Astrid scans the small crowd for the other heir. There’s a large tent on the far side of the terrace. That must be where they’re meeting.
She turns to say this to her mother and notices the queen is shaking, trapped in her anger and grief. She squeezes her mother’s fingers.
“Hey,” she says. “It’s not like that for me. We’re just here to be fitted with my outfit for the duel, no circus. No bets. Let’s try and enjoy it, and maybe sample whatever the hell that pink pyramid monstrosity is.”
Gwen huffs. “That is Makesh delight.”
There’s a pang as Astrid remembers the lord’s daughter from Makesh, the one Jessa had been flirting with at the Masked Ball. Lucia, her name was. She feels depressingly grateful to that woman for giving Jessa a taste of normality, of fun, however brief.
“Apt, because we’re going to have adelightfultime at this Measuring,” Astrid forces out, and Gwen shakes her head but smiles at her. Astrid cannot give even an inch of space to think, to panic, to spiral.
She has a week. She will make the most of it.
“Ah, Princess Astrid, you’ve arrived!” A small woman with mountains of dove-white hair piled atop her head approaches. She offers a small curtsy to Astrid and her mother, then claps her hands together in pleasure. “Have you been offered refreshment?” The woman gestures to a table with various pots of tea and bowls of herbs and spices.
“I’ll take a mint tea, thank you…?” Astrid says this like a question, and the woman pulls her painted lips into a wide smile.
“Apologies, Your Highness. I’m Agata, head Weaver.” She tears leaves from a sprig of mint and places them in a teacup. “I’ll be leading the Measuring today; and I must say, I’m rather glad it’ll be in a much more civilized manner than it usually is. Princess Skylar is already settled with the queen, so we’ll just get these drinks sorted,” she says, as she pours hot water into the cup, “and head straight over there, where I’ll explain how this is going to work. And for you?” she says to Gwen as she passes Astrid her steaming cup.
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Splendid! Well, then let’s press on, shall we?”
Astrid likes the Weaver, she decides, as they follow her over to the tent, then through a pair of copper-colored silk curtains. Inside, Skylar and Ottilie are sitting in silence while a nervous-looking young man cowers in the corner.
“Beni, come over here, boy. My assistant,” Agata says by way of explanation as he rushes to his mistress’s side. “Princess Astrid, Queen Guinevere, please, take a seat, won’t you?”
Astrid joins Skylar on the chaise, while Gwen sits in an armchair on the opposite side of the tent, across from Ottilie. The Vatran queen has changed since the meeting with the Custodian this morning, and is overdressed compared to the rest of them in their simple tunics and leggings—or shorts in Skylar’s case. Ottilie’s wearing a rich burgundy gown with wide sleeves and a gold sash around the waist. There’s a look of bland impatience on her face as she sits ramrod straight in her chair, a glass of water held primly in her lap. Was she forced to come by the king for some reason? It’s doubtful Skylar wanted her here.
“It’s a pleasure to host you this afternoon, Your Royal Majesties, Your Highnesses. As you know, I’m the head Weaver here at The Rok, where I work primarily with Queen Ottilie on all things from official court fashion to soft furnishings. I am a rare Prime in my order in that I am a master of all natural fabrics and materials, able to Weave all to my will”—Astrid notes the quiet pride—“and because of that, I’ll be leading the team as we prepare your battle attire this afternoon. Princess Astrid, Queen Guinevere, we’ve set up an area for you over there”—she gestures to the back left of the tent, which is sectioned off—“and Princess Skylar and My Queen will be in there.” She points to the back right.
“You’re separating us?” Skylar asks, and Astrid doesn’t miss the flicker of alarm as she glances to Ottilie. She obviously doesn’t want to be on her own with the queen, not when this could take a while.
“That really won’t be necessary,” Astrid says to Agata.
“On the contrary, Princess.” Agata presses a hand to her chest. “You will each need your privacy to discuss duel tactics with your team! It would be highly unorthodox and against all tradition—”
“Tradition can get fuc—”
“What Skylar means to say”—Astrid interrupts her—“is that we have already done away with much of the tradition of the Measuring, and we would prefer to remain together.”
There’s an awkward silence as the Weaver looks between the queens; but as both merely shift uncomfortably and don’t actually object,there isn’t much she can do. A wide smile emerges on her face as Agata bounces back admirably from the small hiccup in her plans.
“Very well, then. My colleagues and I have been preparing designs for you to choose from, but before I bring them in to show you, can you tell me if you have a material and a color preference in mind? If you share a few ideas, I can select swatches.”
“I don’t care,” Skylar says, “just make sure whatever I’m wearing isn’t flammable. And that I have somewhere to keep a couple of daggers.” Astrid notes Skylar’s clenched fist, the lack of emotion in her voice. She’s barely holding it together. And why should she? They’re being asked what they want to wear when they try to kill each other. It’s outrageous, frankly.
“Perhaps, Agata, we stick to a Vatran palette?” Ottilie says. “Red and gold do suit her coloring.”
To Astrid’s surprise, Skylar doesn’t protest.
Agata nods. “And you, Princess Astrid?”
“I want something breathable, and I want to be covered. Color-wise, I’d prefer something silver.”
“Ahh, silver for Arturea,” Agata says knowingly.
Astrid is about to correct her, but Skylar cuts in. “No, not light silver. She wants a gray silver—the kind of silver you find in a storm.”
