CHAPTER TWELVE #3
Except for the locket. I could shift it into something else, but I didn’t want to.
It was my mother’s, and I couldn’t bear to alter it in any way.
But because Olivay wouldn’t be wearing a necklace etched with the wings of an old witch’s beast, or carrying the likenesses of Orsete and Princess Shamhira, I took it off and tucked it into a small golden vase beside the mirror.
No flowers lay within. It was too small to fit nearly anything else, and was most likely just for décor, which meant it would be overlooked.
I pushed the vase back, and stepped back into the room, revealing the dress and effect to the Hermit.
The bastard clapped. “Perfection. I can’t see the difference at all.”
I was ready to snap at him, but his eyes narrowed.
“We have company,” he said.
And right on cue, there was a knock on the door.
My heart raced with the approach of my first true test of deception, as I rushed over to the bed, throwing myself across it.
I feigned that I’d just woken from a nap as a castle servant entered and set up my meal on a nearby table.
I was still hungry, considering I’d only eaten one meal in the last few days, and everything looked delicious.
But my enjoyment of the food faded quickly as the Hermit quizzed me endlessly on the names of Olivay’s cousins, and her favorite foods and songs.
Every last thing he could think of, and before every bite I could take, he asked.
My heart pounded even harder when Abigail arrived to draw my bath.
“Your Highness,” she said, and curtseyed. “Did you have a nice nap and meal?”
She spoke nervously, like she didn’t know Olivay well, or at the very least, was intimidated by her.
“Very well,” I said, trying my best to hold back my instinct to make her feel at ease.
Then she frowned, taking in my appearance, my hair, my clothes, everything. Something was wrong, she could see it already. Was it the way I was standing? Had part of my glamour fallen away? Or had I gotten a detail wrong? Had I misremembered her?
“You didn’t call for me to change,” Abigail said.
“I, I didn’t I—what?” I asked.
“Your dress, Your Highness. It’s not the one you were wearing this morning.”
Nor was it one I could put on by myself. The one I’d needed my Azete magic to lace up. I glared at the Hermit.
Thought of every fucking detail, hadn’t he? Except for my lady-in-waiting actually taking notice of what I was wearing and when I changed my clothes, because of course I required her services to get in and out of my clothing. Was I wearing my hair wrong, too? Fuck.
“That would be my fault,” Lord Brandon said.
Abigail looked scandalized. “The princess’s meal arrived, and I’m afraid I startled her when I knocked. She spilled a bit of sauce on her dress. I had the queen’s servant help—she was passing by at the right time.”
It was a believable story. A stupid one.
And one Abigail didn’t seem to fully trust. “I came to help you prepare for tonight. I was going to draw your bath. But if you would rather, um, that I don’t, that someone else—”
“Draw it,” I said. “Please.”
She vanished into the bathroom while the Hermit eyed me, annoyed.
I looked away. I couldn’t handle him at that moment.
I was shaking too badly. I’d already screwed up.
I knew she shouldn’t have questioned me.
I was a princess. I didn’t have to answer to her at all.
But I also understood why she’d done so—it had been her job.
And her failure to complete it could get her into trouble.
I gave her a quick smile as she returned a little while later.
She ushered Lord Brandon from the room for the sake of my privacy.
I didn’t speak as she undressed me, nor as she helped me bathe.
I closed my eyes, pretending I needed more rest as she washed my hair.
I had to fight not to show just how much I enjoyed that, how I’d needed it.
Then I dried off as she began applying oils and perfumes to every inch of my body.
Smelling better and feeling cleaner than I had in days, Abigail sat me down for hair and makeup in what was admittedly the softest robe that had ever touched my skin.
Lord Brandon, of course, insisted he return to my side to keep me company and offer counsel.
Nervously, I made small talk with Abigail as she worked, trying to get to know her, mostly as an excuse to not talk about myself.
To make her forget about the earlier dress situation.
The whole time I did so, Lord Brandon watched in the mirror, his eyes like a hawk, hanging on every question I asked and word I spoke.
His eyebrows shot up every time I said something he didn’t approve of, like asking Abigail how long she’d worked in the castle, or who she’d been serving before I arrived.
He had a Godsdamned coughing fit when I asked if she’d be allowed to attend the tourney that night.
Finally, my long dark hair was curled and shining to perfection.
Like a princess—a princess whose betrothal was about to be announced before an entire country.
Abigail braided a few pieces around my crown so beautifully the dark locks gleamed within each braid beneath the light.
For the final effect, she adorned my hair with white jasmine flowers, carefully threading the stems into the braids.
The warm floral scent wafted toward my nose, mixing with the sweet perfumes she’d applied to my neck.
Abigail pulled out my makeup supplies next.
I kept my face still, finally unable to speak, as she painted various shades of pink and red to my lips, cheeks, and eyes.
The hues she’d selected would have looked hideous and garish on my natural skin tone.
But they were absolutely stunning when painted across Olivay’s.
Finally made up, my eyes darkened with black liner, and my lashes extended with mascara, Abigail excused herself to retrieve my dress, which had apparently needed a last-minute alteration.
The second the door closed, the Hermit slammed his hand onto the vanity. “You’re too friendly,” he hissed.
I met his gaze in the mirror’s reflection, my stomach already in knots, but I glared back. “I thought I got to pick a personality.”
“You do, but Abigail has met Olivay already. And Olivay was far more reserved. You have to ease into it.”
I shook my head. “I had to fix your mistake with the dress! Gods.”
“You did not. She had no right to question you, or even comment on it. The real Olivay wouldn’t have supplied an explanation. She would know she didn’t need to.”
“She’s a servant. She sees her closely—me closely. She can become suspicious over anything—”
“Of course she can! She’ll be the first to suspect you of falsehood,” he said. “You don’t know how easily her allegiance can change if it suits her survival. Which is why you need to control the situation.”
“Well, maybe if you weren’t glaring down my throat the entire time, and coughing every five seconds, I could have focused and remained in control”
“Maybe you should just do the Godsdamned job you swore to do.”
My wrist burned at that moment. I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t in warning—if I had refused to fulfill my role or stepped out of line, it would have let me know. It had already demonstrated that to me today. The pain I felt was the Hermit’s magic, cruelly reminding me who held the upper hand.
“You already exposed yourself at the tavern to those who should have seen nothing,” he said, his voice darkening.
My throat went dry, the truth I’d been trying to ignore all day. Brennan knew. Brennan knew what I was. And so did his friends. Cecelia had seen me transform, too.
How many were there who knew? How many were hunting for me?
“The whole kingdom is on edge,” he said. “Chimera attacking, and a demonos unaccounted for. Everyone is far more suspicious now than normal. Especially with all these foreigners here.”
“The Spartvans?” I asked.
He nodded. “Right now, you must focus on becoming Olivay until they believe you are. Do not underestimate Abigail. She’s quiet, but she’s observant. They all are. They see more than you know. And they talk.”
“I’m not an idiot,” I snapped. After all, I had been raised a princess. Our customs were not so different, and witches interacted with each other much as the mortals in Eskalon did. There was jealousy and gossip, as often as there were secrets shared and kept amongst friends.
“Yes, but you’ve also been living as a commoner for seven years, and it shows. You may have been kind, but even you would not have asked so many questions, Shamhira. Olivay would never take such an interest in a servant. Abigail knows this. Every servant in the castle knows this.”
A moment later, there was a knock on the door as Abigail quietly announced her return, my dress carefully held between her hands. She frowned as she stepped inside, her emotions not strong enough for me to read, but her expression was telling enough.
The Hermit was right. I’d fucked up. She was already suspicious of me.
Immediately, my instinct was to apologize and blame my nerves for being so chatty and curious. I barely bit my tongue in time to stop myself. I had been a commoner for too long.
I schooled my face in the mirror, affecting a more snobby, disinterested expression.
I rolled my eyes at her in the mirror. “You poor thing. You must think that I suddenly can’t stop talking.”
“I certainly think that’s true,” Lord Brandon drawled.
Abigail smiled nervously, her eyes jumping back and forth between the two of us. “My opinion is not of consequence. I am sure you have a million questions about life in the castle, Your Highness. Not that I would presume such things.”