“Your Majesty, if I may... The king decreed that all clothes in his court begold,” the old crone says, as if this rule somehow slipped my mind. As if it evercouldwhen the gaudy color is everywhere.
“I’m quite aware of all the king has decreed,” I say coolly, fingering the velvet buttons at my chest. The entire ensemble is perfect. Just the way I remember my mother’s gowns looking. White with a trim of fur at the sleeves and collar, ice-blue threading embellished in rosettes that perfectly match my eyes.
It suits me far better than any of the golden dresses I’ve worn these last ten years.
“You’ll have the rest of the gowns and coats finished by the end of the fortnight?” I confirm.
“I will, Your Majesty,” she answers.
“Good. You are dismissed.”
The woman quickly gathers her things, knobby hands flipping the wooden stair over to use like a bucket as she dumps her measuring chain, spare needles, fabric strips, and shears inside before bowing low and retreating out the door.
“My queen, shall I do your hair?”
I look over at my handmaiden, the apples of her cheeks rouged with glimmering gold powder. It’s a fashion statement for all the women—and some of the men—who reside in Highbell. But on her, the yellow of the gold dusting just makes her look sickly. Another thing I need to change.
After all, appearance makes up more than half of an opinion.
“Yes,” I answer before walking over to the vanity and sitting down.
When I see the girl reach for the box of gold glitter to dust over my white hair, I shake my head. “No. Nothing gold. Not anymore.”
Her hand freezes in surprise, but by now, my intentions must be more than clear. She recovers quickly, grabbing the comb, brushing out my tresses with a gentle touch.
I scrutinize everything she does, directing her every move as she fashions my hair. She plaits a single braid starting at my right temple, no bigger than the width of my finger, and curves it around to end below my left ear. A waterfall effect of my sleek white hair, as if rapids froze on the way to their plummet.
Instead of having her finish with golden pins or ribbons, I say, “Just the crown.”
She nods, turning to head for the case where I keep my royal jewels and crowns at the back of the room, but I stop her. “Nothing from there. I’ll wear this.”
She hesitates, unable to keep the confused frown from appearing on her face. “Your Majesty?”
I reach for the silver box that I’d set out on my vanity earlier. It’s heavy, the metal dull, but my fingers trace the delicate filigree adorning the case, my touch nothing less than reverent.
“This was my mother’s,” I say quietly, my eyes following the direction of my finger as I trail along the outline of the bell, an icicle hanging from its hollow middle. I can almost hear the sound it would make, a cold, clear call to echo through the frozen mountains.
My handmaiden approaches as I open the box, revealing the crown inside. It’s made entirely of white opal, sculpted from a single gemstone. It must have been the size of five hand spans, a glistening stone pulled from a roughshod mine.
The weak gray sunlight coming in through the window reveals only the barest hint of the delicate prism of colors held within the crown’s depths. It’s sturdy, but not nearly as heavy as the gold crown Tyndall has me wear. Just another thing to weigh me down.
The design itself is simple, carved to look like icicles jutting up from the top—dainty, yet sharp. I place it on my head, centering it perfectly, and for the first time in years, I finally feel like myself.
I am Queen Malina Colier Midas, and I was born to rule.
White gown, white hair, white crown—and not a hint of gold anywhere. This is how it should’ve been. This is how itwillbe.
I stand, and my handmaiden rushes forward to slip shoes over my feet. I cast my reflection one last look before I sweep out of the room, each step surer than the one before.
Guards coalesce around me like smoke, trailing me while I descend the stairwell. I enter the throne room through the back door, the chatter of occupants an indistinct hum that fills my ears.
The moment I enter the room, the nobles and courtiers inside bow and curtsy to fulfill their customary deference to their queen.
It’s not until they straighten up that I feel the ripple of surprise pass over the gold-clothed congregation in a widespread arc.
Keeping my eyes poised on the dais, shoulders back in perfect posture, I walk determinedly forward. At the press of weighted silence that’s fallen over the crowd, a seed of nervousness tries to settle in my stomach, burrowing deeper to set roots, but I yank it out like a weed.
I am Queen Malina Colier Midas, and I was born to rule.
