“If it pleases the princess to stop smirking at herself in the glass and stand?” Philippa suggests in a tone carefully poised between irritation and deference. “It is time to prepare you for the Presentation.”
I obey immediately, rising and lifting my arms as my lady wraps a set of stays around my rib cage and abdomen. I’m unused to wearing such fine undergarments but have found I rather like them. Aside from providing support and structure for the voluminous gowns I’m now required to wear, there’s something armor-like about all that quilting and boning. I wonder if this is how a knight gallant feels when his squire prepares him for tournament.
My stomach knots. All day I’ve put off as much as possible thinking about this evening. Now that the hour draws near, I’m loath to meet more of the champions. What if they’re all like Prince Taigan? Handsome, arrogant, possessive…A shudder ripples down the back of my neck.
“They say the last prince arrived today.” Philippa’s voice breaks through the roiling thoughts in my head, drawing my attention back to her. She gathers petticoats from the wardrobe and shakesthem out, making certain they’re entirely free of cave mites. “There was some concern that he would not make it, and the tournament would be short one champion. But Prince Joro of Rassumen is now safely welcomed to Stromin Palace. I will warn you though”—she looks up, her eyebrows slightly puckered—“he’s a ginger.”
“And that is a…” I study her face and make a wild guess, “bad thing?”
She shrugs. “It is or it isn’t. It depends on who you ask.”
I suppose I’ll reserve judgment for the time being. “What of the other champions?” I ask. “Have you heard any news of them?”
“Oh, they say Learned Majestic Rune and Lord Elis were sparring in the practice yard today.”
“Really?” I can’t help wondering what exactly constitutes ayarddown here under the mountain but hold my tongue. Instead, I stand quietly as Philippa pulls the petticoats over my head and ties them into place, all the while recounting the tale of Lord Elis’s triumph over the Learned Majestic.
“It was rather a significant moment, you understand,” she finishes.
“Why?” I ask, squirming a little to shift the heavy petticoats into a more comfortable position.
“The animosity between the kingdoms of Albhia and Senland has been brutal for positively centuries!” Philippa replies. “Were it not for the dracori, they would be at each other’s throats still, but as it is…” Her voice trails off. A lingering sort of silence settles into the space between us. The dracori, servants of Mhoryga, are a threat across the known world. Though once human like the rest of us, and still appearing human to the naked eye, they are now creatures of darkness, twisted by their mistress, dragon blood flowing in their veins. Astride the dragon spawn, they flywhere they will, wielding the green hellfire of Mhoryga’s own realm, incinerating all who stand in their way. No one has been entirely untouched by their flame.
“And what about Prince Valtar?” I ask after a moment, eager for that silence to end.
“Prince who?”
“Valtar,” I repeat. “You’ve not mentioned him yet. I’ve heard you speak of all the others: Elis and Rune, Bryon of the Ulyon Isles, the Ranger Prince of Anfalen. But you’ve said nothing about the prince of Inithana.”
Philippa frowns. “There is no Prince Valtar among the champions.”
“Really?”
She shakes her head. “No, Princess. There are only six champions. It is a holy number, sacred to the gods. No seventh champion would be permitted to join. And Inithana is not one of the Unified Kingdoms of Belanor. Why should they send a champion in the first place?”
I open my mouth to protest, to repeat everything my kissing partner of earlier in the day had related to me. Something tells me, however, that it would be wise not to bring up anything that man had to say in Philippa’s presence…not unless I’m willing to endure yet another round of scolding. “Are you quite sure?” I ask instead. “Maybe he arrived in secret.”
“Impossible,” she replies, her tone final. “The wards protecting this palace are powerful. No one comes or goes without the High King’s knowledge or consent.”
She turns me to the mirror once more. I frown at my own face in the glass. Perhaps the guardsman was simply mistaken. He had spoken with such confidence, but how much could he possibly know about the matter?
Philippa brings forth the gown she’s selected for me to wear tonight. It’s significantly finer than anything I’ve ever seen—all pink silk and embroidered roses. She helps me into the heavy skirts first, then laces on the tiny bodice with its little pointed V waist and plunging neckline. Once in place, it displays not only more of my bosom than I am used to seeing, but also rather a lot of ugly burn scar.
“Don’t you think something a little higher necked would be…appropriate?” I suggest.
Philippa steps back, taking me in from head to toe. Her gaze doesn’t linger on my burns, though I know she’s fully aware of them. She tips her head a little to one side, rubs a delicate finger along her upper lip. Then, finally: “No.”
“No, what?”
“A higher neckline would not serve. You are a princess. You must dress as one. We can’t have you showing up for your own Presentation looking like a nun on her way to chapel prayers, now can we?”
“I should think there’s room for a bit of nuance betweenthisand a nun’s habit!”
Philippa will hear none of my protests, however. She slides the delicate detachable sleeves up my arms and stitches them to the shoulder seams. Finally satisfied with her work, she turns me to face the glass again. “You are positively regal!” she declares.
I take in my reflection once more. My bosom, propped up by the corset, seems unnaturally round and prominent, surrounded by a veritable garden of silk and glittering roses. Even I must admit, the effect is striking. And the artful arrangement of my hair covers most of my scars. One would have to look closely to notice them. Philippa might have dabbled in sorcery, so complete is the transformation. I scarcely recognize myself.
“It’s wonderful,” I admit, rather reluctantly. Then I let out a heavy sigh. “What I don’t understand is…why? Why is everyone going through so much trouble to find me a…a husband?” I catch Philippa’s gaze in the mirror. Her brow is stern, her expression closed off. “I understand that a champion must be found to ‘assist me in my destiny,’ as it were. But why is it so blasted important that I marry him?”
