Chapter 15 #3
“And when you are corrected,” Kiala adds, “you say: ‘Thank you. I am grateful to learn.’”
“What if the correction is cruel?”
“It will be,” Merlina quips. “You still say the line.”
Now I’m clean, polished, pinned, and rubbed raw, the seamstress finally approaches after standing back. She removes a few fabric bits and boning pieces from her basket, and heat builds along my ribs where the sharp, harsh materials bite in.
After a few disapproving clicks of the older woman’s tongue, a mock gown is brought out. It is white and tawny, spotted much like a fawn.
“Time to try this on,” she says quietly. Once clothed, I find the measurements are exact again. They begin to tighten the corset, and sharp pains erupt over my rib cage.
It is enough to awaken my friend.
Why not just kill all of them? The king already wants you. Why the torture?
I ignore the curse, but when Kiala tightens the laces another notch, blood rushes in my ears. I force myself to stand as commanded and feel the chair’s absence like a betrayal. Pins prick my scalp. The floor feels inclined at some strange angle.
“I heard last night went well,” Eslina said, not looking at me but at the place just above my shoulder where the air hangs oddly still. “Some say you showed spine. Some say you showed ignorance. Most are annoyed about their wardrobes.”
“Lady Ceryth plans to sponsor a new set of seamstresses,” Merlina adds. “Auditions the morning after tomorrow. She would like you to attend.”
The seamstress currently working on my dress stills, but doesn’t say anything.
“What good would I be?” Acid climbs up my throat.
“To demonstrate that you can make a choice that supports your husband without trembling,” Merlina says. “The court hates a trembler, as does His Majesty. Right now, more than ever, they want to see him cement his power. Otherwise, they topple delicately built things.”
“What does that mean?” I ask without thinking.
The three women pause, looking at themselves.
No one answers, and I squirm. Sure that there is even more I cannot parse out or understand.
Merlina picks up a comb and begins playing with its teeth. “So you used to be a weaver?”
“In another life, yes,” I say, and my insides ache. “But my knowledge is of technique. I’m not that up-to-date on fashion.”
“Well, you will learn with us. Think of yourself like an ornament,” Kiala says evenly, almost as if she’s grateful that we’ve successfully changed the subject, “until you are not. Or until you are broken.”
I think of last night. The meal, the dinner, and the attempt on my life. My breath is shallow. This place is hell, and they already want me to start working. I don’t know which noble person sent the assassin.
Maybe it was Lady Ceryth.
It likely doesn’t matter, I’m sad to say. They will never tell you. What matters is that you still breathe, Cursed One says.
Merlina starts working on adjusting the neckline of my dress and then she produces a bejeweled belt. “She enjoys polishing until she finds bone. Now hold still, human.”
“I am trying.”
“Try better.”
That phrase. I keep hearing it from them, from Arion, from Thorne. It makes me want to cry in frustration.
They turn me away from the gilt mirror, and the belt tightens. The light in the room shifts as the sun hauls itself higher, and for a moment, a spray of brightness breaks across the floor, onto the mirrors, and into my eyes.
Behind that light, I see—ridiculously, impossibly—the memory of another kind of glow, warm as a hearth laid against a chest. Glimmering crystals and stones glitter in caves, with a magical temple supplying the connection each underground citizen holds to their gods.
A memory from Enduvida. The man who lied to me is there, with his palm over my hand, his jaw tight, his breath quickening—the way, when he drew near, I felt something inside me answer.
We moved as if there were a string stretched between us.
I sway as they pull on the ties of my dress again.
Eslina’s hand presses to my elbow. “Breathe,” she tsks. I do.
It does not help.
Not now, I chide my memory.
But I like the memories of your past. Better than this shithole.
Kiala sets a circlet on my head, then steps back.
“Appear pleasant, human,” she demands.
I’m still drowning in thoughts of a place that is lost to me, with a man I will never see again. Despite her gaze, I can’t bring myself to shift my expression. To push away the pain pulsating just under the thin layer of armor I’d thought I could make impenetrable.
Though they all watch me, it is Kiala whose expression bears a hint of pity.
“You look just as soft as a doe primed for the hunt. Innocent. Weak. Remember, whatever softness they admire in you as a curiosity will be eaten on the first night the court sees you,” she says, matter-of-fact. “If you prefer to keep any of it, hide it in places not easily reached.”
“Where?” I ask.
Merlina’s gaze slides down my face, chest, and then to my stomach. I realize after a moment, she gazes at my womb—the place where life might one day take root by some miracle.
“If I were you, I would cast out every inch of softness you possess. This life will not be kind to you if you are weepy over a fitting. And that stone in your chest…if they see some symbol of your connection to our enemies, they will be that much more cruel.”
My hand comes up to touch the Fuegorra. “Could we disguise it as jewelry?”
The women look incredulous. Even a quick glance at the silent seamstress elicits a quick frown.
“Glamour? I’ve seen your kind use that. We could apply a little—”
“We will seek answers with Master Thorne and tell you later.”
My fingers heat as the stone glows just a little. As if it knows that we are talking about it. The others watch me as if I were some kind of animal, and I am raw and uncomfortable all over.
Something doesn’t feel right.
Nothing feels right.
And it won’t while you play pawn for these ugly people.
I turn my attention to Cursed One.
You know, I say, I used to fear you. You made me do terrible things. And yet now…you speak to me almost like a friend. You…saved me twice.
The voice is silent for a long moment.
We are all products of the people who control us, Red. I can’t say I don’t enjoy killing—or that I am not good at it. But I am…remorseful that you had to do it against your will.
You feel? I push.
More silence follows, and I am forced to watch the mirror as my ladies’ maids flit about me.