Her head cuts toward me quickly with wide-eyes. “Of course, my lady. The High King wasted no expense on this for you. Your entire wardrobe, actually.”
The choice to not call me Wren, despite my instructions to, must run in fae blood.
“It’s lovely,” I say, carefully. “But I’m not sure I’d survive more than twenty minutes without ruining it by accident.”
I mean every word. It’s truly exquisite and a part of me wants to see what it would look like on me, but it’s far too nice for someone who frolics in fields, trips on roots, and is constantly playing in dirt and rivers to try to commune with the earth. I’d never forgive myself if I ruined it.
The fae woman pauses, clearly unsure how to respond. I offer her a sheepish smile to take the edge off.
“Can we look through other options, please?” I implore. “I will take all the blame for not wearing it, when his dramatic royal highness sees me.”
That earns me a small twitch at the corner of her mouth–half amusement, half pity, if I had to guess–as she turns back to the wardrobe.
She begins pulling options, one after another. Each just as elaborate as the last.
We go through at least a dozen. I lose track somewhere between the gown with beaded sleeves heavy enough to double as armor and the pale green thing with layers of chiffon stacked like petals on a dying flower. She holds them up one at a time with quiet reverence, waiting for something in my expression to shift.
It doesn’t.
Eventually, she pulls out a simple silver, silky dress. No beads. No gems. Just a clean silhouette. It’s still fancier than anything I’ve worn since waking, but at least I won’t feel as bad if something happens to it.
I nod. “Let’s try it.”
She helps me without a word. Her fingers are deft and gentle as she works the back closures, smoothing the fabric over my shoulders. A chill brushes over my exposed arms and she rushes to the wardrobe.
“Forgive me, my lady,” she huffs, digging through the piles of fabric. “I forget you aren’t built to withstand our temperatures. The High King also had coats made for you.”
“You’ve been patient with me…” I trail off quietly, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “What’s your name? I’d like to know who I’m thanking for not throwing the initial dress over my head just to get it over with and follow his orders.”
“My name is Natasha,” She lets a smile tug at her lips. “It’s a rare thing to see someone treat the finest display of fae wardrobe with…hesitation. You’re much different than the previous court lady I attended to.”
“Between you and me, Natasha,” I murmur while putting my arms through the fluffy white coat she holds open for me, “I’m still trying to decide who I am, but I know that wearing that would be pretending to be someone I’m absolutely not.”
Her gaze flicks toward me, curious but not invasive.
I pause, then ask, “Do you think you could get anything less…” I gesture vaguely toward the closet. “...expensive?”
She blinks. “You mean…simpler?”
“I mean trousers, if I’m being honest,” I say, half laughing. “Something I can actually move in, easily.”
The surprise on her face is immediate. “Only warrior women wear trousers.”
That stops me cold for a breath as the scenes from the threads full of fae warriors roll through my mind. I stare at her, then down at the dress, and shake my head in an attempt to focus back on the present.
“Can you ask if there’s anything like that tucked away somewhere?” I ask gently. “Pants, boots, maybe a tunic without six layers of lace.”
She hesitates but inclines her head. “I’ll try.”
We step into the corridor a few moments later, where I find a castle that already stirs with quiet movement. Elegant fae pass us in pairs or trios, all dressed in shimmering robes or embroidered dresses. No one meets Natasha’s eyes as we pass and I notice she tries to keep distance between us, like we aren’t supposed to be seen as equals.
I thought perhaps they’d treat her differently than me, considering she’s fae, but as I watch her shoulders fold in and her chin tucking closer to her chest…it becomes clear they don’t accept anyone who doesn’t fit the mold here.
I hate it.
Without thinking, I step closer to her and loop my arm gently through hers, matching our strides.
She startles at first, eyes lifting to mine in question. “My lady?”
