CHAPTER 8 #3
Guest. Right. Guests usually have the option to leave.
Throwing my hands up, I follow Grace to the chamber as steam engulfs us. “Let’s get on with it, then.”
The bathing chamber is nearly as large as my entire cottage back home. A deep stone tub sits in the center, and the water is scented with herbs I don't recognize. Shelves carved into the walls hold oils, soaps, and folded linen towels that look softer than anything I've ever touched.
I reluctantly undress in front of them, trying to hide as much as I can but it’s nearly impossible. Grace looks as if she’s about to die of embarrassment, and her face is an angry shade of red that surpasses even Tilda’s. Great. We’ll all be uncomfortable if I have to be subjected to this.
Sitting in the tub, I scrub away days of dirt in stubborn silence while Tilda and Grace fuss over everything else.
Tilda uses a hard-bristled brush to get the grime from underneath my fingernails while Grace runs gentle fingers through my hair, working lavender-scented soap through my curls as she gently detangles the thick silver mass.
I’m stubborn, not stupid, so I don’t protest anymore and to be honest, it feels nice to have people care for me in this way.
Even if it is by the king’s order. I’ve never received any type of special treatment in Elvora, and I’ve never taken a bath that has left me feeling as clean as this—ever—so I let them fuss, trim, and pamper me to their heart’s content.
By the time I step from the bath wrapped in a thick towel, Grace is waiting with a comb. I stop, eying the comb then looking at her, shaking my head vigorously.
“My hair is fine, Grace.”
“It deserves better than fine, milady. You are to be presented before the King of Solaris. You must look perfect,” Tilda replies.
I mutter a curse under my breath that earns a knowing smile from Grace. At least someone has a sense of humor around here.
They work in practiced silence, fingers weaving deftly through my thick silver curls. Every tug makes me wince but they pay me no mind.
“Ouch. Can you braid it and leave it be?”
My scalp is tender and it feels like hours have passed. Surely my appearance wasn’t that bad.
“Beauty requires patience, milady.” Tilda says through gritted teeth with a forced smile.
“Call me Lyra. And I think I’ve shown more than enough patience.”
Grace bites back a laugh and I smile, tucking my lips in as I watch Tilda’s nostrils flare. I’m pretty sure she’s had it with me which is fine—I’ve had it with the pampering, this palace, and this entire fucking kingdom.
“Please, milady. Let us finish. When we’re done, you’ll look lovely. Just a bit more.” Grace’s voice is soft as she loops her fingers around my curls to define them. I nod stubbornly, but only because Grace asked nicely. It’s Tilda I want to push through the window.
When they're finally finished, the braids wrap around the crown of my head before disappearing into the loose silver curls spilling down my back.
Delicate tendrils frame my face, softening features I barely recognize in the towering mirror.
I haven't seen myself look like this—ever.
A quiet gasp slips past my lips before I can stop it, and I lift a hand to cover my mouth.
For a heartbeat, I forget where I am. Then Grace appears behind me carrying a gown draped carefully over her arms. But it's not just a dress.
It’s the dress.
The kind of gown little girls imagine queens wear.
But this isn’t imagination, and though I’m not a queen, the dress is certainly fit for one.
I don't protest as they slip it over my head. The fabric settles against my skin like liquid midnight. It’s as black as a moonless night, with jewels stitched across the bodice like scattered stars, glittering with impossible precision.
The neckline dips lower than anything I've ever worn, leaving my collarbones and the swell of my breasts exposed, while a daring slit parts the skirt high enough to reveal nearly the length of one leg. It’s fitted like a glove to my body, and I have to admit—Grace and Tilda have worked absolute magic.
“I can't wear this,” I say, shaking my head as I stare at my reflection.
“You can and you must, Lady Tarethyn,” Tilda squeaks, forcing a smile as her face turns the color of a ripe cherry tomato.
“I won't. It’s… too much.” I cross my arms stubbornly because I’ve never felt so exposed in my life. I’ve been trying to draw attention away from myself my entire life—now I’ll be on full display, visible for every eye to judge and devour.
“You will, milady. We have our orders.”
“My name is Lyra. Not milady. L-Y-R-A. And I won’t!”
Grace only smiles as she smooths the fabric over my hips. The gown molds to me as though it had been stitched for my body alone, skimming every curve before cinching perfectly at my waist.
I narrow my eyes. “How does it fit so perfectly?”
Neither woman answers and I narrow my eyes. Without saying a word, they tell me everything I need to know. This wasn't planned overnight.
They’ve been preparing for me.