“Sigvid found one that is close to my size.” She glares at the burnt orange gown, which will fit far too tight on her thick, squishy curves. “Not that I enjoyed wearing the awful flowing Timber monstrosities back home.”
Frida chuckles while gesturing to her man, who drops the chest on the bed before leaving. “Home? Do you wish to return home?”
“I-” Where is her home?
The Sapphire Palace is like existing as a doll on a shelf in a darkened cupboard. Her father or his top advisor, Lord Byron, will expect her to be courteous and smiling at any moment, no matter how sad and lonely she feels.
Scarwood Citadel is a fishbowl she can not escape. The Council of Nobles and the Manchineels have their thumb on her as if she might burst at any moment.
If she is being honest, the closest home she has ever had is…
“Blackwood Inn is cozy, and my son purchased it quite stocked.” Frida strides to the bed, where the hideous gown lies across the quilt. She runs her fingers over the rough, cheap material, a grimace forming on her lips. “My son is many things. Adorning a beautiful Queen with this,” she crumbles the material and tosses it into a heap in the corner. “Is one of his flaws.”
Avina looks between the orange mass and Frida, not following.
“You are a Queen and the heir of another province. He is dressing you for an intimate gathering with his King, his mother—the Dowager Queen—and the top-ranking generals of the kingdom in an unflattering gown. Either Sigvid has no sense of decorum or purposefully sets you up for failure.”
“There’s little I can do either way.” Avina throws up her hands in defeat.
In the past, she cared little about how she dressed. Servants, her father, or Rendel dictated how she should present herself in public.
Frida takes her shoulders in her hands. “You are too clever to have allowed such ignorant, foolish men to restrain you for so long.” Sheunlocks the chest and withdraws a dress in a unique style that turns the corners of Avina’s lips into a smile.
She steps forward. “This gown is gorgeous.”
The satin fabric is the same shade of blue as her eyes, while intricate Salt knots embellish the fabric around her waist, shoulders, and trumpet sleeves' tips. The sleeves and flowy skirt are popular Timber styles, while the tight-fitting decorative bodice resembles many Ridge gowns.
“You made a dress of Treland.”
“I made one fit for the Queen of Treland almost four winters ago. Special sewists crafted the gown to fit you and only you. The jewels,” she waves her hand at the various jewelry still in the chest, “have been set in silver to reflect all styles of the provinces. I had the ensemble crafted for you, Avie.”
“I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” Avina's response is gushing, still unsure where the Queen of Treland part fits.
She is modest enough to respect her place in the country right now, yet not enough to truly see herself as the one to unify Treland. Once, Rendel had cryptically mentioned such a prophecy. However, she dismissed him for his regular brand of outlandish.
Frida’s soft eyes well with a pride that Avina does not feel she deserves. Tears are not permitted in the Dowager Queen’s presence, meaning Avina sucks up her emotion and allows her to help her ready for the party.
39
AVINA
November 28th, Year 100, 9th Era
Blackwood Inn, Salt Province
Avina stands at the top of the staircase, spiraling to the main floor of Blackwood. Below her, Frida’s voice reaches the dusty rafters.
“You are not taking your axes! Sigvid, you are attending a gathering at your brother’s home. What do you anticipate will happen?” Her voice is tense, unrelenting.
Not unlike her eldest son’s.
His annoyance is palpable. “Mother, I always carry my axes. With what we have been dealing with lately, I believe keeping some protection might be worthwhile.”
“Sig, listen to me. We are attending a night of merrymaking. No one will attack us. Leave the damn axes, take your beautiful Queen, and enjoy the night.”
“Fine!” He hisses.
Avina hears him stomp across the floor, and his weapons crashing onto a table echoes up to her.
