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Chapter Thirteen
Corrin sets the food tray on the desk with a clatter. “You cannot wear that,” she scoffs at my gown.
“What’s wrong with it?” It’s pleasantly simple in style, the pale yellow reminding me of duckling’s feathers before it molts. It will be perfect for a walk through the grounds with Annika, which I’m desperately hoping will happen today, after three days of waiting. “This is the one you left me to wear. And it’s the only dress I have.” It’s either this or my nightgown.
“Yes, well, that was beforeyou were summoned by the king.” Corrin disappears into the sitting room.
“Again?” It’s been ten days since I saw him. What does he want now? Is there news from Lyndel? Am I about to be accused of lying to him? My anxiety flares.
Corrin returns a moment later, her arms loaded with a flowing sage-green gown, its chiffon skirts puffy around a cinched bodice. “This will be more suitable for your day.”
“Which includes what? A royal ball? Where do you keep finding these dresses, anyway?”
“That is not your concern. All you should be concerned with is that it fits,” she retorts.
I note the sleeves and collar. The material is sheer and embroidered with delicate gold flowers that will mask my scars. “Where am I going?”
“Wherever His Highness says you are going. And eat quickly.” She gives the tray a small push. “We haven’t much time, and the king has insisted we not make him wait again.”
I groan, wandering over to the table. Everything with Corrin is always rush, rush, rush. She’s grown bolder as the days have passed, chastising me every chance she gets. In return, I’ve grown surlier, not bothering to hide my irritation. “Fine. But is it going to be as difficult to put on as this one was? It took me forever to figure it out.”
Corrin huffs. “Eat. And turn around.” She sets to unfastening the back of my dress as I pick at the apple slices and watch her in the reflection of my dressing mirror. The gold ear piercing is the first thing I notice every day, now that I know what it means. Does it bother her that she is tagged like a stockyard animal?
“You were going out like this? Three of your buttons are still undone!” she ridicules.
“I don’t have rubber arms and eyes in the back of my head. And no, I was going to ask Elisaf to help me.” I’m only half kidding. Elisaf already finished his shift by the time I was dressing. The foot-dragging guard is back on duty.
The appall on Corrin’s face in the mirror makes a bubble of laughter climb out of my throat. I choke on the fruit in my mouth, and it takes a few coughs to clear it. “What? Isn’t this why you chose this dress for me in the first place? To torture me? Because it’s impossible for a person to do up on her own.” I cursed her name a half dozen times this morning, picturing her smug smile as she hung it on the dressing hook.
She scowls but says no more, her nimble fingers flying over the buttons.
My day guard, the foot dragger—a stone-faced man with bland chestnut-brown hair and small, squinty eyes who told me his name was Guard when I attempted conversation—walks behind me and barks orders of “left” and “right” as he escorts me through the castle’s vast halls.
I note the statues and vases on pedestals as we pass, marking them as I mentally map out the castle while trying to ignore the countless stares from every direction. I can’t tell if the attention is because I’ve risen from the dead—more literally than they probably realize—or if it has to do with my extravagant appearance. After Corrin practically chased me into this dress, which fits as if tailored for my body (I can only assume it is part of Princess Romeria’s wardrobe that Corrin is hoarding somewhere), she pushed me into the vanity chair, muttering about my unkempt mane. Her fingers moved quickly, winding and twirling and pinning until the bulk of my hair was fastened in an intricately braided weave. I caught the fleeting appreciation on her face, but when she saw I was observing her, her expression morphed into that of haughty disdain.
After a lengthy walk, we step through a set of doors and enter a courtyard. A dozen horses clad in the royal black and gold wait next to their respective soldiers. Behind them, more horses loiter in stalls, chomping on fresh hay that the stable boys are delivering with pitchforks.
My nose curls at the stench of fresh droppings on the stone nearby, but I try to ignore it, and the wary looks from the soldiers. “Where are we going?” I ask Guard, hoping he’ll at least answer that much.
“For a ride through Cirilea.” Zander strolls past me without a glance my way, looking as tall and fearsome as usual, his golden-brown hair swept back, his tailored, knee-length jacket a rich forest green today. He slides a polished leather boot into a stirrup and pulls himself onto his horse with grace.
The soldiers take that as their sign and rush to mount. A stable hand—a boy of maybe fourteen with a gold cuff in his left ear—carries a wooden step stool over and places it beside Zander’s sleek black stallion.
Zander turns to stare at me.
I finally clue in. “You want me to ride with you?”
“I’m certainly not giving you a horse of your own to barrel through the city streets on.”
I eye him cautiously, perched in the saddle, his thighs that look lean but muscular in black pants waiting to bracket mine.
He gestures to the piebald ahead of him where Boaz waits, glowering. “Unless you’d prefer to ride with the captain—”
I march straight for the step stool, gathering the layers of my dress so as not to trip on them. I ease up the two steps, cursing Corrin in my head the entire way. Who rides a horse in a fucking ball gown? She couldn’t have found me suitable pants? The yellow dress would have been more appropriate for this.
With a sigh of reluctance, Zander holds out his hand.
As much as I’d like to rebuff his offer of help, the chances of me humiliating myself without it are high. After a moment’s hesitation, I rest my small hand in his much larger one, feeling his smooth skin beneath my palm. How many times has he held this hand? How many times have his hands—those strong, long fingers—touched this body I inhabit? How intimately?
