Suddenly, three pairs of hands are reaching around my body,unfastening the gown I’d slipped on and removing it alongside the chemise I’d sat in all night. I panic, exposed and upset.
Once bare, Kiala looks me up and down. She frowns when she observes my chest, and I realize that her gaze is not directed at my breasts, but the Fuegorra stone nestled in my sternum. I had almost forgotten about its presence.
Then her eyes fall to the Curse Mark and wound that still lingers on my ankle. The snake curling around my flesh, connecting me in some way to Cursed One.
She doesn’t say anything about it, instead insisting with a crisp, “Sit.”
Again, they do not ask if I am ready. When I am urged to the basin, they do not ask whether the water is too hot, whether the oil burns, or whether the comb catches in my hair and rips. They assumeyes, andyesagain.
Eslina unscrews a vial and pours a clear, sharp-smelling liquid into one bowl. The steam that rises from it has hints of bitter flowers and silver.
“This will make your skin glow,” she says. “It might even wash away some of these spots. We should start using it now so it will have its full effect in time for the ball.”
“The masked ball?” I ask, while Merlina’s fingers drag along my scalp, alternating with a comb that could have scraped the scales from a fish.
“Yes, the one held three nights before your wedding,” Kiala says. She weighs a length of ribbon in her palms like a bandage. “The first public showing of the consort. You will wear the color the king selects and a mask chosen to flatter your…features.” A fractional pause hovers at the word.
“What kind of mask?” I imagine veils, feathers, or any other excuse to make me appealing to others and, potentially, utterly silent.
Merlina’s mouth curves up. “There is a set of creatures and virtues,” she says. “The year’s theme is the hunt. You can expect to see swans, stags, wolves. The king enjoys allegory.” She tugs thecomb again. “A doe for you. You should be tamed. With wide eyes, easily led.”
“Or a dove,” Eslina says softly.
“No, the king wants her dressed as a doe,” Merlina retorts.
Kiala sets down the ribbon and draws out a narrow belt, white as bone. “Arches must be built so they do not collapse,” she said. “We begin the shaping now, so you do not faint during the ball.”
I swallow. “Is fainting a common outcome?”
“For the other humans we’ve seen, yes,” Merlina says. “You bruise at a glance. You melt in the heat. And yet, you are chosen anyway.”
I bite my lip, trying not to ask how many other humans they might’ve known. I haven’t seen any others yet, but I understand at least a few are hidden somewhere. As far as I am aware, I am the first human bride for Arion. But how do they know so much about my people?
A hand—light, quick—brushes my wrist. Eslina. “Breathe,” she says.
I try as they take more measurements of my naked body. Then they begin to dress and prepare me.
Powder rises and settles. The comb clicks against pins as they are placed along my scalp, and then a brush for my teeth is produced. Merlina hums under her breath, not quite a melody. Kiala counts to an even cadence while tightening the belts and stays. Eslina’s touch remains the only one that works slowly enough to give me respite.
“Time to practice speaking, little doe,” Kiala teases. “You can’t expect the king to like you for your looks alone.” Some of the cruel things he said about my mind and ambition return as she tilts her chin and intones in a higher register than her speaking voice, “Speak to him like this: ‘Your Majesty, to be in your presence is a sea I cross gladly, even when the water is cold.’”
My mouth goes dry. “When would I need to say that?”
“In public, if you wish to scandalize a crowd, which he might enjoy. Though his first wife was too bold. And with all the…” Merlina trails off, leaving me curious. “Perhaps you should just say it privately. He likes his women submissive.”
My heart stutters. So much is known about his bedroom habits—could he have slept with one of the women around me? Or is it protocol to know all the tastes and passions of a leader if you are to serve under them?
Before I can try to ask a follow-up question, she continues. “When it counts. There are public phrases that are shorter.” She makes a crisp shape with one hand. “Always refer to him as ‘my king,’” she demonstrates coolly. “And if he asks something of you, reply with, ‘I am honored.’”
“And when you are corrected,” Kiala adds, “you say: ‘Thank you. I am grateful to learn.’”
“What if the correction is cruel?”
“It will be,” Merlina quips. “You still say the line.”
Now I’m clean, polished, pinned, and rubbed raw, the seamstress finally approaches after standing back. She removes a few fabric bits and boning pieces from her basket, and heat builds along my ribs where the sharp, harsh materials bite in.
After a few disapproving clicks of the older woman’s tongue, a mock gown is brought out. It is white and tawny, spotted much like a fawn.