Even If It’s Just In Your Wildest Dreams

In all of her six years, Persephone had never been in a closet this wonderful before. It was an entire room, and it had the most amazing clothes! Skirts, dresses, high heels, and other things she didn’t even know the words for—things her mum and dad never wore. But she saw them the last time she’d visited Auntie’s house, and finally she’d found where they kept them all. She wasn’t sure if she was allowed, but she couldn’t resist—she had to try them for herself!

The first thing to catch her eye was a white top with pink and yellow flowers. She reached up, feeling the smooth, soft fabric, then tugged to pull it to the floor. She draped it over her own t-shirt and jeans; it billowed loosely, barely staying on her shoulders and reaching partway down her shins, but she loved the pattern. Then a long, sequined skirt on another rack caught her eye, and she yanked it off its hanger too; it dragged on the floor and slipped down her legs, but she saw a rack of belts nearby, so she pulled down a hot pink one (and a few others near it) and cinched it tight. Then she found some heels the same color as her belt; her whole feet fit into the toes. She finally spotted the pièce de résistance: one of those cute French hats hanging on the wall. She shuffled over, leaning up on her tippy-toes to try to reach it, and—

Behind her, the door opened, and a woman said, “Oh!”

Persephone turned, stumbling a little in her shoes, touching the wall to stabilize herself. When she felt steady, she looked up to see Summer standing in the doorway.

”I didn’t expect to see you here, Persephone! Playing dress-up?” She walked over, plucked the hat from the wall, and plopped it down on Persephone’s head.

Persephone giggled and lifted it out of her eyes. “Is—is that okay?”

”Of course, sweetheart,” Summer said with a smile, and Persephone relaxed, smiled back. Summer was sometimes stern when she talked to other girls and even to Persephone’s mother, but she was always kind to Persephone. Even so, Persephone wasn’t sure if she’d be in trouble. “And your outfit is adorable! Would you like to see?”

Persephone looked up at her and nodded eagerly, and Summer took her hand and slowly led the shuffling girl to the other side of the closet. She flipped on a light switch. Triple mirrors were set up, haloed by big, round light bulbs like she’d seen in cartoons.

“Go on,” Summer said, and guided her towards the mirrors.

Persephone gasped as she looked at herself. She was so pretty! She grinned at the girl in the mirror giddily.

Summer reached for a camera on a vanity nearby. “Why don’t we take a photo to show your mother?”

“Okay!” Persephone chirped, and she grinned up at the camera when Summer said ‘Cheese’.

A blank photo popped out of the camera. “Now why don’t you shake this to make the picture appear while I put those clothes away?”

In a blink of an eye, the oversized clothes were off, the Polaroid was in her hand, and Persephone was flapping it with all the vigor a small child could summon. Summer bustled around hanging everything back up, and then she was back. “Ready to go see your mum?” she asked, holding out her hand for Persephone to take.

Persephone stopped short when she noticed the tattoos on Summer’s arm. She looked up at the woman. “Did...did that hurt?” she asked.

Summer grimaced. “It did, once,” she said, “but that was a long time ago. It’s all better now.”

“Okay,” Persephone said. She took Summer’s hand, and together they walked out of Auntie’s closet and into the kitchen of her childhood home.

Persephone’s mum, Dylan Chase, was doing something that was usually his husband’s job: baking. He peered into the oven, examining a pan of pastries, holding open the yellowed pages of an ancient journal of recipes.

He looked just the way Persephone remembered him: impeccable. He smelled of aftershave, with close-cropped hair, a carefully trimmed beard, a fancy watch she knew better than to touch, and a three-piece suit whose jacket was draped just so over the back of a chair at the kitchen table. He was utterly comfortable in an outfit that Persephone could never stand for five minutes. Sometimes she looked at photos from when she was little, before her mother had changed, and she could barely recognize him at all.

But then he looked up at her and smiled. That’s one thing that had never changed: the way her mother smiled when he looked at her. “Persephone!” he said. “You haven’t been making trouble, have you?”

Persephone shook her head. “I was playing dress-up!” she said. “Wanna see?” She held up the photo for him.

He plucked it out of her hand and peered at it for a moment longer than she’d expect, then fixed her with a smile. “So pretty! Did you have fun?” he asked.

“Yeah!” she said.

“And do you like wearing clothes like these?”

Persephone nodded eagerly.

Summer giggled. “Well, Dylan, seems like this one’s getting an early start.”

He glanced at Summer. “No rush,” he admonished her mildly. “She has all the time in the world. Still...” He looked at the pastries, then snapped the journal shut. “I think they can finish without me. Persephone, would you like to swing by the store on the way home? Get a couple new outfits? Anything you feel like wearing, as long as it fits.”

“Yeah!” Persephone said with a grin.

“Great. Just one more thing to do before we leave…”

Then he spoke in a voice much shriller than his own: “Wake up, Chase!”

2023 September 3
Sunday

Persephone groaned and fumbled for her glasses, putting them on to find a middle-aged woman striding into her room. Her graying brown hair was pinned up in a bun; she wore a conservative skirt, jumper, apron, and frown. “Thirty minutes,” she said sourly, before picking up a laundry basket and carrying it out.

“Thanks,” Persephone said acidly to the empty room.

Duncraven was small for a castle—just a pair of square towers, side by side, jutting up about ninety feet—but not nearly small enough for the skeleton staff Albert Chase maintained there: a groundskeeper from a nearby village, two security guards/drivers who rotated out every few months, and his maid Jesse, who was as permanent as the masonry.

Persephone had stopped trying to befriend Jesse when she was fourteen. When she’d first arrived at Duncraven, she’d carefully hidden one dress she’d saved from her old wardrobe, and though it took Jesse months to find it, Uncle Albert had heard about it at once. He had declared that the malign influence of Persephone’s queer parents (though he’d used much nastier words than that) needed to be purged from her life, and on his say-so, Jesse had burned not only the dress but also her photos of her parents. She’d ignored Persephone’s pleading, showing about as much emotion as when she sorted laundry.

Persephone had never seen Jesse take a day off, leave the grounds, or crack a smile. Nor did she ever knock or ask before she entered the bedroom. About the only courtesy she’d ever shown Persephone was calling her “Chase” instead of her given name.

Oh, well; at least Persephone was going to make some progress on getting Jesse out of her life today. It was Sunday, which meant fencing practice in the morning, the university library in the afternoon, and another step towards independence in the evening.

Since their first meeting, Persephone had met up with Summer three more times. Three Sunday nights comparing Sappho’s lyrics to Taylor Swift’s, explaining the finer points of swordplay, learning how to be a good plant mum in an urban flat. Three Sunday nights trying out increasingly girly cocktails, making fun of some show on the telly, laughing at silly jokes. Three Sunday nights spent pretending to buy her drinks and instead slipping the money to her for safekeeping.

Three Sunday nights spent not telling Summer that Persephone lived in a castle under the thumb of an aristocrat whose title she would one day inherit.

Persephone told herself that it was because she was preparing to strike out on her own. When she came out, Uncle Albert would surely cut her off, and she’d have to live like anyone else from there; she would no longer be able to fall back on her family’s name.

But in her more honest moments, Persephone could admit that she just hated the way people treated her. Some fawned over her, acting like she was somehow different or special; others condemned her for having privilege she herself agreed she didn’t deserve. But either way, once she told Summer the truth, she would no longer be a person—she’d be a Posh Person. And she really enjoyed being just Persephone.

So she didn’t exactly lie, but she did hold back certain details of her life from the woman who was fast becoming her best friend. She didn’t like it, but she knew it was necessary.

But for the most part, the last three weeks had been spent waiting. Tonight marked 28 days from her first Goserelin implant, and that meant both a new implant and her very first injection of estradiol.

And it might mean something else, too: Last week, Persephone had said she hadn’t worn an overtly feminine outfit since her egg cracked, and Summer was so affronted on her behalf that she’d dragged her back up her flat’s endless staircase to take her measurements. Persephone had spent all week wondering what Summer was going to do with those—probably where that strange dream about playing dress-up came from. She was both excited and nervous to find out.

Of course, before she did that, she had to survive a morning with her uncle.

Persephone started by throwing on the bottom layer of her fencing gear: t-shirt, trousers with suspenders, knee-high socks (she always did rather enjoy putting those on), athletic shoes, and watch. Then she more carefully picked out an outfit for her date and packed it in a messenger bag, adding her tablet, phone, and wallet. Then to the bathroom. Brushed her teeth. Pulled the elastic out of her hair, finger-combed away her bedhead, then put it back into a low ponytail. Quick shave to remove the horrible stuff from her face. The rest—shower, hair care, breakfast—would wait until after practice.

Persephone grabbed her messenger bag and then remembered Summer’s only instruction: be ready to shave her face. She dropped her kit into the bag, then headed several flights down a steep, uneven spiral staircase; a moment later, she was walking towards her uncle’s car, a Rolls-Royce monstrosity whose petrol bills alone were a form of conspicuous consumption.

When she slid into the back seat, a paper cup of tea was already sitting in the cupholder and a bottle of water was waiting for her in the center console. Jesse was good at her job—she was just a backstabbing harridan, is all.

“You took your time, boy,” Uncle Albert said by way of greeting him. (Her, Persephone corrected her inner monologue sharply. It was hard to keep her pronouns from slipping when she was being misgendered.) He turned his attention to the driver. “The equipment’s in the boot?”

“Yes, sir,” the driver said. Bloke named Clive who somehow looked like a Clive; unfortunate. (Persephone sipped her tea—maybe she’d be a bit less snarky with some caffeine in her.)

“Then let’s go,” Albert said, and the car began to glide down the driveway. He started looking through an actual print newspaper, blessedly losing himself in an article. For her part, Persephone pulled out her tablet, decided against checking Consensus with her uncle six inches away, and instead opened a play she’d been translating. Albert wouldn’t exactly approve of Lysistrata either—it was, by ancient Greek standards, a feminist screed—but fortunately, he couldn’t read it.

“Are you staying in town after practice again, boy?” Albert asked her after a few moments.

“I’m planning to,” Persephone said. “There’s a tricky passage here; I want to visit the library, see how other translations handle it.”

“You’ve been staying a lot later than that,” he replied, and Persephone stopped herself from wincing. “You seeing a girl or something?”

No telling what he knew; best not to lie. At least, more than necessary. “Yes, actually,” Persephone said.

“What’s her surname?” he asked. (Is she someone I would approve of? he meant.)

“Nobody you’d know,” Persephone said. “She’s just a local girl; it’s a casual thing.”

“Good,” Albert said. “Some girls are for family; some are for fucking. Best for a man to have both.”

A bit rich coming from a lifelong bachelor who was so repulsive that even those women who cared only about wealth and status had passed him over. “Of course, Uncle,” she forced herself to say.

Estradiol tonight, she reminded herself once more. She couldn’t get away from this man and his household soon enough.

* * *

Stick, zap, pluck.

“I don’t know,” the woman said.

Stick, zap, pluck.

“I mean, he can’t help that he’s gay. He’s not attracted to women; there’s nothing he can do about that.”

“Mm-hmm,” Summer said. Stick, zap, pluck.

“And he’s been so supportive about everything else. My back injury. The cancer scare. My shitty sister. All of it. An entire marriage.”

Stick, zap, pluck.

“Maybe it’s my turn to give. Maybe I really should try to just be a crossdresser.”

Summer hummed her disagreement, and this time, her foot lingered on the pedal fractionally longer than usual: Stick, zaaap, pluck. The woman winced. “You have tried it, Denise, and it didn’t work before. At best, you’re just going to end up back in this dilemma in another couple of years. Won’t you?”

“Y-you’re probably right,” Denise said.

Stick, zap, pluck.

“I just don’t want to be alone, you know?”

“I know, sweetheart,” Summer said. She found a cluster of hairs: Stick-zap, stick-zap, stick-zap, pluck-pluck-pluck. “But he doesn’t want you to be in a relationship that will be painful for you. Or at least, he shouldn’t.” Stick, zap, pluck. “Besides, you’ve got your new friends, right?”

“Yeah,” Denise said. “Joan and Molly are really sweet. Good company.”

Stick, zap, pluck.

“Thanks for introducing us.”

“Any time,” Summer said. Stick, zap, pluck, then a glance at the clock. “Looks like it’s time to wrap up.” She swapped her tools for an ice pack, touched Denise’s jaw gently, turned her reddened cheek to press against it. “How are you holding up?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said. “You found a few spicy hairs today, didn’t you?”

“Yup,” Summer said with a smile. “You’re a strong girl, Denise.”

“Thanks.”

They did the usual wrap-up routine; then Summer walked Denise back to the waiting room, said goodbye, and returned to her studio to clean up for the day.

It was a trick she’d learned working on the 2015 intake at Dorley Hall: If you got a boy talking and then delivered a slightly more painful shock whenever he voiced a belief you didn’t want him to have, you could gradually train him out of it. Hundreds of hours of work in the basement had made it muscle memory, so when she left the Hall and started working on trans girls, she found herself doing it whenever a girl in her chair put herself down or doubted herself or considered compromising her transition for the sake of others.

Nobody had ever complained—in fact, some of her clients told her she did their therapists’ jobs better than they did. She usually encouraged them to keep seeing a professional; no such thing as too much support. Especially out here, where the girls had no Sisters—just a handful of providers and whatever friends they happened to find.

It sounded lonely to Summer.

Once she was done, she grabbed her purse, popped in her earbuds, and a moment later she was on the pavement.

At home, she threw her scrubs into the laundry, tied up her hair, and stepped into the shower. As the hot water drummed into her skin, relaxing away a day spent on her feet, leaning over patients and gripping her tools, she finally thought ahead to tonight’s date with Persephone.

Fake date with Persephone, she had to remind herself.

Over the last few weeks, Summer had sometimes struggled to keep her sponsoring instincts in check around Persephone. But she’d also struggled with another set of instincts. Instincts that drew her gaze to Persephone’s vividly-red ponytail, her perfectly-shaped lips, her carefully-trimmed nails. Instincts that urged her to grab Persephone by that hair, to paint those lips red and then thoroughly smudge the color, to drive her to rake those nails over Summer’s back.

Another woman might have denied these feelings, but Summer had learned long ago that she needed to be honest about this, that pretending otherwise would spiral out of control, would ruin lives. And although she’d lucked into a second chance, she knew better than to count on a third.

She was falling in lust with Persephone. Rapidly.

Not love. Love was rare for Summer; lust was common. She’d long since learned the difference. But that didn’t make it any less potent. Lust was what had landed her in a cell at Dorley Hall.

As familiar as it was, though, she hadn’t expected it now. Summer had dated more than a few former clients, but they’d been former clients—women who had, sometimes with Summer’s help, gained their surety, found their strength, learned who they were and what they wanted and how to seize it from a world that fought tooth and nail to keep it from them.

Persephone, though? Persephone had barely started and Summer could already see glimpses of it in her. In a year or two, she might be the hottest woman Summer had ever met; she was already pretty high on the list.

But she was also Summer’s responsibility. Summer held too much power over her; Persephone was relying on her for help transitioning. So Summer would not—could not—push for a sexual relationship. Not if Persephone might get the impression that she didn’t have a choice in the matter.

No matter how badly Summer ached to have her.

An hour to go until their date. If this were a normal date, Summer would have let that ache simmer, let it build until she got the girl alone. But it wasn’t a normal date.

Summer reached for the detachable shower head and flicked the switch to the high-pressure setting.

beccadax

Duncraven Castle is based on Edinburgh's real-life Borthwick Castle; it is of a similar design and at a similar location.