Chapter 5
“It’s tradition,” a seamstress says between a mouthful of pins when she sees my wide, horrified eyes staring through the gilded mirror.
I hate everything about this dress, from its enormous, cumbersome skirts to the fact that the royal tailors have clearly been working on it for weeks—long before I even knew I was engaged to be married. Most of all, I hate its color. A deep, seductive red.
“It’s lucky,” the seamstress says as she tugs the sleeve down my arm, smoothing out any wrinkles in the sheer fabric. “It means your marriage is blessed. That you will have many heirs.”
“A litter of tiny red foxes,” a pink-cheeked assistant giggles from behind us. She sifts through an ornate cabinet filled with buttons, clasps, and other fastenings. Mother-of-pearl, polished wood, and precious metals gleam from open drawers.
It takes great effort to keep from rolling my eyes. My own parents wore red from their engagement party through to the royal wedding, too. The color did nothing for their yield. All they got was me. One scrubby fox from hell.
Around us, bolts of fabric line the walls, arranged by color. Silks from distant lands shimmer like liquid jewels, while velvets in rich tones beg to be touched. Gossamer-thin chiffons and intricate laces are draped artfully over tables, to better display their patterns.
In one corner, a collection of dress forms stand at attention, each bearing a masterpiece. Half-finished gowns sparkle with partially sewn beadwork and glint with golden embroidery. They are undoubtedly beautiful. They just feel deeply wrong after what I’ve seen these past few years.
The seamstress waves for her assistant to hurry with the needle and thread. With only one day to spare before the engagement ball, we couldn’t cut this last-minute fitting any shorter if we tried. She places a final pin in the hem of my sleeve.
“Ouch!” I flinch, pulling my arm away from her. A small drop of blood wells up at my wrist.
The seamstress looks horrified. She covers her mouth with her hands. “Your Highness, I am so sorry. Please forgive me!”
“It’s fine.” I wipe the spot away with my thumb. “It’s nothing.”
From the way the women’s eyes dart toward each other, I know they don’t believe it’s nothing.
It’s an omen, they’re thinking.
Blood spilled before the wedding is bad luck. Like wearing the color red is supposed to be good luck. Never mind that I’d been performing amputations and healing gaping wounds for weeks before I even knew I was engaged. Superstitions are not logical in that way.
I hold out my arm for her to finish. She picks up silver shears with ornately carved handles to snip the ends of her thread. When she’s done, she places it in a silk-lined box alongside golden thimbles inlaid with tiny precious gems and delicate crystal-tipped pins.
When the hem is secured, the women step back. They analyze every inch of me, from the high collar to the floor-length overskirt. I catch a glimpse in the gilded mirror. I look frightful, like a vengeful spirit here to curse the family. My grimace does nothing to dispel the illusion.
The seamstress must see my tension. She places a hand on my arm. “Your grandmother would be proud.”
I know she means well, so I give her a smile. Still, deep down, I know she’s wrong. My grandmother wouldn’t be any happier with this arrangement than I am.
“Are we finished?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager. I have things to do today, on my last day of freedom.
The seamstress and her assistant help lift the gown up over my head as I wiggle out from underneath the tulle.
I make a quiet escape out the door while they fret over the proper way to remove the minuscule wrinkles I made in the fabric.
The palace is humming with preparations. Everyone seems to be infected with a sense of urgency. Everywhere I turn, there’s a flurry of activity.
Decorators balance on tall ladders as they hang lush garlands. Along the grand staircase, more workers weave ribbons through the carved banisters. They create elaborate patterns that cascade down the steps like a frozen waterfall of royal copper and cream.
As I pass the kitchens, the air is heavy with the aroma of roasting meats and baking bread.
Pots and pans clang like discordant bells, punctuated by the sharp commands of the head cook.
A small army of kitchen boys toil over mountains of candelabras and ornate platters, their polishing cloths moving as quickly as a moth’s wings.
Maids scurry up and down the halls, their arms full of fresh linens and downy pillows.
They dart in and out of long-empty guest chambers, leaving behind the crisp scents of lavender and lemon.
They dash past me, their faces flushed and eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and barely contained panic.
Clearly, I’m not the only one Father neglected to give an appropriate amount of notice for the engagement ball.
It’s nearly noon, so I quicken my pace, knowing that father is about to break from his morning audience with his advisors. My heart races, partly from the brisk walk and partly from anticipation. I need to catch him in a good mood, before the stress of the day puts me at a disadvantage.
But when I arrive at the massive oak doors of the audience chamber, I’m left disappointed. The room is empty save for a few lingering nobles engaged in hushed conversations. They’ve already recessed for the afternoon.
A clerk emerges, his thin arms straining under the weight of papers and ink pots. His robes, once crisp, are now rumpled from hours of note-taking. He looks mildly alarmed when I approach, his eyes widening in recognition.
“I’m looking for my father.”
He swallows hard, his large Adam’s apple bobbing on his neck.
“The hounds,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. He nearly drops his papers in his haste to escape my presence.
Of course. I should have known. King Corsac cares more about his hounds than any natural person should. His obsession with those beasts borders on ridiculous, but right now, it’s a blessing in disguise. At least I know where to find him.
I gather my skirts, the silk rustling as I bunch it in my hands, and break into a run. My soft leather shoes fall silent on the stone floors as I race for the nearest exit. Nobles gasp, startled, when I run past them, but I don’t care.
I loathe the kennels. Calling my father’s pets “hounds” is like calling the corpse wolves Pomeranians. The creatures are an unnatural species of fox, bred for centuries to be the most cunning, vicious versions of their kind.
The gate squeals like a dying animal as I open it to the underground staircase that leads to the kennels.
This part of the castle used to be a prison before they built newer cells in the city.
It’s damp and dark down there, the air thick with the stench of decay and despair.
Father prefers it this way. He says it makes the foxes more eager to please when he drags them out into the light for hunts.
Chitters and animal screams echo up the staircase long before I reach the corridor at the bottom.
It’s black as midnight down here, so I draw upon my light power.
A small golden orb lights my path. Thick iron chains hang from the walls, rusty with age and what might be dried blood.
I have to watch my step to keep my slippered feet dry from the puddles that pepper the ground,their surfaces slick with an oily film.
The smell of the kennel is overwhelming. Every breath makes me choke. Piss, feces, rotting meat—all mixed together in damp darkness. The stench seems to seep into my skin, and I know I’ll be scrubbing for hours to rid myself of it.
My eyes glance warily through the iron bars of the cells on either side of the passageway.
The foxhounds hiss and growl at me with hackles raised.
They’d look like any normal fox if it weren’t for the unmistakable feralness of them.
Their dark orange fur is matted and covered in filth.
Their copper, bloodshot eyes follow me with no fear in them at all. They stare me down as I pass.
Above the din, I hear my father’s voice, a low, commanding rumble that sends shivers down my spine.
“Stay!” he commands. “Stay!”
Deep in the kennels, I see the glow of his light as it flickers against the crumbling stone walls.
I find him in an open chamber, a dead hare held out in one hand.
Its glazed eyes stare accusingly at nothing.
One of his foxhounds bares its teeth, revealing rows of needle-sharp fangs.
The animal shrieks as it leaps into the air, a sound more befitting a demon than any earthly creature.
The chain attached to the iron collar around its neck stretches taut, causing it to fall back to the ground with a meaty thud.
Its long claws scratch at the stone ground as it rights itself again while keeping a wary eye on my father.
Father chuckles lowly, then throws the hare carcass toward the other end of the room. The foxhound stays low to the ground as it skitters toward the meal, moving with an unsettling, spider-like gait. I can see its ribs through its patchy, copper fur, and its skin is marked with scars and sores.
Father has always been fond of starving creatures into submission.
The king spots me and turns reluctantly from his plaything.
“Don’t you have wedding preparations to entertain you?” His voice sounds irritated.
“I daresay the wedding planners have it under control.”
He laughs humorlessly. “And here I always thought brides wanted to have some say in their flower arrangements and cakes and other such frivolities.”
“If it’s all so frivolous,” I ask. “Why have an engagement ball at all?”
His eyes grow dark, unamused. “Don’t start with me.”
I resolve to change my attitude. I won’t get the information I need by goading him.