62
The following evening, everything was ready for the celebrations.
My handmaidens worked tirelessly to sew a very special dress. A dress that would make me stand out.
A dress that would keep Amlach from looking at any other elf.
I admired it in the tall mirror that had been brought into my rustic sitting room, while my maids finished preparing me.
The organza skirt, in shades of dark fuchsia, eggplant, and light antique purple, had a soft, loose line and distanced itself from my figure.
The floral details on the bodice appeared to be directly attached to my skin, subtly showcasing my small breast curves without crossing into vulgarity.
My pointed shoes were crafted from semi-transparent lace with delicate amethyst embellishments, like the gem on the gold tiara resting on my forehead.
But it wouldn’t be the bold color of my gown that would draw attention: It would be the fact that my skin was visible.
On the arms, on the chest, on the back.
I wanted Amlach’s eyes to burn every inch of it.
I wanted him to understand.
“It is such a relief that the ugliness you had to suffer in the Lands of the West has marked your body in only a very minimal way, Your Highness,” the handmaiden who had looked after me since my birth suddenly said.
She had a bronze complexion, a significantly larger upper lip compared to the lower one, a broad nose, and very long braids, ebony like her eyes, which she almost always kept half-closed, constantly peering at what was happening around her so as not to let anything slip.
“I wish it were so, Thessab.” I smiled ruefully, placing my hand on the one with which she was tracing one of the thin, whitish scars on my biceps.
“But unfortunately, the wound from the arrow that pierced my shoulder required many stitches. The healer of the man who held us in slavery did what he could.” But he didn’t have the skill or the high-quality tools used by elven healers.
Yesterday, two of them had come to visit me to try using our exceptional healing ointment, but it had no effect on the already-healed wounds. They had also considered reopening them one by one to allow the cream to work, but I had categorically refused.
They were part of me now.
Suddenly, I noticed that the two maids, who were combing my hair to make my golden waves even fuller, had stopped and were trading furtive glances with Thessab.
“What is it?” I demanded, puzzled by the strange atmosphere that had just settled over the room.
Thessab looked at me through the mirror, appearing just as confused. “You have no scar on your shoulder, Princess.”
I gave a faint, bittersweet half-smile. “I wish that were true,” I murmured.
But I had spent days and days in front of the mirror when we were in Rubra, monitoring the healing process.
And day after day, I had seen the flesh reseal poorly, until it formed an irregular, dark-pink thickening.
Eventually, Amlach had convinced me not to look at it anymore so that I could forget about it.
But the sensation of my skin pulling around the scar, even with the tiniest shoulder movements, never let me forget it was there.
And I didn’t want to forget that I had jumped in front of Amlach to save his life.
Thessab moved my hair over my shoulder and pointed to the mirror with a sweeping gesture. “See for yourself.”
I gave her an indulgent look and obliged, turning around to watch the generous part of my back exposed by the pointed neckline, bordered with floral lace appliques.
The next moment, I froze.
The scar on my shoulder blade was gone.