Inside my chamber, the handmaidens bow and move in unison to undress me in silence, one unfastening my dusty traveling garments while the other readies a fresh bath in the adjoining bathing room. Once I hear the water, I can’t get out of my clothes fast enough.
The heavenly soak does wonders to take the edge off my ragged emotions, and the brief respite seems to have warmed the tempers of the women as well. The smaller of the two women offers a tiny smile beneath her veil as she lays one of Laleh’s coordinated ensembles across the massive bed.
“Beautiful,” she says, pointing to one of the more risqué garments of Laleh’s own design: a brilliant fitted teal top with intricate beadwork and meticulously pleated, scandalously sheer bottoms. Sothisis the one Laleh had said to wear if I wanted my life to change.
Too bad I can’t get a magical do-over of the last hour.
Without much enthusiasm, I point to a demure ivory shift with a stomacher made of silver disks and a matching tailored jacket instead. It’s the plainest thing I brought. I pull on the accompanying loose silk skirts and slip my feet into the cushioned silver slippers. I needn’t have worried about being able to apply any face paint, as the two women seem more than capable of lining my eyes with kohl and patting shimmery powder on my cheeks.
They wind my hair into intricate braids flat along the sides of my scalp to a high ponytail falling into a mass of curls, then fasten a silver headpiece at my crown whose tiny seed pearls cascade down to my brows. Even those annoying colorless bits have been cleverly concealed.
I look much more confident than I feel.
Flaunt it like you’ve got itis one of Laleh’s favorite mantras.
Though whateveritis, I’m pretty sure I lost that back in the courtyard.
When I arrive downstairs, the receiving hall is crowded with all manner of ladies, though everyone appears to be around the same age. It’s hard to tell, though, with all the fancy headdresses and face paint. The prince himself is twenty-eight. Why he hasn’t married yet is anyone’s guess.
With a sigh, I hopefully scan the crowd for Clem, but I don’t see her, and within moments, we are all shepherded toward the lavish throne room to be presented one by one to the king, the queen, and Crown Prince Javed. Holding my breath, I enter as the royal viceroy, a stout man with a friendly smile—one of the only friendly smiles I have seen, in fact—announces me.
“Lady Suraya Saab of House Aldebaran.”
If Queen Morvarid remembers me from the courtyard, she gives no indication of it... or perhaps I have sunk well and truly beyond redemption. Her body and her bearing are equally stony, the complete opposite of the frailness of her husband sitting beside her. I wonder if their son’s engagement is his idea or hers, given the lung disease that has eaten away at King Zarek over the last handful of years. He looks like a walking corpse. I curtsy, making the required formal greetings to them both, and then am presented to the prince.
Laleh was certainly not wrong—Prince Javed is indeed capable of melting all female undergarments in a ten-mile radius. His pale blueeyes are hypnotic against his rich brown skin, set like twin aquamarines in a handsome, aristocratic face. His dark hair is smartly trimmed, a fitted jacket tailored to perfection over a pair of broad, muscular shoulders. Something in his refined features makes me think of the gardener from the courtyard, the only other man I’ve met here, not that there’s any comparison between the two, of course. This is thecrown prince,not some lackey.
“Your Highness,” I manage after an awkward pause. I drop into a graceless curtsy with legs that feel as sturdy as toothpicks.
“Lady Suraya,” he greets me. His voice is deep and resonant as he steps forward to take my hand in his.
My entire body tenses as alternating bands of cold and hot envelope my spine, the feeling of being in danger intensifying. My father’s warnings blare through my brain. I wasn’t supposed to touch anyone... but this is theprince.
Flustered beyond belief, I want to yank my hand away, but I can only stare at him in stupefied silence when he turns it over to examine my palm.
“How is Coban these days?” he asks.
“H-hot.”
His bare thumb strokes the heart of my palm, and for an instant, I remember the touch of the crone and recoil without meaning to, nearly snatching my fingers away. Horrified, I freeze in place, hoping he won’t take the reaction as an insult. The prince’s gaze lingers on my face, and something in those magnetic eyes chills me for a moment. But then his mother makes an impatient noise, and his gaze moves past me, to the next woman in line.
Exhaling in relief at the dismissal, I take the waiting arm of an attendant, wanting nothing more than to lose myself among the other ladies. But it’s clear I am a pariah. They all avoid me as though I’m pestilence personified, without bothering to mask their scorn. Or their pity.
I’ve sidled to the corner of the room when the viceroy silences the crowd and announces that the queen wishes to say a few words. I feel her stare lash toward me like the bite of an arctic wind and instantly try to make myself smaller, shifting farther behind a marble pillar. Will she single me out? Condone my behavior? Mark me as the icon of uncouth vulgarity?
“What in the realms are you doing?” a low voice asks, and I jump. A curious Clem, radiant in a shimmering pale pink gown that looks like a thousand petals sewn together, is peering around the pillar at me.
“Hiding,” I confess. “The queen looks like she might behead me for fun.”
“That’s just her,” Clem whispers. “Serious resting b—”
“Chosen, welcome to Kaldari.”
“—itch face.” The entire room falls instantly silent, including Clem, who swallows the last part of her sentence with a yelp. The urge to giggle at her unrepentant smirk makes my nose burn, but I smash my lips together.
Queen Morvarid addresses the crowd in those same clipped, aristocratic tones from the courtyard, a deceptively soft smile touching her mouth. “You special few have been invited here as contenders for my son’s hand, and he will select his bride by the end of our celebrations.” Excited squeals follow her announcement. “But first, you must demonstrate that you are also up to the task.” The queen’s benevolent smile grows teeth. “Can you be the princess my son needs? Will you serve your future king without question? Kneel to the crown and pledge your blood, body, and soul?”
Sands, I’m going to fucking gag. I notice the besotted expressions of the women beside me. Are they actually buying this horseshit? Prince Javed should be proving himself to us, not the reverse. I scoff quietly, and Clem shoots me a droll expression so like Laleh’s that a bolt of homesickness hits me.
