delicious tickling.

The feather traveled methodically over Nandi’s soles, soles that now held her entire attention. It passed over her toes, the balls of her feet, her instep, her heels, and then started back again. Oh, it was wonderful. She could not have held still for it if she had a choice, but she had no choice. She was helpless, strapped to the post, her ankles and toes tied so that she could barely wiggle her feet, her wrists and thumbs bound so that she couldn’t cast the slightest spell. She could only hug the pole to which she was bound as the giggles leaked out of her, impossible to hold back.

“Time,” Timon called from the sundial, and the tickling at last came to an end. “Ho, so you’re not ticklish, eh?” he asked as he helped Kratos release her.

“I didn’t think I was,” Nandi admitted. “I wasn’t before.” She sat on the grass with her feet tucked under her; as pleasant as the tickling was, she didn’t want her soles exposed just now.

“Did it work?” Kratos asked. “Try casting a spell, see if you can.”

Nandi took a deep breath and gestured in the air, drawing the mystic runes. A loose blade of grass rose up, turning and dancing in the air. Then the air curdled, and red ribbons came forth to wrap around Nandi, tying her hand and foot. She squirmed over to face the two centaurs. “It worked,” she said. “Which means that it didn’t work. I can still cast my spells, and they still invoke the curse of the crimson ribbons.”

“That isn’t suppose to happen,” Timon said. “A good tickling always drains a mage’s power for at least a day or two.”

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” Kratos said, watching Nandi closely.

“All right.” She smiled at him, white teeth flashing in a dark face. “I’d have to do it anyway, even if it did work. Master Forgil wanted me to practice casting while drained for at least a fortnight.”

“No, no, no,” Kratos said. “You’re suppose to whimper, or maybe run screaming, after such a suggestion right when you’ve just been through a tickling. It’s suppose to be unbearable.”

“It was unbearable. But it wasn’t bad.“ Nandi paused, and then added: “I liked it.”

“Gift of the gods,” Timon said. “Be thankful for the favor. I’ll carry you this time, since your sandals were left at the portal. I want you to my sister, Egeria. She makes sandals, of all things. She says that since humans make horseshoes, she can make human shoes. And tomorrow we can try again.”

Nandi walked over the top of the little hill and stretched. The sun had just risen above the horizon, the sky was perfectly blue, and the grass was green and soft beneath her new sandals. And she could smell someone grilling oatcakes.

She followed her nose back to Timon’s house; a dwelling built tall and open in the style of the centaurs, with tables but no chairs. Timon was by the fire, flipping oatcakes from a pan. “Ho. Good morning!” he greeted her. “Ready for breakfast? I always have to cook in the morning - Egeria sleeps late. Have an oat-cake.”

“Thank you.” Nandi leaned against a post and munched. Timon took an oatcake as well. A short time later, Egeria came to the fire, her hair tangled.

“Oat-cakes? Good.” She took one. “I hate mornings. It always takes me an hour to become polite. And I have to do my hair.”

“I can help you with that,” Nandi offered.

“Thank you. I’ll offer to help with yours in return, but you don’t have much. No tail. But then I guess you’re glad of an excuse to postpone your trip to the stocks.” Egeria bit into her oatcake.

“No, I’m actually looking forward to it. I liked it.”

Egeria finished chewing. “You’re mad,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “The sun that burned your skin so black must have fried your brains as well. You’re suppose to be cringing at the thought of another merciless tickling so soon after your last one.”

“It’s a gift of the gods,” Timon said. He finished his last oatcake. “I’ve got guard duty, so I’ll leave you two ladies to pull each other’s hair.”

“Thank you for letting me ride,” Nandi said from Egeria’s back, an hour later.

“Not a problem,” Egeria answered. Her hair was brushed and braided, and she looked much more cheerful. “It’s the men who are touchy about being ridden.”

“That’s what my mother always said.” Both women giggled.

“Do you know,” Egeria said. “When Timon told me that a black sorceress was going to stay with us, I imagined someone tall and pale, with a face like a hatchet and a necklace of skulls.”

“I’m not that kind of black sorceress,” Nandi said.

“I know. And you really aren’t nervous about what’s coming.” Egeria hesitated, then asked: “Do you think your dark skin has anything to do with that?”

“I don’t think so. I have an older sister, and she hates being tickled.”

They arrived at the glade of the stocks. Kratos was waiting there, and he plucked Nandi from Egeria’s back. “I have errands to run,” Egeria told Nandi. “I’ll see you later.” Then she galloped off.

“Not that one,” Kratos said, as Nandi started toward the post that had held her yesterday. “This one today.” He led her to a seat with a single-place set of stocks in front of it. Like yesterday’s post, it held the victim well above the ground, at a convenient working height for a centaur. Kratos bound Nandi’s wrists before her, leaving them in her lap, then locked her ankles in place. These stocks held her feet close together, rather than spreading her ankles like yesterday’s post, but she was prevented from using her feet to defend each other by a thong that tied her large toes together.

Nandi made a happy little whimper. Her feet felt huge and vulnerable, exposed to the pleasures to come. She drank when Kratos offered the dipper, then suppressed little giggles when he splashed the rest of the water on her feet and began to scrub. “Not ticklish, eh?” Kratos teased. Today the brush-bristles tickled. The drying-cloth afterwards didn’t though.

“Mmm,” Nandi said.

“No, this isn’t part of the tickling,” Kratos agreed. But Nandi was aware of how his massaging touch awakened her skin, alerting her nerve-endings and preparing them for what was to come.

Kratos set aside the cloth and picked up something that Nandi couldn’t quite make out. “Ho, now the real tickling begins,” he told her.

“A feather?”

“Not quiet,” he said. Leather gently kissed the sole of her foot, sweet and sharp like a spiced candy as it traced a path from her heel to her toes and back again. She shrieked. “It’s called a bullfeather,” he explained as he continued to apply the device, causing laughter to bubble out of Nandi like water from a fountain. “It requires a certain knack to use, but I think I’ve figured it out, eh?”

Nandi couldn’t answer; she was too busy laughing. The tickling was too good, too much. She squirmed as best she could, which wasn’t much, and her feet couldn’t move at all. The stocks them perfectly. She pulled at the leather holding her wrists. She squirmed in her seat as the tickling rolled over her soles and she could do nothing, nothing to stop it. But she didn’t want it to stop. It was sweet, so sweet, so sweet.

Kratos stopped and let Nandi catch her breath. “I think I’ve figured it out, eh?” he repeated.

“Yes, yes,” Nandi gasped. She just managed to catch her breath when the Kratos began the tickling again. He’d oiled his fingers with olive oil, and the slick slide of them drove Nandi wild. He inflicted short sharp bursts of irresistible pleasure, tickling heel, toes, ball, instep, every bit of the soles of both her feet. And in between were pauses of squirming anticipation.

“You’re enjoying this,” Kratos said.

“Yes, yes,” Nandi gasped again. “Eeeeee...yes.”

“But is it working?”

“Eeeee...I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. Eeeee. Please don’t stop. Pleeeeeeese don’t stop.” She squirmed and bucked with the unendurable tickling he inflicted on her, writhing with pleasure at the wonderful torment of her helpless soles.

As Kratos continued his tickling, Nandi’s soles seemed to grow huge, at least a yard long and almost as wide. Every sensitive nerve seemed to sing under his clever, oily fingers. The laughter poured from her, leaving her unable to even squirm as the tears rolled down her dark cheeks. And the incredible, inescapable tickling went on and on and on.

Then it ended. “I think I better stop now,” Kratos said from somewhere far away.

“No,” Nandi squeaked, but she was gasping too hard for breath to protest further.

“You’re tickle-drunk,” Kratos told her. He brought out the dipper. “Here, have some more water. I’ll let you loose and you can try your spell again after you’ve caught your breath.”

A few minutes later, Nandi was lying on the grass once again, tied hand and foot with those familiar magical ribbons. “It’s no good,” she groaned. “I’ll never learn to control my casting.”

“Give yourself some time,” Timon told her. “You’ve been here for less than a day. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

The next morning dawned just as perfectly as the day before, with the only change being in Nandi’s mood. She felt that rain and gloom would have suited her better. This idea of Master Forgil’s wasn’t working; she would never be able to learn to control her spellcasting. She kicked a stone, and then suddenly inflicted her magic on it, gesturing angrily, with no thought for subtlety or precision. The stone went flying up into the sky, and the red ribbons came after her like a swarm of friendly bees. She fought against them, trying to fend them off, but they were too many and too energetic. In moments she was once again lying barefoot and helpless on the grass, her sandals some paces off.

Nandi struggled, knowing it was useless. The crimson ribbons would hold her until sunset, or until one of the centaurs came by to cut her loose. As she lay panting, she muttered a bad word, cursing her stupidity. At least the ribbons hadn’t gagged her; she could still call for help, and suffer the embarrassment when Timon or Egeria came out for her.

Hoofsteps sounded, soft on the turf. “Ho there, practicing your spells, were you?” It was a male voice Nandi hadn’t heard before. A moment later, the centaur loomed over her. He was lean and wiry, and unlike the other male centaurs Nandi had seen, he had a beard of gray hair neatly trimmed. “Now hold still.” His knife cut through one ribbon, and the rest disappeared into mist and nothingness.

“Thank you,” Nandi said, trying not to sound resentful.

“You’re welcome,” the centaur answered. “You must be Nandi, the sorceress. I’m called Chiron. Chiron the Younger, if you can believe it.” His eyes twinkled. “Or you can call me Uncle Chiron, like everyone else does. Now pick up your what-you-call-them. Sandals. And let’s go in. Egeria’s finally up, and I can smell oat-cakes cooking.”

Back inside, Egeria, Chiron, and Nandi were all munching on oatcakes before Nandi realized who was missing. “Where are Timon and Kratos?” she asked.

“A band of amazons wandered across the border,” Chiron said. “Timon and Kratos went to help take care of them.”

“They’ll be back in a day or two,” Egeria added. “In the meantime, Uncle Chiron here will take you down to the stocks. He’s something of a sorcerer himself, so he should be able to help you with your overcasting.”

“ ‘Third time’s the charm,’ they say,” Nandi shook her head, “But I don’t think it’s ever going to work.”

“Have patience,” Chiron told her. “And remember,” his eyes twinkled, “even if we succeed today, you’ll have many more tickling sessions to look forward to. We’ll have to keep you drained, you know, so that you can practice your spellcasting properly.”

After breakfast, they all went back outside. “I’ll carry her,” Chiron told Egeria. “You don’t have to come. But first,” he turned to Nandi, “I want to see you try another casting. That twig over there will do; let’s see you levitate it.”

“Yes - Uncle Chiron,” Nandi said. It was hard to keep up a bad temper in the face of his relentless cheerfulness.

She stepped forward and began to cast, gesturing slowly and with exaggerated care. The twig rose up. Then, as always, the magic slipped from her control. Red ribbons burst from the air and flew at her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Chiron make a gesture, before the ribbons overwhelmed her, wrapping around arms and legs, binding wrists and ankles, sending her sandals flying once again as they tripped her and lowered her to the grass. Nandi squirmed to lie on her side, and found that this time the ribbons had bound her thumbs and large toes as well as her wrists and ankles.

“Here’s a pretty package of ebony,” Chiron said as he picked her up. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he told Egeria over his shoulder as he trotted off.

When they reached the glade of the stocks, Chiron put Nandi on the fat log of the ‘witch’s lover.’ “Eeep!” she squeaked when she realized where she was.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Chiron told her.

“I’m not frightened.”

“Yes you are. You’ve been on one of these before.” He lifted her down and set her on the grass. “Now take two deep breaths and tell me about it.”

As instructed, Nandi took two deep breaths and spoke. She told Chiron about the village where she grew up, about the day her power had come to her, and about the villagers’ reaction. “They tied me to a log, and b-beat my soles with sticks. It hurt. And they wouldn’t give me anything to drink or eat. They just kept hitting my feet with sticks. And they wouldn’t stop.” She took another deep breath. “When Master Forgil arrived and rescued me, I couldn’t walk. He had to carry me, until he could wrap my feet in bandages and ointments. And then I still couldn’t walk for two weeks.” Her voice went small. “I still have nightmares about it, sometimes.”

“Hm.” Chiron didn’t say anything for a time. Then he asked: “What kind of log was it?”

“It was... it was a green mahogany log. With the bark still on it.”

“So it wasn’t an oak log, all sanded and polished smooth.” His gray eyes held hers, managing to be simultaneously stern and cheerful.

“No...”

“So this is going to be very different. Do you understand that?”

Nandi forced a smile. Uncle Chiron sounded just like Master Forgil. “Yes, Uncle Chiron.”

“Good!” His lips twitched toward a smile of his own, under his gray beard. “Now, are you ready?”

“Yes, Uncle Chiron.”

He lifted her back in place, and cut away the red ribbons binding her. She turned her head to watch him as he fussed with his harness-pouch. He brought out an apparently-empty sack and unfolded it, then pulled a shield from the sack - a shield much too large to have fit in the pouch. It was an oddly made shield as well, polished mirror bright with two locking cuffs on either side.

“Hold this,” he told her, as he locked the shield between her wrists. “Do you see anything?” he asked as he strapped her to the log with leather belts.

“No - yes.” The shield tingled with magic, and then Nandi could see a pair of feet in its mirror. Her own feet, she realized; a perfect view of her soles. She couldn’t see Chiron in the mirror as he tied her feet down, just the white gloves he had put on after giving her the mirror-shield. The white gloves, and the leather thongs he used to bind her toes in place.

Nandi drank water from the dipper, then watched as the rest was splashed over her feet. It felt odd, watching the water and the brush, as well as feeling them scrub her soles. It felt even odder to watch the tickling begin in earnest, to see the feather of the vos-hawk as well as feel its touch on her instep.

With the first touch Nandi began to giggle and squirm. At least she squirmed from the knees forward. The witch’s lover was carved to receive her ankles, and the leather belts and thongs held her feet perfectly immobile and helpless. There was absolutely nothing Nandi could do about the feather brushing gently across her toes, down the length of one sole and up the other.

She couldn’t even keep herself from watching. The sight of her own feet viewed square on, soles pale in contrast to her ebony skin, fascinated her. Even more fascinating was the sight of the feather - of two feathers, now - approaching those helpless soles, touching them lightly, stroking them gently... sending soft tickling sensations all the way up her legs.

She bucked and struggled - uselessly. Her feet could not move. The rest of her could only move slightly and remained firmly strapped to the log. The tickles kept coming, not intense but deep. Solid. Watching them come made them seem more real, somehow, than the felt-but-not-seen tickling of the previous two days. That tickling had been a pleasure only on the soles of her feet - feet that seemed to have grown a yard long, but still only on the feet. This tickling centered on her feet, but also sent waves of squirming, giggling pleasure through her entire body.

The tickling paused, only to return with a new intensity. Chiron had switched to a bull-feather. The little leather device looked absurd, in the mirror, but in expert hands it could produce excruciatingly delicious tickles. And Chiron was a master. Nandi howled with laughter, struggling even harder than before, but with no better result. Or at least with no better result in terms of escape.

Nandi felt herself drawn into a whirlwind of sensation. She continued to watch her soles, profoundly aware of the unstoppable tickling they endured. Her helplessness granted a wonderful flavor to the tickling, the tickling made her laugh and squirm and struggle, and her struggles served to emphasize her helplessness. She both saw and felt the bullfeather touch instep, heel, ball, toes, and all the places in between. She laughed uncontrollably, and was suddenly, fiercely glad that she couldn’t escape despite her hardest struggles. The tickling was unbearable, and she wanted more.

Now Chiron set aside the bullfeather and brought out another device: A knobby little wooden roller. Taking this on one hand, and a vos-hawk feather in the other, he played a duet on her soles. Those soles were no longer pale, but bright red from their previous tickling. But now Chiron applied a tickle-torment - a tickle-pleasure - that went beyond squirming and laughter. Nandi stiffened, feeling as if she had been turned into a statue of solid gold. She screwed her eyes shut, looking away from the shield-mirror at last. There was nothing but the tickling that mixed hard and soft perfectly, covering every bit of her helpless soles and echoed through her entire body. She strained with all her strength against the bonds strapping her to the log. But there was no escape. No escape at all. Only the unbearable ecstasy that Nandi wished could go on forever.

It ended at last, of course. When Nandi came back to her senses, she found herself lying on the grass with a light blanket thrown over her. Chiron knelt beside her, watching.

“Are you back, yet?” he asked.

“Yes.” She sat up, tucking her still-bare feet under her. Her sandals lay nearby, and in a moment she would put them on and stand up. But not just yet. “Thank you, Uncle Chiron,” she told the centaur.

“You’re welcome,” he answered. “But let’s see if it worked, first.”

“I’m sure it did. It must have,” Nandi said. She pointed to a near-by bit of leather thong, and gestured. Nothing happened. “See?” She tried the spell again, with more powerful gestures, and this time the leather strip stood up and flopped over. No red ribbons appeared to bind her, however, and she smiled at him in triumph, white teeth glinting in her dark face.

“Very good!” Chiron told her. “But this is only the beginning, you know. We’ll have you in the stocks again tomorrow.”

“That’s all right, Uncle Chiron,” she assured him. “I like being tickled.”