A giant white bear, splashing from the lake, through the center of the pines, making his way to a pile in the snow.
Girion. A blurry figure.
A blurry, naked figure, and then a blurry, cloaked figure, coming closer, walking as if the cold had no meaning to him.
As if he heard her move the drapes, he looked up, and she thought he smiled.
But she couldn’t tell for certain.
THE MASTER OF THE WARDROBEarrived with two small figures, delicate, swift women with small noses and pale skin that was almost pink.
“Laren and Letty. Your attendants and two trusted seamstresses,” The Master of the Wardrobe said.
Which was a mouthful each time you wanted to call for someone, wasn’t it? “Do you have a name that I could use instead of a title?” she asked.
“Master Nalar.”
“Master Nalar, I can dress myself. I—”
Jocasta stopped dead when a metal rail of dresses and cloaks arrived and was marched into a vast cedar wardrobe. The rod slotted between two indents, and the bearers bowed and left.
“Those are your selections for today.”
“For today!?”
“Inside cloaks, outside cloaks, under skirts, over skirts, dresses, bodices, sleeves—”
“Aren’t the sleeves in the dress?”
“Not always.”
A sinking feeling attacked her middle, that same sick sense of dread that came when a big wave sloshed over the deck and left her gasping and spitting salt. The one that said, “Am I going to make it?” The fear always rose up, even if she tried to keep it at bay.
I don’t even know how to wear a dress. What else don’t I know?
Master Nalar clucked his tongue softly. “Don’t fret. Laren and Letty will help you.”
SHE HAD TO LEARN TOwear dresses that fastened in the front or laced up the back. Ot both. She couldn’t pull all the fine layers on over her head and let the fabric fall to her knees, unlike all the simple clothes she’d grown up with and still preferred. No more under leggings that she stuffed into boots. No more boots, not unless she were venturing out, and apparently, she was not venturing out.
Girion came to collect her, a resigned look on his face.
“It’s the dress, isn’t it?” Jocasta demanded. “I’m too dumpy and short for these things.”
Girion looked as though she’d smacked him with a wet herring. “What? You look stunning. Regal. You are gorgeous.” He ladled out compliments in a gruff voice, coughing into his fist.
Well. That was new. She was used to being praised for the quality of her catch or the strength of her healing ointments, even her control of the elements. Not her beauty. Well, unless you counted her parents (all parents said such things) or the drunkards in taverns (almost all men said such things with enough drink and cold inside of them). “Thank you. You look—very, erm, masterful.”
Masterful? Curse her tongue. Well, yes, he did look masterful, but she should have said something more genteel. “Thank you, Your Majesty. You look elegant.”Or handsome. Imposing. Massive.
No, not those.
Jocasta reasoned that she didn’t need to talk too often. Not yet. Probably not until she was queen and people expected herto have something to say. She should have remembered that and kept her mouth shut.
Girion blinked at her compliments, then looked at himself. “That is as it should be.”
“I was trying to return the kind words!” she snapped, very nearly adding the words “you oaf!” at the end.
Her memory was apparently quite poor. She waited for a sharp rebuke, a reminder that one does not hiss at the king like an irritable cat.
