My stomach unclenches as relief moves through me. She seems to have uncovered his identity but doesn’t appear to know anything about the curse.
Amelie squints, tapping a finger to her chin. “It does tell me what I need to know though…”
My panic returns, speeding my pulse. “About what?”
She grins. “How refined I must make his clothing. Come, Mr. Rochester. My measuring tape awaits and I’m burning with ideas.”
* * *
Elliot and Ameliedisappear behind the dressing screen. Hoping I can act as mediator to prevent any further tensions from arising, I remain in the room, handing articles of clothing over the top of the screen at Amelie’s command. Luckily, Elliot seems to obey the seamstress’ poking and prodding with nothing worse than halfhearted protests and muttered curses. After several changes of clothing, each one ending in Amelie’sno, no, absolutely not, I hear her exclaim a hearty, “Yes! This is the right color, and the fit is nearly perfect.”
Elliot groans. “I feel like a stuffed turkey, and I must look like a peacock.”
Amelie steps out from behind the screen. “Peacocks are beautiful, Mr. Rochester. Now, let’s see what Miss Bellefleur thinks.”
At that, I rise from where I’ve been sitting on the bed and move closer to the screen.
For a moment, nothing happens. No footsteps, no grumbles. Then finally, a sigh. With slow, uneven steps, the king leaves his hiding place. I blink a few times, lips parting as I take in the transformation. Dressed in a smart, modern suit, he seems to have grown taller. His slim trousers are of the darkest green with a jacket to match. His waistcoat is gold brocade, and his emerald silk cravat seems to bring out the ruby tones in his eyes.
Amelie comes to stand at my side, assessing the king with a hand at her chin. “Yes, I will customize your new wardrobe with this look in mind.” She faces me. “Don’t you agree?”
With my eyes still locked on the king, all I can do is nod. “You’re…you’re amazing, Miss Amelie.”
“It helps that my model cuts a nice figure all on his own,” she says with a wink.
Elliot rolls his eyes.
“Oh my.” I turn to find Foxglove entering the room, eyes roving the king from head to toe. “You’ve done the impossible, Amelie,” he says.
“Are you done treating me like I’m on display? I’d like to change out of this ridiculous frock—”
“No!” Amelie says with horror. “Until I finish your wardrobe, you must wear this. I will not have you insulting my work by changing back into those rags.”
“She’s right,” I say. “You must get used to refined clothing if you are to impress our future…guest.” More than that, I just want to look at him in these clothes at least a while longer. Not because he’s attractive. No, not that. I’m fully aware he’s the same awful wolf I met over trickery and tomato sauce. The new look simply provides a more pleasant view than stained linen and dingy trousers.
Foxglove’s lips pull into a grimace. “Ugh, but that hair. It most certainly won’t do.”
Elliot closes his eyes, teeth bared as he utters a string of curses.
Pounding footsteps draw my attention back to the door where Micah springs forth. “More wagons! A nice one.”
“Oh, that might be the paintings,” Foxglove says. “I should direct them where to put everything.”
“Excuse me,” Elliot says, “but this is my manor.”
Foxglove puts a hand on his hip. “And what a nice manor it will be when I’m done. Now, Miss Bellefleur, please find someone to brush his hair so I can get started on it when I return. I can only work with a clean canvas.” At that, he turns on his heel and follows Micah out the door.
Amelie beams a smile at me, eyes alight with excitement. “I need to grab the rest of my things from downstairs. I cannot proceed without more emerald spider silk.”
I shudder at the thought of silk made from spiders but let her go without argument. Aware that I’m now alone in my room with the king, I take a step away and retrieve the brush from my dressing table. Gesturing toward the chair at the bureau, I say, “Sit. I’ll try to brush out that mane of hair.”
With a curse, he makes his way to the chair—his limp growing less and less pronounced—and sinks down onto it, arms crossed. “Remind me again why I’m doing this?”
I come up behind him and bring the brush to the ends of his hair. “Running on three legs. A body covered in white fur. Eating raw, freshly killed carcasses. You know…that which you value most?”
“Freedom,” he says with a sigh. He turns his head to the side and eyes me from his periphery. “Meanwhile, you’re torturing me for money.”
I attack a particularly stubborn knot, half-afraid the brush will be swallowed by it at any moment. When my own hair falls into my face, I pause long enough to bundle it at the nape of my neck. I now regret not putting it up this morning, but with no pins in reach, it’s held in place by nothing more than a prayer. Returning to my efforts, I say, “I’m doing this for freedom too, you know.”
