Chapter 3: Adaptive Gender

The scent of old herbs and something vaguely alchemical preceded Cécile as she entered Corneille's chamber an hour later, her well-worn medical valise clutched in her hand. Corneille, a man who projected an aura of meticulous order, inhabited personal quarters that were, to put it charitably, a testament to benign neglect. Books lay in precarious stacks, stray pieces of armor gleamed from shadowy corners, and maps threatened to spill from an overburdened desk.

"By the spirits, Corneille," Cécile declared, her gaze sweeping the room with a mixture of amusement and despair. "You are in dire need of a wife with a firm hand for household matters. Someone to impose order upon this… creative chaos."

Corneille, his attention fixed on the intricate workings of his shield’s clasp, offered no more than a grunt. "I am but five and twenty summers, Doctor. Marriage can wait. There are tides in the affairs of men far more pressing than finding a bride."

"Dias might find a powerful witch-ally through the bonds of matrimony," Cécile countered, a knowing glint in her eye. "A path equally open to you, should you choose to walk it."

"He is the Third Duke of Alva, crowned and anointed," Corneille stated, his voice flat, the rhythmic rasp of his polishing cloth the only other sound. "I am merely his sword arm."

"Such feigned humility, warrior. Beyond these walls, in the taverns and marketplaces, it is your name they whisper when they speak of the true power behind the Alva ducal seat."

A humorless smile touched Corneille’s lips. "A clumsy barb, Doctor. The witches of Waite are masters of subtle poison. They weave these webs of rumor, no doubt, to see if the threads of loyalty between myself and my Duke are as unyielding as they appear."

Cécile’s laughter, when it came, was a dry, rustling sound, like autumn leaves skittering across cobblestones. "So, the wolf did not wander into the witches' forest entirely blind. Shrewd. But have you considered this, O pragmatic protector? To tear Dias from Angelica’s grasp will require more than mortal strength. It will demand a miracle. And in Waite, miracles are the currency of witches. The more you have in your debt, the stronger your hand."

"Are you now a recruitment agent for some ambitious coven, Doctor?" Corneille’s tone was laced with suspicion.

Cécile held up her hands, palms outward, in a gesture of mock surrender. "I merely seek to place a more… informed wager this time. To recoup the rather significant sum your… unpredictable allegiances previously cost me."

Corneille set aside his shield, the polished steel gleaming dully in the chamber’s dim light. He wiped his hands on a piece of oiled leather. "Enough of these games. Speak plainly. What have you discovered?"

"The tidings are mixed, as such things often are," Cécile began, her professional demeanor settling upon her like a familiar cloak. "The good news is that Dias has been subjected to naught but a gender-alternation enchantment. A potent one, to be sure, but singular in its intent. Furthermore, in her transformed state, her body shows signs of… recalibration. Her innate vitality is stirring. With time and care, she should become resilient enough to endure the more… robust interventions, both medicinal and magical, that will be required."

Her expression, however, grew somber. "The ill news, and it is a shadow that lengthens, is the nature of the enchantment itself. It operates upon the ancient and treacherous Principle of Similarity. In essence, the caster finds, or more often creates, an 'X' – a sympathetic effigy, a mirrored soul, if you will – that resonates with the true target. By weaving the spell upon this 'X,' a corresponding change is inflicted upon the victim, often from afar, often without their knowledge."

"This 'X'," Corneille’s voice was grim, "it grants the unseen enemy a damnable amount of leverage, does it not? Making the spell a tangled skein of enchantments to unravel?"

Cécile nodded, her eyes dark with understanding. "Precisely. Which has led my thoughts down a rather… unorthodox path. Here in Waite, as you know, the study and practice of magic are forbidden to men. Only women may walk that path. However," a sly, almost predatory, gleam entered her eyes, "the legal definitions are… delightfully imprecise. They speak of 'woman,' but nowhere is it explicitly stated that this refers only to a natural-born female whose gender remains immutable, fixed as the stars, for all her days. And the enforcers of Waite’s laws, bless their overworked souls, possess neither the resources nor, frankly, the burning desire to meticulously monitor the shifting gender of every outlander who crosses their borders."

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Imagine, Corneille: when Dias presents as a man, he reaps the considerable benefits and courtesies Waite bestows upon the rarer sex. When she manifests as a woman, she delves into the arcane arts, honing her power. Could she not, by this… fluidity… play the game and win on two fronts?"

Corneille stared, momentarily speechless at the sheer, unadulterated audacity of the physician’s scheme. "Adaptive gender?" he finally managed, the words feeling alien on his tongue.

"Were I not already a name etched in crimson on the blacklists of every enforcement agency in this city," Cécile mused, a wistful note in her voice, "and were I not facing penalties of a most… discouraging nature for any further creative interpretations of the law, I confess, the temptation to employ such a deliciously duplicitous stratagem myself would be almost irresistible."

Her expression then sharpened, all business. "If the foundational elements align, I have a proposal that I believe will resonate with your… particular priorities:

First, Dias will be administered a carefully calibrated regimen of medicinals. Our primary objective will be to disrupt the sympathetic resonance with this 'X,' this anchor of the enchantment, while inflicting minimal strain upon her physical form. This should grant her a window of approximately eight to ten hours each day in her male aspect, sufficient time to discharge her duties as the Duke of Alva.

Second, during those hours when her female form predominates, she will be immersed in the study of magic. This will not only serve to mend and fortify her body but also to arm her against the inherent perils of both the potent drugs and the volatile magical energies she will be channeling.

And finally," Cécile concluded, her voice imbued with a quiet, steely confidence, "when her strength has been sufficiently augmented, and when I have woven all the necessary preparatory spells, I shall undertake the reversal. This will not merely shatter the existing enchantment, but it will, if the spirits are kind and my calculations precise, restore our young Duke to the fullness of health he has never known."

Corneille surged to his feet, a blaze of fierce hope in his eyes. "The likelihood of success? Speak true, Doctor!"

"In the most unfavorable outcome," Cécile conceded, her gaze unwavering, "Dias might remain reliant on these medications indefinitely to maintain her male form for that limited span each day. The degree to which her true physical health can be reclaimed will then hinge entirely upon the mastery she achieves in her magical tutelage during the remaining hours."

Corneille closed the distance between them in two swift strides, his hands, hard as iron, gripping Cécile’s shoulders. "Excellent! We shall proceed as you have decreed!"

Cécile winced, a flicker of pain in her eyes. "Your enthusiasm when Dias is the subject, warrior, is ever… forceful. Now, before your zeal entirely overwhelms us, perhaps we should address the matter of my… compensation."

"Name it, Doctor. Whatever it may be."

Cécile’s expression became that of a scholar embarking on a fascinating, if troubling, dissertation. "You are not unaware, Corneille, that the demographic balance in Waite has fractured beyond any easy mending. The most widely accepted, if grimly whispered, hypothesis posits that the very magical saturation of this land subtly, yet inexorably, influences the gender of children conceived within its borders.

The question that consumes my research is this: is it the male or the female essence that is so profoundly affected by these arcane currents? How, precisely, does this influence manifest at the biological level, twisting the natural order of birth to such a degree? Is this phenomenon unique to the indigenous bloodlines of Waite, or is it a universal constant, applicable to all peoples, across all lands, under any system of preternatural power?

The Federation's meticulously drafted Code of Ethical Conduct," she sighed, "places rather… restrictive parameters on the scope of academic inquiry. Therefore," she paused, and the shrewd, appraising glint returned to her eyes, "my request is simple. You will present yourself at the designated medical facility. You will affix your noble signature and ducal seal to the requisite documents. You will, in essence, 'voluntarily consent' to participate in my research group's ongoing study."

Corneille recoiled as if struck, taking two hasty steps backward, his hand instinctively moving towards the hilt of his sword. "What, in the name of all that’s holy, do you intend to do to me, woman? It will not involve…"

Cécile threw up her hands, a sound that was half laugh, half groan of exasperation. "Oh, for pity’s sake, warrior, silence your fevered imaginings! Waite boasts a population well in excess of ten million souls. The ruling echelons of witches, those who truly wield power, number a mere four hundred and seventy thousand. Believe me when I say, they are quite capable of securing husbands through more… conventional means. There will be no sordid, lamplit trysts, no compromising assignations, if that is the lurid tapestry your mind is weaving."

Corneille retreated another two paces, his face a mask of suspicion. "Offspring… heirs… fatherhood…"

Cécile’s shoulders slumped in resignation. "Very well, very well. To soothe your knightly sensibilities, I shall swear by the old gods and the new, and by the very magic that flows through my veins: Pierre Corneille shall be utilized for no purpose other than legitimate, academic research. No ethical lines shall be crossed, no moral boundaries transgressed. No party, under my supervision, shall be permitted to… create issue, as defined by the accepted biological and societal tenets of the civilized world."

Still, Corneille hesitated, his mind a battlefield of doubt and an almost visceral reluctance. The unsettling possibilities of what "academic research" might entail in the hands of a Waite witch, even one as ostensibly professional as Cécile, were legion. "Cannot this be settled with gold, Doctor? Is there truly nothing else your heart desires?"

"Corneille," Cécile said, her voice suddenly devoid of all levity, "if my research bears fruit, if I can unlock the secrets of this imbalance, the wealth that will flow into my coffers will dwarf the treasuries of kings. Your gold is but trinkets in comparison."

After a long, charged silence, during which the only sound was the frantic thumping of his own heart, Corneille made his decision. He would swallow his pride, his masculine apprehension. Dias’s current predicament was a direct result of his own failure, his lapse in vigilance. The responsibility to make amends, therefore, was his alone. And in this land of shadows and enchantments, he knew of no other physician whose skills, or whose motives, he could even begin to trust.

Witches, as a breed, might be as slippery as eels in a sunless pool. But Doctor Cécile, for all her eccentricities, was a known variable. The secrets she held concerning him were potent enough to shatter his reputation, to bring ruin upon him and his charge. If she wished to threaten him, she had no need for such elaborate, roundabout machinations.

With a brisk nod, Cécile turned, her departure as abrupt and energetic as her arrival. Yet, she had taken no more than a few steps when she paused, then slowly turned back, a strange, unreadable expression clouding her features. "There is… one final consideration."

"Speak freely."

"If," Cécile’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant, "if Dias finds… profound fulfillment in the path of the witch? If the allure of power, once tasted, proves too intoxicating? If she should then refuse to relinquish that power, refuse to revert to her male form, thereby surrendering her legitimate claim to learn and wield the arcane arts… what then, Corneille? What will you do?"

A shadow of anger, cold and sharp, flickered across Corneille’s face. "What manner of poisonous nonsense is this? Dias has yearned, his entire life, to embody the strength and spirit of true manhood. It is only the cursed frailty of his flesh that has denied him this. What is mere power, however potent, when weighed against such a profound, lifelong desire? Do not, Doctor, make a mockery of another’s deepest pain!"

"...Let us pray it remains so, then," Cécile murmured, her gaze inscrutable. Then, with a final, almost imperceptible nod, she turned and was gone.

Corneille watched until the doctor’s carriage was a mere speck in the distance. She had pledged to find a suitable tutor – one skilled in the magical arts, yet blessed with an ironclad discretion – and to begin the complex process of formulating the necessary medications with all possible speed. Once these arrangements were in place, Corneille’s weekly… 'voluntary cooperation'… would begin.

As the last echo of the carriage wheels faded, Corneille turned, his gaze drawn upwards. Dias stood at the window of her chamber, a small, solitary figure outlined against the fading light. He ascended the stairs quickly, his heart heavy with a mixture of hope and trepidation. He found his friend pacing restlessly, her brow furrowed, her hands clasped tightly before her.

"Are you in discomfort?" he asked, his voice gentle. "Or do dark thoughts trouble your mind? Fear not to speak, Dias. Share your burden."

"No," Dias said, her voice a little stronger than before. "My body… it feels strangely at ease. Aunt Cécile… she said I can be whole again. That I might even reclaim the health that has always eluded me. When measured against such a radiant future, these present shadows… they seem almost insignificant."

She looked up then, her lake-green eyes, so like her mother’s, meeting Corneille’s squarely. "There is but one question I must ask of you, Pierre. And I implore you, by the bonds of our friendship, answer me with unvarnished truth."

"Ask what you will."

"Am I," her voice trembled slightly, "am I truly… so very like her? Marie Angelica Barbarigo – the woman who cradled me with a mother’s love in one breath, and then, after my father drew his last, cast me out like so much refuse with the next?"

Corneille found himself compelled to truly see Dias, to study the delicate architecture of her transformed features: the gentle curve of her face, the sweep of her long, dark lashes veiling those startlingly green eyes, the elegant line of her nose, the soft, vulnerable curve of her lips. And as he looked, the ghost of Angelica’s youthful portrait, a painting he knew well from the ducal galleries, seemed to shimmer and superimpose itself upon the living, breathing person before him.

If Dias’s hair were to catch the light and gleam like threads of desert sand, if a blush like the petals of a wild rose were to bloom upon her cheeks, if her gaze could achieve that unnerving, tarn-like stillness that had been Angelica’s hallmark… then yes, she would be the very mirror of Angelica, standing on the fragile precipice of womanhood.

Even without those subtle shifts, the resemblance was enough to stir a potent, long-dormant memory within Corneille. He recalled a time, when he himself was little more than a boy, a page in the Duchess’s household. Angelica, in a rare moment of unguarded openness, had led him through the grand gallery, its walls adorned with portraits that chronicled the lineage of her ancient house, and her own journey through life.

He remembered pausing before a particular canvas, a depiction of Angelica at the tender age of thirteen. The girl in the painting was strikingly, almost unnaturally, small, a fragile miniature when compared to the confident, regal woman portrayed in the later works.

Angelica, he recalled, had first flushed with a girlish embarrassment, then, with a soft, almost melancholic sigh, had recounted her profound anxieties during that thirteenth year – her fear of her own stunted growth, her desperate, often comical, attempts to somehow accelerate her passage into womanhood.

She had dismissed that period of her life as a "humiliating dark chapter," one that still brought a flush of mortification to her cheeks. Yet, even as she spoke those words, Corneille had seen it – a bright, almost fierce, gleam of joyous light kindle in the depths of her lake-green eyes.

That particular light, he realized now, had been a rare and fleeting thing. He had not witnessed its like again until a full decade later, during the somber, ostentatious funeral rites for the late Duke. And as he had watched Angelica then, her face a mask of perfect, ducal grief, he had known, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the Duke’s demise had been… convenient. Suspiciously so.

A sudden, icy tendril of unease snaked around Corneille’s heart, pulling him sharply back to the present. He forced himself to look away from Dias, his voice deliberately neutral. "You are her daughter, Dias. It is only to be expected that you would share a likeness with your mother."

"I do not wish," Dias said, her voice barely above a whisper, yet freighted with a desperate intensity, "to be seen as a second Angelica."

"None would dare to think it."

"And yet," Dias persisted, her gaze unwavering, "a moment ago, Pierre, when your eyes rested upon my face… you were thinking of her. Of my mother. Your eyes… they seemed to illuminate from within. It was a pleasant memory, was it not?"

Dias’s quiet words, her uncanny perception, struck Corneille with the force of a physical blow, a dizzying, disorienting sense of a past moment replaying itself, yet with the roles cruelly reversed. This time, he was the one caught in the web of memory, the one whose expression betrayed too much. And Dias… Dias was the astute observer, the one who saw too clearly. No. He would not, could not, allow that bitter history to repeat itself. The doctor’s words echoed in his mind, a stark, unyielding truth: he could not step into the same river twice.

"I was merely… recalling certain moments from your own childhood," Corneille said, forcing a lightness into his tone that felt utterly false, turning away to busy himself with some inconsequential task. "You possessed a rather… spirited sense of mischief in those days, as I recall. But what is past is past. Brood no more on these shadows. Come, let us find some sustenance."