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I can’t helpbut watch my sister as she helps to prepare me for the evening. Do normal families do this? Discuss dresses? Choose jewelry for one another? Help with their hair?
I try to imagine growing up in a home where Mel and Zai and I were allowed those moments of sisterhood but come up short.
I push the thoughts aside, concentrating instead on the gown Remy sent over. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s beautiful. The tip of the corseted strapless bodice is a pale, shimmering silver, darkening gradually down the dress until the hemline is a charcoal so dark, it’s almost black.
Surprisingly, the dress is almost short enough for me, though Zaina has to yank the corset ribbons all the way through to make it tight enough around my bust. I take a half step to avoid tumbling over, realizing my mistake too late.
My vision darkens and pain lances through my entire body.
Zaina notices the way my cheeks pale and quickly calls Helga over, asking her to bring one of the vials on the desk.
“This isn’t like the one Madame makes,” she explains, handing it to me. “It won’t actually heal you, but it will help somewhat numb the pain for a few hours,” she says, taking the vial back after I’ve downed it. “Let’s just hope whatever he has planned won’t take longer than that.”
“Let’s just hope I can warn him and get him out of the ballroom before Mother has anything to say about it,” I reply, and Zaina nods her head.
It’s another hour before I’m ready, but with the makeup that Zaina brought and Helga’s surprising skill with hair, I won’t stand out in the ballroom.
My bruises are covered, and my bloody feet are mostly concealed by the full skirts of the gown.
“Never would have guessed I was a prisoner in the royal dungeons last night, would you?” I ask, admiring the black paint Zaina used for my lips.
She rolls her eyes as she does the finishing touches on her own hair.
“You’re welcome,” she responds and comes to stand next to me.
Both of us are nearly unrecognizable, masked and disguised and ready for tonight. I think again about what we might have been like in different circumstances, ones where we weren’t constantly in competition with one another.
Zaina reaches out to squeeze my hand, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing.
I wonder if we’ll ever get the chance to do things differently.
