Page 32 of A Fragile Enchantment

“I’m afraid she isn’t in at the moment.” Somewhere from the depths of the bedchamber, something crashed. Miriam winced. “What I meant to say is that the princess is indisposed.”

A dolorous voice echoed from behind the door. “Miriam, con quién estás hablando?”

Miriam closed her eyes, looking as though she was praying for patience. “On second thought, why don’t you come in?”

She ushered Niamh inside. When she latched the door shut behind them, it sealed them in total darkness. Niamh blinked hard to adjust to the sepulchral gloom. All the velvet drapery was drawn; only a thin blade of sunlight cleaved through the curtains. It illuminated the frankly shocking state of the floor. Dresses were piled in heaps, a stray necklace poked out from under an armoire, and a collection of shoes—some without their twin—cut a treacherous path through the room. A chess board had been set up beside the window, the pieces still arranged in an endgame. Mysteriously, one of the chairs had been overturned. Every last one of Niamh’s preconceptions about nobility now lay scattered among the wreckage of Infanta Rosa’s dressing room.

“I’m so sorry for the mess,” Miriam said with a nervous laugh, opening the curtains. The sudden flood of light made Niamh’s eyes water. “Rosa is not a morning person. I didn’t want to subject you to it, but I suppose there’s no avoiding it now.”

“I hardly know what you mean,” Niamh lied. “This looks immaculate compared to my room!”

Miriam rapped gently on another closed door. “Rosa, there’s someone here to see you.” After a few seconds of silence, she cleared her throat and yelled, “Rosa!”

The door creaked open, and Infanta Rosa appeared, beautiful and terrifying.

Niamh drew in a sharp breath, her face warming at the sight of the princess. If she did not guard herself against such beauty, she would forget how to speak. The princess was surprisingly tall, but the inelegant slouch of her shoulders made her seem smaller at first glance. She had on another black gown, but today, she’d foregone her lace veil. Her hair hung around her shoulders in perfectly arranged curls, but shadows feathered beneath her dull eyes—or perhaps that was just her makeup, smeared as though she’d slept in it. Rosa wore it like battle paint. Her gaze raked across Niamh’s face.

“Who’s this?” Rosa asked. Like Miriam, she had a subtle but unmistakable accent. Her voice, however, was flat. Not cold, exactly, but bored. “An assassin, I hope?”

“Rosa,” Miriam chided, clearly hoping to move on without comment. “This is Miss O’Connor, your dressmaker.”

“I see.” Rosa collapsed into a chaise, as though supporting her own weight had become a burden she could no longer bear. Her wide skirts puddled on the floor like a spill of ink. “How disappointing.”

“Don’t take anything she says to heart,” Miriam whispered to Niamh. “She has a wretched sense of humor and aims to amuse no one but herself.”

Niamh tried not to let her smile waver as she curtsied. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”

Intrigue lit up Rosa’s expression, and her sharp, assessing gaze locked on Niamh’s. The sudden attention almost made her quail. Nothing she’d said was at all remarkable… At least she didn’tthinkso.

“And you.” Rosa yawned. “My apologies. I prefer to get a full twelve hours of sleep, but I went to bed much later than I’d hoped. Far too much excitement.”

“Rosa,” Miriam muttered exasperatedly.

“What?” She lifted a brow. “My fiancé was charming, was he not?”

She spoke so dryly, Niamh couldn’t be sure what she meant in jest. Miriam held her long-suffering silence.

Niamh did not know whether to agree or laugh or weep. “I understand entirely, Your Highness. I will try to keep this quick for you.”

“Excellent.” Miriam clapped her hands together. “I have a letter to finish, so I shall leave you two to your discussion.”

With that, Niamh was alone with the Princess of Castilia.

Rosa smoothed her skirt over her knees and sighed. “I am at your disposal, then, Miss O’Connor. Where shall we begin?”

“Anywhere you’d like, Your Highness. I can take your measurements first, or you can tell me about what you envision for your gown. I would love to know what styles are popular in Castilia, or… Oh! We could—”

“Slow down, I beg you. I haven’t had any coffee, and I’ve never heard an accent like yours before.” Rosa rubbed her temples. “Perhaps we can start with measurements.”

“Yes, of course. That sounds wise.”

Niamh cleared a space on the floor, shoving piles of clothes out of the way, and set to work. Rosa, to her relief, was much more practiced than Kit. She barely needed to be told what to do as Niamh pulled the tailor’s tape around her waist and hips, her bustline, the length of her arms.

As Niamh bent over a table to finish recording the last of the measurements, Rosa said, “You’re from Machland.”

Niamh whirled to face her, nearly knocking over the chair beside her. She seized hold of the back to steady it—and herself. That a princess would inquire about her personally was still jarring. “I am, Your Highness.”

“I see.” That calculating interest kindled in her eyes again, but her tone was all dull politeness. “How have you found your stay in Avaland thus far?”