Minnie woke to feel the almost comforting feel of a body relaxed into sweat-soaked bedclothes. The clothes were wound into linnsy-woolen rosebuds, and her nightdress clung to her skin so damply it was like feeling the inside of her own flesh.Her hair, mostly unbound now, wrapped across her neck and face like a thousand miniscule still fingers. There was a divine warmth of discomfort to the position, the damp and salt like the warmth of a second womb. She left her eyes shut, feeling, in her mind each part of herself, starting at her toes, her wastrel calves, her thighs, her belly, the flesh of her ribs, wher eshe knew the ink was sweat-smeared into illegible black. This brought her mind to the sharp bones of her shoulder blades, and to her neck. She pulsed the muscles of her neck, rubbing the skin there mildly against the rough cloth of her pillowcase, and exhaled, softly, feeling the tingle of it run down her spine to swell out from the seat of her.
And the hand. The hand. She did not need to look, or touch, for she felt it, felt its strangess, felt the nap of velvet wrapped around it, slender and strong.
She opened her eyes, and looked up at the ceiling.
"Remember. Yes, Mother. I will write this down."
And she rolled softly, shivering delectably as her hot-sour skin lost its contact with the mattress underneath it. She pulled the glove off, and traced her finger over the 'Q' that shone up at her like a deep, blue eye. And then, she reached beneath the bed, where a bottle of ink and a water-glass with a brush in it rested. She opened the ink bottle, and slowly, slowly, slowly, began to brush tiny letters in slow susurrations around the shining letter, across the foreign skin, to pray her heart onto the back of her new hand.