Alex Zandra

thank you for the kind words! <3

to answer your question: I read a LOT of trashy gender bender manga!! probably more than is healthy!

and while a ton of it is dubious or falls under the category of "25% of this is exactly what I love but the other 75% makes it absolutely impossible to recommend", every so often there's a jewel in the rough that makes it all worth it

(my current book-slash-obsession Her Majesty The Prince, which I've been posting/publishing one chapter at a time, takes a lot of inspiration from Kusakabe-kun Another, a really nice 4-koma body swap manga about two office workers slowly falling in love after rapidly falling down some stairs)

quantity before quality imo! there's a lot of gender content out there, but a lot of the time the fan works and original projects (such as serials on scribblehub and the like) with heart will stand out—and might inspire a new thing altogether!

(continued from Part XIV | Act I | Act II | Part XVI)

"Were you able to watch the coronation?"

"No, thank the gods. I had to cancel—luckiest migraine of my life! The undertemple fellow I was seeing had front-row seats. Can you imagine if I'd been there when that... witch-or-whoever attacked?"

"Well I'm glad you're okay. I do wish we had more to go on, though. Have they said anything about what happened? I heard there was a stampede afterwards!"

"You heard right! But no, the Crown is still all tight-lipped about it, even three days later. Her Majesty's doing fine, apparently? I keep hearing the strangest stories about that."

"Haven't you asked that guy you're seeing, from the undertemple? He might have some inside info."

"What? No, like I said, I was seeing him. He's going to be recovering from all the being-stepped-on for the rest of theater season and my tickets are non-refundable."

The two socialites at the next table merrily chatted away over their colorful drinks of infusions and foam in the most unusually-shaped glasses the café would stock. Lou kept to herself, alone with her back to them, drumming her fingers on the table. Frederic had arranged to meet her here, so she kept her attention squarely on the street, scanning for his arrival. She couldn't wait to be home already.

The fact that it was getting late only served to make Lou more antsy. She was also starting to feel bad about taking up a table by herself without ordering anything, which was a new sensation all on its own. The many times she'd come here while escorting the princess, the two of them had always gotten something right away. Today, however, she didn't want to linger any longer than she had to.

Lou idly wondered if she'd get mistakenly recognized, but the odds of that were slim. While the princess had always been very laissez-faire when it came to fashion choices, all the outfits in question had always been quite stylish. Which is not something anyone would say about Lou's current look: a very plain shirt and sturdy trousers to match, with a pair of rugged boots. All safehouses were stocked with clothes that would allow its occupants—especially Her Majesty—to go incognito, but finding pants in her size had been unexpected.

Lou was grateful there had been outfit choices at all. She'd been confined to that apartment to rest as Frederic and the tattooed witch had directed. The same witch whose patchwork job on the princess's coronation dress had fallen apart as promised the moment Lou had taken it off. What a mess.

But at least it would soon be over. Lou finally relented—ordering her usual cup of black coffee—which at least gave her conscience some respite as she waited. She did like this little café on the edge of the upper city, despite how popular it tended to be with the city elite. Hanging out with that particular class of people had never been her forte, despite how often it came up in her line of work. That said, she'd gladly suffer through an all-night upper hall banquet filled to the brim with aristocrats if it meant Her Majesty was there as well.

The wait was getting to be too much for her.

As if on cue, she saw him. Or rather, his silhouette as he walked toward the café with the setting sun at his back. They'd been comrades long enough for Lou to instantly recognize him by his frame and mannerisms alone. She couldn't wait any longer; she leapt to her feet and ran over to meet him.

"Frederic!" she shouted, giving him a big hug.

Ah?

Lou took a giant step back, arms still outstretched, blood rushing to her face. What was that? "I'm... I'm sorry, I don't know what—"

"Sir!" Frederic said, immediately setting down the wooden chest he'd been carrying under his arm. He bent down on one knee and looked closely at Lou, a rarely-seen look of worry on his face. "I'm sorry sir, I came here as fast as I could. Are you all right?"

"Uh... yes, I think?" Lou replied. Was Frederic just going to gloss over the whole hug thing? Also, why was he out of uniform? It was rare to see him in anything other than the standard royal guard outfit, even on the few occasions he did socialize or go out on the town.

But the knight seemed preoccupied by something different altogether. He raised a gloved hand before Lou's chest, near her solar plexus. "May I?"

Lou's eyes went wide. "I... I s'pose so??"

Frederic gently applied pressure on the center of Lou's chest, through her shirt, where the lowest of her ribs met. "Does this hurt?"

She shook her head, wildly confused.

The knight pressed again with his fingers, higher this time, repeating the motion up and down the middle of her ribcage, then once on each flank. With each touch, he repeated his question, and every time her answer was the same.

"How about breathing, sir? Can you take a deep breath? Does it hurt?"

Lou furrowed her brow in baffled frustration. "Frederic, what's this ab—fine, fine." She took a deep breath, then exhaled. Twice, for good measure. "I'm okay, see? No pain. I followed instructions and it healed right up. Can't this wait until we're back at the castle?"

Frederic leaned back, resting one arm on his knee. Before, he'd looked like he had just stared death in the face; now, it was as if a colossal weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He let out a long sigh of relief, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Thank goodness, sir," he finally said, a smile almost peeking through his usual stoic mask. "I don't know what I would have done if... so the witch's apprentice came through, then?"

Lou crossed her arms. "Yes, she did. And she was really rude about it! Ruined Her Majesty's coronation gown, too." She looked down at herself, shifting her hands to her hips. "Thankfully we stock clothes in her size at the safehouse."

"Good, good," Frederic said with a nod. He picked the wooden chest back up and rose to his feet, giving Lou a firm pat on the shoulder. "Let's go and sit, sir."

"No, we're going back to the castle. You can give your report along the way. I've been away from Her Majesty long en—"

Lou stopped mid-step. Frederic's hand was still on her shoulder; his grip now firmer. She glared up at him. "Frederic. What's this about?"

The knight nodded toward the café. "I must insist we talk things things out here, sir. It's a Crown matter." The relief on his face had been short-lived, once again replaced by an impassive mask.

— end of preview

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(continued from Part XIII | Act I | Act II | Part XV)

Lou opened her eyes slowly, taking a moment to adjust to the morning light filtering in through the blinds of the apartment window. Her gaze lazily clung to the painting that hung on the wall as she took deeper and deeper breaths, easing herself out of her sleepy haze. She still wasn't as well-rested as she'd hoped. But she had also made it through the night without dreams or nightmares, so she figured she'd chalk that up as a win.

She stretched, pushing the covers into even more of a heap. This was the third time she'd opened her eyes this morning. Maybe this time she'd actually make it out of bed.

And she did, a half hour or so later.

Lou remembered how much it had hurt to wake up in this bed the first time, though it was for very different reasons. She'd gladly take that kind of pain again over this one. At least those mysterious rib bruises had healed quickly thanks to the equally mysterious witch's treatment. It would take more than a balm to soothe what Lou's heart was feeling right now, no matter how deeply she massaged it into her skin.

She rubbed her face as she sat up on the side of her bed, her modest nightie fluttering slightly in the breeze. Now that she was thinking about it, she never had learned what had caused those injuries. Talking it out with Frederic and the Prince had shaken loose some cobwebs from her memory, enough to remember that nothing—and no one—had come even close to her current body during the coronation. Had it happened afterwards, then? Before Frederic dropped her off?

Not that it mattered anymore. Physical wounds healed. And if they did so without scarring, that was as good as them never having happened in the first place. Lou's body had been lucky; she couldn't say the same for her heart. She reached for the glasses on her nightstand.

She stared at them, through the lenses, as she held them open in front of her. It took her a moment to recognize that she didn't need them anymore. Putting them on every morning had become another ritual, a way to get into character and hide the person underneath. She wouldn't miss the constant worry of being recognized, the fussing to maintain the pretense of being someone else. But she would miss the friends she'd made as Glasses, the little moments of joy in a life otherwise defined by back-breaking work. She folded the frames up and put them back on the nightstand, keeping her hand on them for a while, until she could no longer bear all the memories they brought up. She took a deep breath, then let go.

Judging by the height of the sun and the bustle outside, it was well into morning. Le Petit Chaperon had opened its doors and people were noisily going about their business on the floor below, some invariably sticking around to grab a bite. Lou figured she ought to do the same as well. This was her last day here, after all.

She stumbled to the small washroom, a welcome luxury of what was otherwise a modest apartment. Being in a royal safehouse had its perks. She went through her usual morning routine—rinse, clean with soap, lotion, apply cream to brush... wait. No, she was out of the special conditioner. "Focus, come on, focus," she mumbled to herself as she emerged back out onto the apartment proper. She didn't know how long she'd be away from the city. She would have to visit Chez Gaston before leaving today to stock up, or else her hair would get all frizzy again.

She pulled open a dresser drawer. She had accumulated a few outfits during those first couple of weeks of awkward shopping and attempting to live the city life. On the day she left for the castle with barely anything to call her own, she was fully expecting everything in this room to be reclaimed by the owner, the next guest, or whoever was handling the upkeep of safehouses at the castle. It had been a pleasant surprise to find everything exactly where she'd left it. Maybe now, she could make better use of these clothes.

Lou picked one of the more rugged dresses she owned. She'd be traveling all day, so something fitting for the open road felt more appropriate. That said, she'd also be meeting some important new people, so making a good first impression was key. She should probably add an accessory, something that looked a little nicer. Maybe that bolero she got on a whim that first week? She decided to go for it, checking out the result in the body-length mirror nearby.

Yeah. Yeah, that worked.

She posed this way and that to make sure her outfit looked acceptable. Then she turned around again, faster this time, making the lower half of her dress rise up a little as it spun.

Lou smiled in spite of herself, the color rising to her cheeks—if only for a moment.

It all felt different this time around. Her first few days in this place had been a mess of worries and fumbling around in a body that felt uncanny to her; a body she still thought she was borrowing, and would be expected to return. But now, she knew: it was hers. Hers to do what she wanted with, no matter what. When she and the Prince finally talked that night, when she realized they wouldn't be switching back, there had been an initial wave of shock, of fear. But by morning, she was happier in her body than she'd been in a long time. Maybe ever, in fact.

Part of her wondered if she would ever feel that happy again.

Today didn't quite feel as hopeless as the last few days had, but that wasn't saying much. She really had needed a lot of sleep and a lot of water. She would need a lot more. Considering how much she cried in the last few months, even just the last few days, maybe by this time next year she'd have drunk the ocean.

Lou took another deep breath. She'd be back up here to pack up and leave, but for now, her rumbling stomach told her she ought to get some breakfast. She grabbed her handbag and headed downstairs to the bakery proper.

The smell of freshly-baked bread had become a mainstay of the apartment upstairs, but on the ground floor it was inescapable, like a grandmother's warm hug. The old woman who ran the place with the help of her daughter and her daughter's daughter had been up since before dawn, preparing a wide array of sweet and savory delights. Lou stepped up to the counter, keeping an eye on her favorite table over in the corner, by the front windows. With any luck, she'd be able to get to it before someone else did.

She looked at the apples on display in their cozy little basket on the counter. The Prince had always had a soft spot for these, which meant that she now did too. Sometimes she wasn't quite sure where her new body ended and her old mind began, but when it came to food, she'd inherited a lot of new favorites. Her hand hovered over the fruits, trying to pick the right one. They all looked slightly different. She knew one of these would taste better than the others, but she could never get it right. Her hand trembled. She always messed this up.

"Oh! Allow me, for old times' sake," the old bakery owner said as she rushed over with a spring in her step. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, then selected an apple and handed it over.

"Thank you," Lou said quietly as she accepted the fruit. She reached down to give it a shine on the hem of her dress. She bit into the apple, and—bliss, followed by relief. Somehow the old lady got it right every time. Lou was reminded of that time Dusty had tried to teach her how to tell different kinds of rice apart, to no avail. After a very embarrassing attempt at risotto, Lou had been relegated to potato duty for quite a few meals. Even she couldn't ruin potatoes.

"And how are you doing today, Your Majesty?" the old lady asked as she restocked the pastry display.

Lou looked up at the kindly baker for a moment, then back down to the pastries. She didn't have the heart to be honest with her, not even on her last day here. "I'm... doing okay," Lou replied, torn between the pear tartelette and the peach one. She opted for the former. "You know you don't need to call me that anymore," she added, self-consciously.

"Oh I know I don't need to. But you still deserve to be treated like a princess every now and then." The woman smiled as she slid Lou's plate over to her—with a little macaron thrown in on the side. "Just like you still deserve sweets. After all, you kept the Prince safe all these years!"

Lou smiled weakly as she thanked the old baker, putting her apple down onto the plate as she picked it up. She'd really miss this place. At least here she didn't have to worry about coming up with a different identity or a character to play. With the royal decoys still in town, everyone was used to meeting an occasional reminder of the Prince's former look. Everyone also treated them fairly well, as they all had put themselves at personal risk in order to protect the one whose face they wore—some more literally than others.

"Well, if it isn't the bodyguard!" said a voice behind Lou.

— end of preview

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(continued from Part XII | Act I | Act II | Part XIV)

For the longest time, there was nothing else.

Just echoes in the dark. Stray whispers in the murky fog. A world of vitreous smoke, illuminated by distant lightning in thunderclouds. And in the center, where it all began, there was her.

And she was drifting away.

It took a lifetime of wandering to find her again, an existence spent searching the formless unknown. An eternity of sifting through ghosts in the mist, a cavalcade of grey on grey, expressions frozen on faces that vanished in the breeze. But there she was; what was left of her.

A bit of ground to call her own.

A sprawled out pose in parts unknown.

Herself, her own skin, cold as stone.

The fog was clearing, yielding to the void. A light, like sunrise, arose to banish the surrounding clouds to blissful oblivion. This world of formless smoke was vanishing rapidly, shrinking in on itself. But there was no fear in that impending nothingness; only release. Only peace. Where else, then, to spend the last moments but in her company?

Where better to lay down one's head than against her bosom, still and cooling, and wait for this warm all-encompassing glow to subsume everything?

But there came a spark. Pain, ferried by shouts. One cry, the same cry, repeated over and over like a ritual to the beating of a thunderous drum. Her face remained still, her skin remained stone, but across her chest there came a fracture; a fault line like a lightning bolt, glowing in rhythm to the beat of each yell, of that same singular word so loud it threatened to tear the world asunder. And not an idle threat—for any ritual, repeated long enough, performed with sufficient passion and strength, could rip a mountain from its roots. Could bring a statue back to life.

In the face of such a display, how could anyone decline to be summoned? How could anyone refuse the undeniable truth of being wanted?

The pain became louder. The shouting, inescapable. There came a beacon of light among the light, searing in its singular purpose: to bring a long-lost wanderer home. And so it was answered.

And so she awoke.

Lou gasped loudly as the covers gave way to flailing arms. Where is she? There were flashes, images, memories. Frederic, looming overhead, haggard, eyes bloodshot. A familiar sight in the dark of the night; a comforting one.

Lou tried to shake away the dream, or nightmare, unable to tell either apart. What had happened? Where was this? All it took was a cursory look to confirm the sun was up—just barely—filtering through the loose curtains and lighting up the modest apartment. This place looked familiar. Ah, right. One of the safehouses; the one above a bakery. Already the smell of freshly baked bread was coming in through the crack in the window.

Sitting up immediately proved to be a bad idea as Lou winced. Something was wrong. This was pain on the level of broken bones, but even then it was much more intense than it was supposed to be. What was going on? A quick look around the room didn't reveal any danger, but it did catch some movement by the wall—

And then Lou saw her face.

Her Majesty's face, staring, wide-eyed, from the bed on the other side of the mirror.

Lou stared, trembling, unblinking. The realization came and went, bouncing off several times as if something deep inside refused to believe it. But when she gingerly raised a shaking arm, spread out her fingers, made a fist—all movements identical and accounted for—it was impossible to refute anymore. It was her.

She jumped out of bed, stumbling to her feet, catching herself on the edge of the nearby dresser. Pain wracked her entire body but she didn't care. Lou put a hand up against the mirror, mouth agape, head shaking. Her Majesty's face was staring back at her. Her eyes, uncannily different, tired; her makeup, tear-streaked; her lipstick, smudged. What had happened?

Lou limped back to the bed as the pain caught up with her. She sat on the edge of the mattress, wincing, putting a hand out to the nearby nightstand for support. If this was happening... if she had Her Majesty's face, then...?

Her hand slipped on a piece of paper. She quickly caught herself from falling over, then brought the note closer. This was Frederic's handwriting, hurried and smudged as it was. Lou's breath caught in her throat as she read.

Sir,
Her Majesty is safe, in the castle, in your body.
Sending someone for first aid.
Rest and heal in place until I return.
—F

She read it again, and again, hoping that after enough times, she would find reassurance in those words. Her Majesty was safe. That was all that she needed to know, in theory. In practice, she had many more questions. Who had attacked them during the coronation? Had they fled? Were they still a threat? Surely Frederic would have mentioned something.

But perhaps Lou's second-in-command had been in a hurry. When time was of the essence, only what was strictly necessary was communicated. Therefore, she needed to take each line to heart. Her Majesty was safe. Someone was coming to the safehouse. Lou needed to stay put. Perhaps it was still dangerous outside after all. Especially considering the current situation.

Especially considering the importance of her cargo. Lou looked into the mirror again. She was in Her Majesty's body. Regardless of the how or the why, that's where she was. She needed to keep it in pristine condition until all of this could be reversed. And she had her work cut out of her, considering the pain coursing through her chest. Had she already failed? Was she like this when Frederic had left her? She almost reached for the opening at the top of the outfit she was wearing; almost. But no. This was not for her eyes to see.

She gingerly leaned back onto the bed, trying to stay comfortable, while awaiting the mystery doctor. She only hoped she was doing this correctly. She—

CLACK!

Lou bolted upright, immediately regretting it as white hot pain shot from her solar plexus all the way to her chin. Something had shoved itself into the window's opening, some sort of... stick? A silhouette behind it jammed the piece of wood sideways, then up, lifting the window the rest of the way. A hooded head peeked into the room.

— end of preview

...read the rest of this chapter on my Patreon!

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available by clicking the link above
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