Grooming.
By the time I woke, it was high noon.
Despite the passing hours, I stayed snuggled safely beneath the sheets, my eyes closed as I imagined what meeting Regina would entail. Was she the hysteric King James claimed? Or a beacon of wisdom and hope for harmony?
My daydream was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
I bolted upright, combing my fingers through my disheveled hair, hoping I didn’t look like I’d spent all morning lazing around.
“Hello,” I called as I climbed out of bed.
Bronwyn waddled in, balancing a silver tray. “It’s already afternoon, just Niamh,” she said while a mouthwatering aroma filled the chamber. “You need to eat, bathe, and dress before you attend the Queen’s court this eve.”
She lifted the tray toward me and presented an assortment of delicious foods: a pinkish meat, brown bread, cheese, sea-salted butter, and ripe pears. My stomach rumbled.
“Thank you,” I said, settling the tray on my lap as I perched on the bedstead.
While I greedily devoured the feast, Bronwyn drew back the heavy damask curtains, letting in a jewel-colored light through the stained glass.
I admired the rainbow spilling into the chamber while a group of goblin servants dragged in a large wooden tub and filled it with boiling buckets of water.
Bronwyn then placed a wicker hamper beside the steaming vessel.
“Here’s tallow soap and sweet-smelling oils to cleanse yourself,” she said before departing with the rest of the goblins.
Once I’d eaten every crumb and my belly ached from being painfully full, I slogged over to the tub. I took a long, relaxing bath, scrubbing off months of dirt.
As I soaked, Bronwyn returned—this time accompanied by another goblinette.
They carried luxurious fabrics, laying them out on the bedstead.
I sank lower, hiding my nude body beneath the bubbles.
I assumed it was customary for the nobility to bathe in the presence of their chambermaids.
For me, this was unfamiliar. Possibly, the gentry saw their servants as extensions of themselves, or maybe they didn’t see them at all.
“Your gown for court, just Niamh,” Bronwyn announced. “Are you sure you don’t need help dressing?”
“I’m sure,” I replied firmly. The idea of having someone help me get dressed was almost laughable.
Bronwyn bowed her little head before exiting with her helper.
When the water turned cold, I emerged from the tub and slipped into a clean chemise.
Approaching the bedstead, I expected to find a simple kirtle, but the garments awaiting me were far from ordinary.
Each piece was exquisitely adorned with beads, jewels, and embroidery—beautiful but unfamiliar.
I sifted through the elaborate clothing, holding up the rings and rolls of fabric, clueless as to what went where.
A knock at the door interrupted my efforts to determine which skirt I was supposed to put on first.
“Come in,” I called, expecting Bronwyn to enter.
Instead, Fitzroy stepped through the doorway.
He looked dashing in a maroon doublet paired with a sleeveless jerkin trimmed with brown fur.
His tight-fitting hose were dyed an expensive violet color, and his breeches were fastened with a leather belt gilded with a gold buckle.
A velvet cloak cascaded regally from his shoulders, lined in ermine fur and secured with a jewel-encrusted broach.
Despite the decadence of his attire, his face remained the captivating centerpiece.
“Are you ready?” Fitzroy asked, his eyes briefly meeting mine before darting to the floor. “Excuse me,” he muttered, averting his gaze. “I didn’t realize you were in a state of undress.”
“Help me,” I pleaded. “I cannot work out what goes where, and I don’t want to look foolish.”
“You can fit chain mail, but not a corset?” he teased, snorting at my lack of ladylike refinement.
“I’m sure you’re well versed in removing women’s garments,” I snapped back. “Surely you can advise me on how to put them on.”
Fitzroy chuckled, unoffended by my gibe. “I’ve never met a woman like you,” he murmured as he sorted through the fabric. “Start with your stockings and shoes.” He passed me the woolen hose.
“You’re not going to put them on for me?” I quipped with a smirk, pulling a stocking up my shin and securing it with garters made of ribbon.
Fitzroy shook his head. “I would never get on my knees for you,” he said, holding my gaze.
His captivating eyes were stern, brows raised as if he was serious. But the corners of his mouth crept into a coy smile, and his cheeks pinkened—impossible to read, yet I kept thumbing through his pages, hoping that one day I might understand him.
I eased on the square-toed slippers as Fitzroy picked up a frilly skirt. “Petticoat next,” he instructed.
I gripped his steady shoulders for balance as he helped me step into the waistband.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a cone-shaped garment with sewn-in hoops.
Fitzroy sighed. “It’s an underskirt.”
“It looks ridiculous—”
“Put it on,” he demanded. No nonsense was the port of call today.
He gave me his best steely gaze—unnerving, yet sultry—and I complied.
Once the hooped skirt was secured, I twirled, swaying my arms like a dancing troubadour.
Fitzroy’s stone-faced expression cracked into laughter as he reached for the next item.
“Corset,” he announced as he wrapped the stiff structure around my torso, lacing it tightly at the back.
As he tugged firmly on the ribbons, cinching in my waist, I gasped for air. His breathy chuckles brushed against my neck; he was clearly amused by my discomfort.
I wheezed. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“I’m trying to give you the feminine silhouette you sorely lack,” he retorted, yanking the ribbons even harder.
I huffed a laugh. “Do men not feel deceived when a lady undresses and her waist isn’t the width of a thimble?”
“I can only speak for myself, but when a woman undresses in front of me, her waistline is the last thing on my mind.”
My thoughts wandered, imagining what Fitzroy might think if I were to stand before him entirely nude.
He sharply cleared his throat, snapping me out of my lewd musings.
“The kirtle’s next,” he said, helping me pull the violet underdress over my head. The skirt puffed out, making me resemble a giant bluebell.
“Now the gown.”
Fitzroy held up the weighty overgown; golden embroidery embellished the square neckline, wide sleeves, and flared hem.
I slipped my arms through the openings as he turned me around, fastening the back with a generous number of golden pins.
Around my waist, he secured a girdle belt—its long chain bore a pomander filled with perfumed herbs.
Once he’d stacked my fingers with jewel-encrusted rings and draped luminous pearls around my neck, he gestured toward the headpieces.
“Which do you wish to wear?”
I shrugged. “Which do you prefer?” I asked, finding both options equally ostentatious.
Fitzroy picked up the daintier hood. “You have a fair face—you don’t need to compensate for a lack of beauty with mounds of pearls.”
His hands brushed mine as he placed it in my palms—goose bumps surfaced instantly across my skin.
Ignoring the strange sensation, I carried the headpiece to the vanity and perched on the stool before the oval shaped mirror.
Carefully tucking the short ends of my hair into a coif cap, I placed the crescent-shaped headband, adorned with gold trim, atop my head.
The hood framed my face, covering my ears, while a sliver of parted hair peeked through the front.
Fitzroy then attached a black veil to the back, letting it flow over my shoulders like long locks.
“You could be mistaken for a lady,” he said, peering over my shoulder to meet my eyes in the mirror.
A little flutter wiggled in my chest, as if my heart were a chrysalis and his words had stirred the butterfly nestled within.
“Thank you,” I replied, blushing at his compliment—admittedly, a little giddy.
Fitzroy winced. “That jarring yokel twang to your voice cuts right through the illusion.”
I jabbed my elbow backward, catching him in the stomach. I didn’t care that he made fun of my country-dweller accent—I was elated to feel feminine again.
Fitzroy nudged me aside to admire his reflection. “More importantly, how do I look?”
With a roll of my eyes, I remarked, “Dashing,” my tone laced with feigned sarcasm.
In truth, he was strikingly handsome.