Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
LARA
L ess than a full hour after Ivrael leaves, a round Icecaix woman with graying blonde hair artfully piled atop her head swoops into the room.
She’s wearing white lace gloves and a frilly pink dress, despite looking like she’s in her sixties, and is followed by several young women weighed down with supplies. They continue streaming in after her, carrying bolts of fabric, baskets brimming with sewing supplies, a tiny round dais, and several standing mirrors.
The young women deploy around the room, setting up their makeshift workshop like a well-trained army.
The older woman—the seamstress Ivrael had promised, I presume—claps her lace-gloved hands and says in a voice that sounds like it could be coming straight out of a cartoon, somehow both throaty and high-pitched all at once, “It is time to wake up, my pretty new charges. You have been chosen by Lady Uanna, companion to Prince Jonyk himself, to receive the attentions of her entire dressing team.”
Lucilline trails in behind everyone else, her eyes wide. She carries our jeans, T-shirts, sweaters, and undergarments, all carefully laundered and folded in a stack.
She glances around the room as if trying to decide where to put them. But the entire space has been taken over by the seamstress and her team, so Lucilline sidles around the edges of the room until she gets to a freestanding armoire. She hastily opens it, stuffing the clothes inside on a shelf before shutting the cabinet door again.
Izzy and I are in chairs in the sitting room when the dressing team arrives, and I pull the belt of my borrowed robe tight around my waist before standing. I’d rather put on my jeans again, but I know how the Caix work.
Izzy glances at the armoire and announces, “I like what I was wearing before.”
The seamstress tilts her tiny nose high in the air. “That… costume will never do for a member of the Ice Court.”
I move closer to my sister and murmur, “Usually, it’s easier to just go along with whatever weird-ass thing is happening.”
“Are you sure?” she hisses.
“As sure as I can be about anything. This is a strange place.”
My sister is much more polite to the dressing team than I am. Or maybe it’s just that I have been in the Icecaix lands far too long—much longer than she has—and therefore no longer give a shit about being polite to anyone who doesn’t wield direct power over me.
In any case, Izzy is the one who asks our fairy godmother seamstress her name. I’m glad, since I can’t remember what Ivrael called her.
“I am Madame Evangeny,” she trills out in that strange voice of hers.
“Bippity, boppity, boo,” I mutter.
Evangeny gives me an odd frown, but Izzy snickers.
“That’s not how you say it,” my sister says, just like she always did when we watched that movie as kids.
“I like my way better.” I move to the armoire where Lucilline has stashed our newly laundered clothing.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” the maid asks.
I start to tell her I’m fine and send her on her way, but then I pause. “Where will you go if I say I don’t need anything?”
Her face twists. “Back down the stairs to help your housemaids with the dusting. I hate the dusting. Makes me sneeze, it does.” Her nose wrinkles and she shakes her head.
“Our housemaids? You mean Ramira?”
Lucilline’s mouth ties up in an unhappy twist. “Aye. That one”
No wonder she didn’t want to go. “What if I say I might need you later?”
Her eyes brighten perceptibly. “Then I would need to stay with you, just to be sure.”
I nod. “Then I am almost certainly going to need you for something later. Why don’t you stick around?”
She smiles so brightly I’m surprised the whole room doesn’t light up. I’m glad I made that call.
After I rifle through the clothing in the armoire, I decide to pull on my panties under my robe. As soon as they’re on, I breathe a sigh of relief, feeling less vulnerable than I did before.
Evangeny sniffs. “We will arrange for new undergarments by the time you arrive at court,” she says, as if my underwear offends her.
“And until then, I’ll go ahead and wear these.” I’m gearing up to do battle over my panties when Madame Evangeny backs down, sneering but making no further comment when I hand Izzy her undergarments, as well.
As it turns out, I shouldn’t have bothered making a stand over them. Izzy and I spend the next hour taking turns being measured and discussed, lengths of fabric held up to our faces and draped across our bodies. Bits of fabric are twisted and shaped and held in place with pins, then cut and sent away with minions for, I assume, sewing.
By the end of the first hour, any modesty I might have had remaining is long gone, at least with this group.
Especially after Madame Evangeny stripped my robe off my shoulders, leaving it hanging down around my thighs. Then she hefted my breasts in both hands and gazed at them appraisingly for a long moment before nodding and dropping them in order to make some notes in her notebook.
I knew there had to be something about Cinderella’s transformation that sucked.
“Can I at least sit down?” I finally mutter to the team member who is measuring the length from my collarbone to my waist.
The minion—a lovely blonde girl—cringes away from me when I speak. I wish I could say she’s shocked that I’ve spoken to her. But her reaction is fear, not surprise.
In the end, I remember, it’s not much safer to be a servant-class Icecaix in the Ice Court than it is to be a Starcaix or a human.
In all the Cinderella stories, the heroine’s transformation is effected in an instant. The fairy godmother waves her magic wand, a trail of twinkling lights swirls around, and Cinderella finds herself in a brand-new dress. Rinse and repeat until she’s ready to go to the ball.
Our fittings take hours.
And even when the minions whisk away the dresses, we’re not allowed to rest. A second group of minions swarm our suite, led by another queen bee.
Miss Melliosi.
She and Madame Evangeny confer, and then Miss Melliosi deploys her troops to complete our hair and makeup.
Lucilline inserts herself into this process, joining one of the minions in styling my hair and another in doing my makeup. In the meantime, yet another assistant begins shoving various shoes onto our feet, again taking measurements and writing down details.
By the time our shoes are chosen—with the promise that the next ones will be custom-made—and our makeup is complete, Madame Evangeny’s minions have returned with two dresses, one for me and one for Izzy, both relatively simple and modest for the Caix realms. The sewing minions begin stitching us into the dresses.
“Do you think we’ll be able to get out of these later?” Izzy asks.
Twisting around to try to see what the seamstress-in-training is doing, I say, “No clue. Hey—once you’ve got me sewn into this rig, how do I take it off?”
The girl snickers and speaks quietly. “These are the final alterations. It should be as removable as any other dress.”
Why does that seem less than encouraging?
Under any other circumstances, I might have enjoyed the process. As it was, however, I’m exhausted.
Finally, Madame Evangeny steps back and tilts her head, examining us again. She purses her lips, crosses her arms, and taps her lips with one forefinger.
“I believe we’re done. This should do nicely.” With a single nod, she takes a step back and twirls her finger in the air, an instruction for us to turn around and look in the mirror.
Izzy tugs at the bodice of her dress, trying to move the lace up to better hide her cleavage.
I glance at myself in the mirror, almost unrecognizable compared to how I looked when I arrived last night. Softer, somehow. And pretty again.
But there’s something…
I glance down at the pale blue ribbons around my wrists. For my dress, Madame Evangeny has chosen a blue silk in the same shade with a matching pale blue chiffon overskirt split down the front and embroidered in delicate silver flowers along the edges, connected by silver vines.
My blue silk heeled shoes—Madame Evangeny called them my dancing slippers—are visible where the toes peek out from beneath my skirts. The overskirt flows behind me in a train that Madame Evangeny has pinned up into a small flower of a bustle behind me.
Similarly, Izzy's dress has silver flowers and vines embroidered on the bodice, along the sweetheart neckline, and on the little cap sleeves of her navy-blue dress.
“You are lucky His Lordship allowed us to remake some of his lady mother’s old dresses,” the lead seamstress says. “We could not have completed so much detailed work otherwise.”
So Ivrael is the one who arranged for a dress that matches the ribbons around my wrist. That’s creepy—especially since he chose those ribbons on the spur of the moment.
Or so I thought.
“We will have more temporary dresses to deliver tomorrow,” Madame Evangeny continues. “His Lordship has ordered full wardrobes for both of you, but those will be delivered directly to the court.”
The look she gives me makes it clear just how much of a waste she believes that decision is, and I remember for the first time in several hours that although she’s a seamstress, she’s also Ice Court.
Cruel. Dangerous.
I need to remember to never drop my guard around her—or any of the Icecaix.
“In the meantime, you need to practice your curtsies in these dresses. They are more restrictive than modern human garments.” Disgust threads through Madame Evangeny’s voice. “I will work with you until His Lordship is ready to receive you.”
I groan aloud. Adefina attempted to teach me to curtsy months ago. The most I had ever managed correctly was a slight bob and a nod, and I forgot to do it about half the time I was apparently supposed to.
This lesson does not go any better than the ones with Adefina did.
“No, no, no!” Madame Evangeny sings out in frustration. “What kind of heathen land are you from?”
“Texas,” I say helpfully.
Izzy and I glance at each other and snicker, and Madame Evangeny’s mouth tightens.
“Again!” she commands.
We’re still practicing when Ivrael arrives. He walks into our room and casts a critical glance in our direction, surveying us with narrowed eyes for a long moment before he nods in appreciation.
“You’ve done excellent work,” he says, giving Madame Evangeny an abbreviated bow.
She curtsies even lower. “Your timing is impeccable, Your Lordship.”
And for a moment, I want to contradict her. Nothing about him is impeccable .
He’s awful.
But Madame Evangeny doesn’t want to cross him, so she makes sure she points her annoyed expression at Izzy and me only when he’s not looking.
One side of Ivrael’s mouth curls up in a smile and he raises one eyebrow. “Your charges look beautiful.”
“Thank you, Your Lordship.” Madame Evangeny is practically simpering.
I glance at her, and then at Ivrael. He looks amazing, but I’m not about to tell him that. Like us, he’s dressed in blue, his suit a navy so dark it’s almost black. Crisp white shirt sleeves show from under the sleeves of the dark jacket, and bright silver detailing and shining buttons contrast against it. He wears a white cravat at his neckline, and incongruously, I find myself imagining taking it off from around his neck.
Wondering what the hell is wrong with me, I shake off the thought and glance away.
Only when I look back at him a moment later do I see that the vines embroidered along his cuffs and collar match the ones on my overskirt and bodice—minus the flowers. Vines, I realize, that look remarkably like the ones in Ivrael’s former ballroom.
The ballroom he conspired with the firelord to burn to the ground.
Ivrael has once again marked me—marked both of us—as belonging to him through our clothing just as surely as branding us with a tattoo in the middle of our foreheads would.
I don’t know if the rest of the wardrobe Madame Evangeny has promised will be similarly marked, but it won’t surprise me. There’s nothing I can do about it at this point, however.
While I’m contemplating our new clothing, Madame Evangeny gives an imperious gesture; her team scurries like ants, and they begin breaking down everything.
Ignoring the bustling of the servants around him, Ivrael says, “We should leave. I’ve arranged for an informal dinner before we begin the evening’s lessons.”
“God,” Izzy groans. “More lessons? I haven’t even figured out that curtsy thing yet.”
“You will. I’ll make sure of it.”
I’m not sure if Ivrael’s words are a threat or a promise.
I follow Ivrael into the small dining room that evening, my heart stuttering as memories flood back.
The last time I was in here, I dropped a serving bowl when I found him with Lady Uanna. Before that, I overheard the Baron asking to...
I shove the thought away, focusing instead on the ornate white and blue wallpaper, the delicate frost patterns etched into the windowpanes.
Izzy trails behind me. She pauses in the doorway, taking in the elegant table settings and crystal chandelier with wide eyes.
“Fancy,” she mutters under her breath.
Before we can sit down, the door swings open and Adefina bustles in carrying a large tray. The familiar scent of her fresh-baked bread makes my chest ache with sudden longing for the safety of her kitchen.
She sets down plates of steaming soup, roasted vegetables, and thick slices of that heavenly bread—real food, not the raw meat and frozen delicacies the Icecaix prefer.
“I insisted on bringing this up myself,” she announces, her warm gaze fixed on me. “Had to see you with my own eyes, didn’t I?”
The cook shoots Ivrael a look that could freeze water—impressive for a Starcaix—before turning back to me with open arms.
I practically fall into her embrace, the soft roundness of her so different from the sharp angles of this frozen world. She smells like cinnamon and woodsmoke.
She smells like home.
“Oh child,” she murmurs, squeezing me tight. When she pulls back, her eyes are suspiciously bright. “You look well enough, I suppose. Better than when you were in my kitchen, at least.”
Hard to believe it’s been less than a week since the fire.
“Adefina,” I say, gesturing to my sister, “this is Izzy. The one I told you about.”
Adefina’s face softens as she looks at my sister. “Ah yes, the clever one. Welcome, dear. Though I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Nice to meet you,” Izzy says. “Lara’s told me how kind you were to her.”
“Someone had to be.” The cook casts another pointed glance at Ivrael, who appears to be studying the ice patterns on his wine glass with great interest.
The door swings open and then closes again. I hear the buzz of wings before I see her, but I’m already moving around Adefina.
“Kila!” I exclaim, tears springing to my eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
The pixie-like Starcaix raya flies over to me, hovering close to my face, her tiny forefinger wagging at me as she glares. “You left me. You went off and left me to die.”
My cheeks flame hot. “To be fair, I was pretty sure there was a good chance I could die too. Besides, I had to save my sister. You know how much that means to me.”
“And I don’t mean anything?”
My shoulders slump. She’s right. What I did to Kila was horrible, and I’ve been trying not to think about it, trying to convince myself that leaving her behind was the right choice.
Kila’s wings buzz angrily, and she spins around to see the room, her gaze finally settling on Izzy, who is watching us with huge eyes. “Is that her?”
“Yes. That’s my baby sister.”
Kila’s lips purse. “She does look pretty helpless.”
“She didn’t know anything about the Caix.”
“I guess you did have to try to save her.”
“I really did,” I whisper.
“But you failed,” the raya says pensively.
My voice drops even more, and I slump miserably. “I did.”
Kila inhales deeply, and then lets out a huge sigh as she rolls her eyes. “I guess I can try to forgive you.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying to sound as grateful and humble as I possibly can.
Switching back into her usual cheerful mood as quickly as only a raya can, Kila flits over to land on my shoulder, where she takes a seat. “Good. Now, I have to tell you all the latest gossip.”
“Oh, my God.” Izzy finally speaks, never taking her eyes off of Kila. “Even with everything that’s happened, I wasn’t sure I believed you. But it’s true. You’ve spent the last year hanging out with a fucking fairy.”
“We prefer the term raya ,” Kila says primly.
“Right. Raya,” Izzy agrees absently. “You’re beautiful.”
Kila preens under the attention. “Thank you. You’re pretty, too, for a Big.”
“The latest gossip?” I prompt her, though part of me dreads finding out who else might have died in Ivrael’s schemes while we were away. “What’s going on downstairs?”
Across the table, Ivrael’s shoulders tense slightly at my question. Interesting.
“Well,” Kila starts, settling more comfortably on my shoulder, “Ramira’s been absolutely unbearable since the fire. Strutting around like she’s the new head housekeeper just because she survived when Oriana didn’t.”
“Of course she has,” I say.
Kila pauses dramatically. “But Adefina put her in her place yesterday. Told her if she didn’t start actually doing some work instead of just ordering everyone else around, she’d find herself relegated to scrubbing pots.”
A snicker escapes me before I can stop it. I can perfectly picture Adefina’s no-nonsense expression, the way she’d plant her hands on her hips and stare Ramira down.
“Did she really?” Izzy asks, leaning forward with interest. She’s still staring at Kila like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. “What happened next?”
“Ramira turned this interesting shade of blue, like that”—Kila points at the wallpaper—“and stomped off to her room. But this morning she was actually seen dusting the library.”
“Miracles do happen,” I murmur, reaching for another piece of bread even as my mind spins with how surreal this all is—sitting at the formal dining table with Ivrael instead of serving him, my sister beside me, Kila perched on my shoulder gossiping like nothing has changed.
Except everything has changed.
I catch Ivrael watching me with that intense gaze that makes my skin prickle with awareness. Golden sparks dance in the depths of eyes, and heat floods my cheeks as I remember how his lips felt against mine.
But then I remember his plans to use us as a way to take the throne, and my stomach twists.
“Enough about Ramira,” Kila announces, wings buzzing with excitement. “Wait until you hear what Fintan did...”
I let her chatter wash over me, cherishing this moment of normalcy even as I know it can’t last.
Between Kila's stories and Izzy's wonder, I could almost believe we're just having a normal meal. But normal died the day Ivrael bought me in the Trasqo Market. For now, though, I let myself enjoy this moment of peace.
After all, in the Icecaix lands, peace—like everything else—shatters all too easily.