I don't own it. Any of it. I don't even want to own it. Is that generous or what?

The Blouse

Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, great-niece of His Grace Duke Vedris IV of Emelan and Accredited Mage of Winding Circle Temple was pleased. Her new blouse was perfectly done, as she had known it would be. After all, she, one of the premiere thread-mages of her day, had made it. It was the latest style from Capchen, perfect for a beautiful summer's day. Which is was, she saw, motioning lazily for the drapes to pull themselves back from her window. They obeyed, and she looked out on a glorious, late-summer morning.

She skipped merrily down the stairs, humming softly to herself, and into the room where she would join her uncle for breakfast.

"Good morning, Uncle," she trilled, leaning down to kiss his cheek, "it's a lovely day." But her uncle was staring at her.

"My dear," he said gravely, "I fear you have neglected to put on an underdress."

Sandry laughed. "Oh, you're so old-fashioned, Uncle. No one's wearing underdresses this season. Don't you like my new blouse?" She added, twirling around to give the full effect.

"You will catch your death of cold," the duke continued, "as well as look entirely indecent."

"Uncle!" Sandry exclaimed.

"Please go and put on something less revealing." Although he phrased it politely enough, something in his tone made it more of a command then a request.

About to obey instinctively, Sandry suddenly stopped. "Uncle," she pleaded, "it's the style. Everyone's wearing them."

"And if "everyone" jumped into the harbor, would you follow suit?" The duke's temper was mounting; his tone was harsher and less warm. "You will take off that indecentthing." His last word was spat out.

"You're being ridiculous, Uncle," she stated flatly, "You can't possibly expect me to take you seriously when you're like this."

"You had best take me seriously, Sandrilene. Now put something on that covers you up decently."

"No." Sandry said firmly, "I won't. I am an adult and a mage. I have proved my responsibility to you time and again. I think I can be trusted to choose my own clothes."

"You forget," her uncle's tone was icy, "my dear, that I am your guardian. I am bound to protect you not only physical danger, but from your own folly as well. When you are older, you will thank me for this. Now go and change!"

"It isn't folly to want to be fashionable," Sandry protested.

"I will not have my niece dressed more lasciviously than those of easy virtue!" Her uncle nearly shouted. He was breathing hard with anger.

"Uncle," she cautioned, "think of your heart."

"The only thing a danger to my heart is the thought of my niece running around like a common harlot! It was this kind of living that brought your parents down, my girl."

"At least if they were alive," Sandry yelled, "they would let me wear what I wanted!"

"I will not even reply to that wholly irrational comment, Sandrilene," her uncle replied calmly, "Now, go change your blouse."

"You can't make me!" She screamed. "I'm an adult. I can make my own choices!"

"You may be an adult in a magical sense, but you are not excused from the obedience you owe me as your elder and guardian," he explained stiffly. "I do not know what has gotten into you today, my dear," he mused, "usually, you are not so obstinate to reason."

She ignored the last comment. "I don't owe you any obedience. Particularly not when you act like a prudish old despot."

"Ah, so now I am "prudish" for exercising my right to protect you from destroying yourself?"

Sandry rolled her eyes. "You're overreacting, Uncle. It's just a blouse."

"A blouse has enough material to cover the wearer decently," he observed sourly.

She had had enough. Ignoring her uncle, she sat down and helped herself to a muffin.

"Perhaps you did not hear me, Sandrilene," her Uncle's voice cut in, hard and cold as steel, "You are to go immediately and change. I will be obeyed in this."

"I'm not going to listen to you, Uncle," she returned, "I'm wearing this blouse whether you like it or no."

"I will not brook such disobedience!" The duke snarled, "For the last time, go to your room and do not return until you are presentable."

"I won't. You can't make me."

"Can I not?" He walked over to his niece and in one movement slung her over his shoulder. Apparently, his recovery from the debilitating heart attack was complete.

"You can't do this to me!" Sandry beat against his back with her fists, but to no avail. Grimly, her uncle marched up the stairs, heeding neither her screams nor the astonished gasps of servants, who fled from their master's wrathful glare. When he reached her room, he dropped her unceremoniously on her bed.

"There you'll stay, Young Lady, until you've learnt better manners!" He slammed the door on his way out and locked it.