With a sigh, she turned from the television and answered a video call on her cell phone. Reception was wonderful in America—everywhere she went she had five bars. Zimrada, with its volcanic mountains and many hills, was littered with dead spots.
She sat on the edge of the bed, afraid she’d pop a seam in the dress. After tapping accept, she said, “Hello, Mother.”
Mother leaned forward, her eyes tight as she inspected Nyssa. “Where is your tiara?”
Nyssa’s hand shot to her bare head. “I haven’t put it on yet.”
“You need to greet your guests.”
“I know, Mother. This dress …” She wrapped her spare hand around her back, hoping to grip the zipper, pull it down, and allow air into her body once again. “It’s like wearing a wet suit two sizes too small.”
“I thought you would appreciate it—the designer is American.”
Nyssa had read the label and wondered how her mother was able to come up with a gown this expensive on their tight budget and time frame. Then again, she’d organized a ball—and the discount from the hotel—from their island with nothing more than a cell phone; Nyssa shouldn’t be surprised at anything her mother could accomplish. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so she hurried to add, “The styleisimpeccable. No one will question its beauty, even if they find the woman inside it lacking.”
“You are not a mere woman—you are a princess.”
“But—”
Mother cut her off. “I hear all the traditions your father teaches, Nyssa. I understand the value of serving the people and providing for yourself. But half of you is Aradian and I have taught you to carry yourself like a princess. Stand tall. Be brave. Be kind. And show them the royal you truly are.”
Nyssa’s gaze drifted to the tiara atop the dresser.
“I have to go. Remember to greet your guests at the door, and don’t go inside until the last one has arrived—it’s rude.”
“Okey-dokey.” Nyssa repeated the phrase her driver used when he dropped her off at the hotel.
“Okey-dokey?” Her mother’s nose wrinkled tight; the sight reminded Nyssa of when her younger brother, YB, had hidden a dead grouper behind the bookshelf.
“It’s an American phrase—it means …” Nyssa rolled over the connotation in her head. “Yes, Mother.”
Mother’s lips puckered. She didn’t quite believe Nyssa, as was evidenced in her eyes, but she wasn’t willing to argue the point. “Oh. Before I forget, I’ve arranged a surprise for you tonight.”
“Really?” They’d discussed several options for music for the ball. Nyssa wanted a brass band to play 50s swing music. That was a no. The balloons for decorations? Not classy enough for a ball. Ice cream Sundays? Too messy. All of it a compromise between Nyssa’s shoo-bop dreams and Mother’s simple but elegant tastes. However, Nyssa held out hope that something in the evening would strike her fancy.
“It should arrive during the ball.”
“Thank you, Mother. That’s very sweet of you.” An Elvis impersonator?Surely not.
“You can thank me after you see it.”
“I love you.” Nyssa waved.
“The love is returned,” answered the queen with an indulgent smile and wave of her own.
Nyssa hit the end call button. She immediately sagged, stretching the dressmaker’s talents to the limit. Rising slowly, she approached the dresser.
Her tiara was made of island gold with three small points. She hardly wore the ornament. When she did, she often forgot it was there because it was so delicate and light. Once, she had forgotten and fallen asleep with it. The next morning, she’d found it tangled in her black tresses so desperately that it had taken her mother and two villagers an hour to work it out. After fifteen minutes of tugging, yanking, and combing, Nyssa was in favor of scissors. The women clucked their disapproval and continued on as if she hadn’t spoken.
Tonight, the symbol of her status weighed on her mind much more than it weighed in her palms.
Mother was right: she was half Aradian. She supposed that was the half of her that enjoyed the look of the world’s most uncomfortable dress tracing her hips and the way mascara drew out her eyes. That part of her stood straight and didn’t blush when bowed to. But she wasn’t here to represent that half of her heritage. She was here to represent Zimrada, where the king’s hands were as weathered as his field workers’ hands. Setting the tiara back on the dresser, she ran her hand down her long black hair and rushed to answer Kingston’s knock at the door.
“Are you ready, Princess?” His voice was deeper than the great waters. This was the first time he’d spoken to her. In all their traveling, he’d motioned, pointed, and nodded, but said nary a word. In a way, she’d stopped seeing him as her traveling companion and more like a statue that moved.
“I am.” She smiled.
He did not smile in return, strengthening her mental image of him carved out of granite. His eyes went to her head as if he had heard the conversation she shared with Mother and knew she disobeyed. He couldn’t have overheard, not with the heavy wooden door between her room and the hallway. Perhaps he disapproved of her leaving the tiara behind for another reason. If that was the case, he did not lend voice to his thoughts. She moved in front of him to press the elevator button.
