I laughed. “Oh, I know. The original bride was my sister.”
I can tell that she’s curious. Her curiosity is warring with her irritation at my existence. “My sister is in love with someone else,” I say. “I stepped in because I’m not in love with anyone.”
“And you get to be the queen.”
“I didn’t want to be queen either.”
This gags her. I’m amused. I can’t tell if she likes me less or more after the admission. But she proceeds to show me clothing on a rack, dresses of so many different colors, and I confess that I have no idea what color suits me the most. I’ve never thought about it.
“You’ve never thought about what color looks best on you?” She is incredulous.
“Yes. At no point in my life has that mattered. It has never gotten me anything. My sister is a great beauty. And in order for beauty to provide you with some sort of privilege or upward mobility, it must be a great and terrible beauty indeed. You possess beauty like that,” I say to her.
That makes her almost angry. “And yet, you are to be queen, and I am a stylist.”
“Are you in love with him?”
She laughs. “Oh. No. He’s terrifying.”
“Yes,” I agree. “What’s your name?”
She frowns. “Allison.”
“Well, Allison, if you would like to ask the king if he would approve of the two of us switching places, I really don’t mind.”
I’m sort of kidding. Except, after the words exit my mouth I realize I’m not. Maybe I can keep switching queens in and out, and eventually we’ll find someone who actually wants the position. Not someone who is simply doing it because they were commanded to, or to help someone else.
“I…”
“Oh, you don’t actually want to marry him.”
“He’s…beautiful. And powerful, rich. Those are all interesting things, I grant you. But…”
“Less envious at the idea of me marrying him when you have to actually imagine what that would look like.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I didn’t realize that my attitude was so apparent. I apologize. It’s an interesting fantasy. The idea that your whole life could change overnight because the king wants to marry one of his common citizens. But I guess it’s only good in theory.”
“I’m hoping that it won’t be horrible in practice. But I won’t know until after.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
I think about it. About everything I’ve seen of him since I’ve arrived. “I think anyone would be foolish to not be afraid of him in some capacity. He’s an extremely intimidating man.”
“Men like him are either fantastic in bed, or terrible.” She laughs. “There’s no in between. He is horrendously arrogant, but also, he has those scars. He has that sort of rough, distorted beauty, which sometimes gives a man a bit of humility, but doesn’t make him any less good in the sheets.”
I stare at her like everything she’s said is in a foreign language. To me, it might as well be. Because I don’t understand any of that. Not really.
Liar. You don’t want to.
“I confess to you that is the least of my concern.”
“Well, it’s not a small concern,” she says. “Though I assume he’s proportional.”
I am caught on that statement while different dresses are taken off of me and put back on, as I am twirled and twisted in front of a mirror.
“Your eyes are very nearly green,” she says. “Blue and green clothes seem to bring that out.”
I stare at myself, wrapped in blue silk currently. I do see something a bit mossy in my eyes, versus the typical indistinct mud I would normally claim to have. It’s also surprising to me how nicely the dress highlights what little I have in terms of curves. Again, nothing I’ve spent much time thinking about, but the reality is, someone is now going to see them.
