I swallowed gravel. “You may enter.”
The owner of the voice was not alone. Six others spilled in her wake, arms laden with hatboxes, bolts of shimmering fabric, and sewing materials. The woman leading the charge had silver hair twisted into a punishing coil.
“I am Devronica, head seamstress to His Majesty.” She offered an obligatory smile coupled with a deep curtsy.
My eyes caught on the welt marring her left cheek, the branded U, the mark of the ungifted. Powder dulled its edges, though not enough to conceal the scar’s cruel shape. The same mark lay on each woman’s face. Revulsion gripped low in my stomach. Being the king’s clothier was no small accomplishment. That such talented women, skilled enough to dress the court insplendor, should carry the stigma of worthlessness seemed an obscenity.
“These are my attendants.” Devronica gestured to the others. “We are here to see to the final fitting of your gown. Everything must be flawless for your big moment, my grace.”
Mymoment.
As though I were relishing the hour in which I would walk to the gallows of a loveless marriage.
“Let’s begin.” Devronica clapped her hands twice.
The horde of attendants descended upon me. Soft, nimble hands slid my nightgown from my shoulders. Cold air skated over my exposed skin. I did not feel naked so much as displayed—a rare songbird, wings pinned open for another’s delight.
The gown unfurled from its box in a decadent cascade.
“A masterpiece,” breathed Devronica, lifting the fabric. “Hand-beaded. Goldwork embroidery. Eight skirts. Imported lace. Fit for a queen.”
Rather luxurious for a captive.
They fed me through it piece by piece. The bodice came first—the boning a dozen fingers gripping my ribs. Then the skirts: layer upon layer until my legs forgot they were meant for moving. Sleeves were tugged into place. Dozens of tiny buttons were closed by expert hands.
When at last I looked in the mirror, a stranger stared back. The woman in the glass was stunning, yes, but in the manner of a chandelier—cold gleam meant to be admired at the center of a spectacle. A veil landed on my head, its weight pinning me to the spot.
“You’re glowing,” sighed one attendant, clasping her hands.
“You’re so very fortunate, milady. The king must adore you,” another crooned.
I bit my cheek until I tasted blood. Tuning out their voices, I allowed my thoughts to drift.
If I were marrying Mav…
A warmth unfurled within me. I would shoulder no beading, train, or veil; a simple gown easy to dance in. Mav was such a wonderful dancer. I envisioned Thistle’s yard overrun with flowers and lanterns strung from tree to tree. Mav would wear a shirt he would pretend to button properly, hair falling into his eyes as it always did. Vesper would be solemn as he carried the rings, wicked as he delivered a speech no one requested he prepare. Branrir would officiate with such grave sincerity that even the Saints would lean forward to listen. I could hear Thistle sniffling into a handkerchief, then threatening to fight anyone who dared call her soft. There would be laughter. Bread warm from the oven. I would insist on Mav singing something for me and dancing until our feet could no longer bear it.
My throat burned.
“Milady?” Devronica’s voice unraveled the daydream.
“Yes?” I blinked rapidly.
“We have what we need to make the final alterations,” she declared.
Buttons skittered open. Pins slipped free. The veil lifted, leaving my head strangely bare. The gown’s weight—both literal and otherwise—slid from my shoulders. I filled my lungs for the first time all morning.
The room quieted again as they filtered into the hall. I made to close the door when another servant appeared at the threshold. He bore a silver tray crowded with pastries and fruit.
“Thank you for your efforts,” I began. “But surely I could take breakfast in the dining hall.”
Sweat beaded on his brow. “Apologies, milady, we were told you were to dine in your quarters.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Perhaps it was for the best. In this way, I would not have to be in the same room as Edric for several more hours.
The servant set the tray on a side table, bowed, and retreated.
I carried the tray to the windowsill, needing light and warmth more than sustenance. Sliding to the sun-warmed floor, I tore a pastry into its layers. The food had no taste or texture. I was numb to its charms.
