9. The Inspections （A Montage of Horrors）
The Inspections (A Montage of Horrors)
Cinder
The line stretches out the castle doors, down the steps, across the courtyard, through the main gate, and approximately halfway to the neighboring kingdom.
Good. Let them come. Let them all come.
I sit on my throne, flanked by my Three Items of Identification: the massive boot on my left, the ornate glove on my right, and Gerald on my lap, vibrating with barely contained violence.
I've only had this little demon for twelve hours and already I understand him on a spiritual level.
We're both ready to bite someone.
Mira stands behind me clutching a wine bottle in one hand and a quill in the other. She's been assigned to keep a tally. I haven't warned her what she'll be tallying. Honestly, watching her slow descent into madness is the only thing keeping me sane.
"First candidate," the herald announces.
I check the clock. 12:04 PM.
Gods give me strength.
A young lord struts forward with the confidence of a man who’s never been told no in his life. Chest puffed, chin raised, swagger suggesting he genuinely believes he's about to win the lady lottery.
Oh, you sweet summer fool.
"The boot first," I say.
He jams his foot in. It rattles around like a grape in a barrel.
Something inside me dies a little.
"Too small. Next."
"But, my lady, perhaps if I could just show you my..."
"Your foot is a size nine. The boot is a size fourteen." I let my gaze drift meaningfully toward his crotch. "Unless your cock grew five sizes to compensate, we're done here. Next."
Behind me, Mira makes a sound like she's choking on her own dignity.
This is going to be a very long day.
HOUR ONE: THE OPTIMISTS
They come in waves. Confident. Eager. Completely delusional about their own measurements.
Candidate #7: Duke of Westmire
The glove does not fit. His fingers are too stubby, bulging at the seams like overstuffed sausages.
"But my lady, surely the glove is less important than..."
"The glove belonged to a man with elegant hands. Yours look like you've been punching hams for exercise." I wave him away. "Next."
Candidate #12: Sir Reginald of the Southern Reaches
Boot: too small. Glove: too big. Gerald: bites him before he even gets close.
The ferret's judgment is swift and absolute. I respect it.
"The ferret has spoken. Next."
Candidate #19: Baron Ashworth's third son
Boot: fits. Glove: fits.
Oh.
OH.
My heart hammers. The crowd holds its breath. Even Gerald stops trying to eat my jewelry.
"Drop your trousers."
He does, with trembling hands.
I stare.
And stare.
That curve is going the wrong direction. Aggressively, definitively, absolutely the wrong direction. It's pointing at the east wing like a flesh compass.
"That," I say slowly, "is the most aggressive curve to the right I have ever seen. I'm looking for left. Did you not hear the proclamation? Herald Bartholomew shouted it very clearly. Left-leaning curvature."
"Perhaps it leans left in certain lighting."
"It's pointing at the sunrise. The sun rises in the east. That's not left. That's never been left. That's never going to be left." I wave dismissively. "Next."
HOUR THREE: THE DESPERATE
I'm starting to lose faith in the male species as a whole.
Candidate #34: A blacksmith from the outer villages
Boot: doesn’t fit. Glove: does not fit, hands too callused, can't get past the second knuckle.
"But my lady, I have substantial girth."
I sigh internally. Externally, I keep my face perfectly neutral. "Show me."
He drops his trousers.
I tilt my head. Squint. Tilt my head the other way.
Adequate. It's... adequate. Like a perfectly serviceable potato. Not bad. Not memorable. The kind of cock you'd forget five minutes after encountering it.
The men I'm hunting made me question whether I could physically accommodate them. This man would slide right in. No resistance. No stretch. No moment of "oh gods this might actually break me."
"That's adequate girth," I say. "But it's not substantial. Next."
His face crumples. "No one's ever called me adequate before."
"First time for everything. Next."
Candidate #41: A merchant's son with entirely too much confidence
Boot: too small.
"But I haven't even tried the glove."
"If your feet are that small, I don't have high hopes for what's in your trousers."
"My lady! That's not how anatomy works!"
I raise an eyebrow. "Drop them, then. Prove me wrong."
He does.
I am not wrong.
"Next."
Behind me, Mira takes a drink directly from the bottle. I pretend not to notice.
Candidate #58: A traveling performer who has heard about the search from three kingdoms over
Boot: fits. Glove: fits. Gerald: seems mildly interested, sniffing his hand before losing attention.
My pulse picks up. This could be, maybe… "Trousers. Now."
He drops them with a flourish. Because of course he does. Performer.
I examine the offering with the critical eye of a woman who has spent days dreaming about three very specific cocks and is now confronted with an imposter.
Substantial? Possibly. Curve? Present. Direction?
Up.
But not THE up. Not the specific, challenging, "this cock has something to prove" up. This is a generic up. A common up. The kind of up that gets the job done without making you feel anything about it.
"It's agreeable," I say.
He blinks. "Is that... good?"
"It's not what I'm looking for. Next."
"I've never been rejected for being agreeable."
"There's a first time for everything. Next."
HOUR FIVE: THE DELUSIONAL
Gerald has fallen asleep in my lap, twitching occasionally with dreams of violence. I envy him. I want to sleep. I want to dream of violence. Instead, I'm staring at an endless parade of inadequate genitals.
This is my life now.
Candidate #87: Prince Alaric
Oh, for fuck's sake.
He approaches with the wounded dignity of a man I publicly mocked for premature ejaculation at my own ball. Apparently, he's decided that this humiliation will be different.
It will not be different.
"Lady Cinder," he says stiffly. "I’m here to prove that I’m worthy of…"
"Boot."
He tries. It does not fit. Not even close. His foot looks like a child's inside the massive leather.
"As I suspected. Next."
"But you haven't even seen my cock."
"Alaric." I lean forward, letting my smile sharpen.
"I watched you come in your trousers from a single breast touch.
Even if your cock was the exact shape I'm looking for, your stamina disqualifies you.
The men I'm hunting lasted hours. Multiple rounds.
One of them got hard again in under two minutes. "
I let that sink in.
"Can you do that?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Turns crimson.
"I thought not. Next."
Candidate #103: A man who has brought his own ferret
This one thinks he's clever.
He is not clever.
Gerald takes one look at the interloper ferret and launches himself off my lap like a furry missile of territorial rage.
The resulting ferret brawl requires four guards to separate. Gerald emerges victorious, hissing, with a tuft of the other ferret's fur in his tiny teeth.
I've never been prouder of him.
"That's not how this works," I say tiredly, watching Gerald get restrained by a guard in thick leather gloves. "The ferret is supposed to recognize his owner. Not fight other ferrets for dominance."
"I thought perhaps they could be friends."
"Gerald doesn't have friends. Gerald has victims."
I hold out my arm and Gerald scrambles up it, still bristling with battle rage.
"Next."
HOUR SEVEN: THE GRIM REALITY
I catch a glimpse of Mira's tally sheet over her shoulder.
Inspected: 156
Boot fits: 23
Glove fits: 8
Both fit: 4
Ferret approved: 0
Cock approved: 0
Made Cinder laugh: 1 (rejected anyway, wrong curve)
Made Cinder yawn: 47
Made Cinder visibly recoil: 12
Currently crying in courtyard: 34
Bitten by Gerald: 29
Fled before inspection: 8
Fainted during inspection: 3
I slump on my throne. Gerald is stress-eating a button he's stolen from someone's doublet.
"How many more?" I ask.
"Approximately four hundred waiting," Mira replies. She's stopped trying to hide the drinking. "And more arriving every hour."
Four hundred more.
Four hundred more opportunities for disappointment.
Four hundred more cocks that aren't the ones I'm looking for.
I close my eyes and let myself remember. Just for a moment.
The way Ash's massive hands gripped my hips. The way Slade's tongue noticed everything. The way Wreck made me laugh and scream in the same breath.
Where are they?
"Have we gotten to Grimwald's sons yet?" I ask.
"They've been... strategically positioned near the back of the line."
A slow smile spreads across my face. "Bring them forward. I want to watch them fail."
BARON GRIMWALD'S SONS: A SPECIAL PRESENTATION
This is going to be the highlight of my day.
Brant and Garrick are shoved forward by guards, looking significantly less smug than they did the night of the ball. Baron Grimwald trails behind them, sweating through his expensive doublet.
"My lady," the Baron simpers, bowing so low his nose nearly touches the floor, "surely my sons don't need to participate in this... this circus. They're nobility. They have dignity."
"Every eligible man," I say sweetly. "That's what the proclamation said. Are your sons not eligible? Are they not men?"
I widen my eyes with false innocence.
"Because if either of those things isn't true, I'm absolutely fascinated to hear why."
Brant steps forward first, chin raised in defiance. "Fine. But when I prove I'm the one you're looking for…"
"Boot."
He shoves his foot in.
It doesn’t fit.
My eyebrows rise before I can stop them. The crowd murmurs.
"Glove."
He jams his hand in. His fingers are too short. The glove flops past his fingertips like a sad, elegant windsock.
I've never seen anything so satisfying.
"My lady, perhaps if I stretched it."
"The glove is magical. It doesn't stretch. It fits who it's meant to fit." I smile. "And it's not meant to fit your stubby little fingers. Ferret."
Gerald is deposited in Brant's arms.
I hold my breath.
For one moment, nothing happens. Brant's smirk starts to solidify.