Wearing a dress was never the plan. Had it been up to me, I’d don my trousers, my old fur coat, my sturdy boots. Orla, however, insisted I wear a dress. Actually, she threatened to skin me alive if I worethose rags, as she so scathingly put it.
Wool dyed the color of midnight brightens my warm brown skin. The long-sleeved garment is simple in shape, with a cinched corset overlaying the fabric, and a loose skirt that skims my ankles. The bodice is a thing to behold, a map of swirling, silver thread. Soft, worn boots peek beneath the skirt hem.
Tonight, the Frost King and I will attend the Midwinter Eve festival.
Orla spent the last three days fabricating this dress in preparation for the evening. Many hours of measuring, cutting, draping, sewing, andFor the love of the gods, stand still! She and two maidservants scrubbed my skin until it glowed—minding my newly healed back—then wrangled my thick dark hair into a single braid, silver ribbon woven amongthe plaits. They plucked at wayward hairs, darkened my eyes with kohl, bemoaned my bitten nails and blistered feet.
Orla is right. The woman in the mirror is lovely.
She is also a stranger.
No dirt smears her cheeks. No blood cakes the space beneath her fingernails. Were it not for the scar, I’d think I was looking at Elora.
Sweat slicks my palms, which I wipe on the front of my dress. Nerves. They’ve intensified throughout the evening. All this dancing and preening is Elora’s realm, but she is not here. Maybe if I play my cards right, the king will allow me to visit her soon. Just for a night.
I do not believe the Frost King will retaliate against Neumovos. As rigid as he is, he possesses an unexpected degree of honor. I’m more concerned that he and I are attending this festival as husband and wife, which means hours spent in his company when I can barely get through the day without snapping at him or tossing out some underhanded insult. My understanding of the king is limited; he frustrates me to no end.
“Let’s tighten you up a bit.” Orla gives an experimental tug on the corset lacings.
“It’s already as tight as it can go.”
“Nonsense. A few more pulls will make a world of difference.” So she pulls.
And pulls.
And pulls.
“What kind of devil-worshipper created this instrument of torture?” I grunt. Color begins to drain from my lips the harder she yanks on the laces.
“Suck in, my lady.”
“I’m already sucking in,” I say through gritted teeth. The corset binds my torso so tightly it’s rearranging my organs.
“Just one—” Pull. “More—” Pull. “Yank.”
I wheeze as my ribs pinch and my stomach tucks in somewhere near my sternum. “Mercy, woman.”
“There.” Satisfied. Orla steps back to admire her handiwork. Miracle upon miracle, I now have a waist, even if she had to cut it out of me. Indeed, I’ve never eaten so well for such a long period of time. I’ve put on weight since my arrival.
“Thank you,” I whisper, pulling my maid into an embrace. “For everything. You’ve been a true friend to me since I arrived.” A friend, and in many ways, a mother, too. “I appreciate all that you’ve done, Orla.” I haven’t told her nearly enough.
She pats me on the shoulder before pulling away, a sheen to her eyes. “Nonsense. You deserve it.” Her round face glows with happiness. “Enjoy the evening, my lady.”
Grabbing a fur coat from the armoire, I make my way downstairs to the enormous entrance hall. A dry, hollow wind greets me the moment I step outside. My heels click against the gray stone as I cross the courtyard, heading for the stables, my blood running hot and my pulse unsteady for reasons I cannot name.
The stables smell of hay, and glow golden beneath lanterns strung along the posts. The Frost King, busy saddling the beast, turns upon hearing my approach.
The dark fabric of his cloak parts over a light gray tunic, a similar color to the ribbon hugging my waist. Charcoal trousers encase his long legs, those thick, powerful thighs. His curling black hair is pulled back, but a few strands have managed to unravel from the tie that binds it.
“You look… nice.” The words slip from my mouth clumsily, a blurt.
The Frost King frowns. He expected a kick in the ribs and received a scratch behind the ears instead. Cool, uncooperative blue eyes drag from the tips of my boots to the wisps of hair framing my face. This stiff unease I feel is new, rooted in feeling out of place.
“Are you ready?” he demands.
The twinge of hurt hits unexpectedly. I’m not sure what angers me more: that a small, insecure part of me had hoped he’d return the compliment, or that I allowed myself to believe tonight could be different from our previous intolerable interactions. I’m trying to make an effort. The least he could do is attempt the same. “Figures,” I mutter.
His gaze thins. “If you have thoughts, speak them.”
