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A knock sounded at the door, and Lurel bounded over to open it. Three older women entered the room, bearing several boxes each. They paused to curtsy, then proceeded straight for Cora. She stiffened as they set their boxes down at her feet and began to assess her with furrowed brows. Emotions flooded her at once, an odd mixture of aversion, curiosity, and dread. She realized then that her mental shields were down; she’d lowered them to connect with Valorre. The emotions she was experiencing now were coming from the three women who were circling her with furrowed brows,hmm-ing, huffing, and whispering amongst themselves.
With a deep breath, Cora focused on the marble floor, firm beneath her feet. She imagined the air around her thickening, growing denser and stronger until it felt like a protective shroud. With her mental shields back in place, the unwanted emotions faded away.
Being a clairsentient witch had its benefits, but there were times when it was highly inconvenient. Her empathic ability to feel the emotions of others had served her numerous times, but in everyday situations, it was a hassle that required constant vigilance to block out unwanted outside stimuli.
And now that she was trying to reclaim her place as a princess amongst royals who feared magic, it was a secret she kept to herself.
The women continued to circle and assess her like a horse up for auction, making her discomfort grow. Were they determining her coffin size? Deciding on which length of rope to use at her hanging? Perhaps she was jumping to ridiculous conclusions, but if someone didn’t explain why she was the sudden object of these women’s scrutiny, she would lose every last shred of good sense.
“Pardon, but what is your purpose in being here?” Her voice came out sharper than she intended, but the three women didn’t balk.
“I’m so sorry,” Lurel said, wringing her hands as she approached. “I’m off to a terrible start at being your lady’s maid, aren’t I? I’m so used to serving Princess Mareleau, and she—well, I forgot that you haven’t lived as a princess for quite some time.”
Cora clenched her jaw to keep from snapping at the girl, who still hadn’t answered her question. One of the women lifted Cora’s arm and ran a measuring tape from her armpit to her wrist. That was when Cora understood. She hadn’t been fitted for clothing since she was a young girl. “You’re seamstresses.”
Lurel nodded. “You're being fitted for a new wardrobe by Princess Mareleau’s personal dressmakers. Ordered by King Verdian himself.”
She raised a brow. “Why would he do that?”
“Rumor has it that Selay and Khero are allies now. He’s helping you reclaim your title as princess. Of course he would want to help you look the part. You can’t return home looking like that.”
Home. She was…going home?
“I’m surprised you weren’t offered finer clothing sooner. Or a bath.” Lurel’s tone was devoid of disgust or condemnation, but it made Cora bristle just the same.
She glanced down at the plain gray dress she wore, one she’d received upon arriving at the palace, along with a nightgown and undergarments. She’d been given a daily ewer for washing, but her hearth was never lit unless she requested it. Since she was too proud to beg anyone here for help, she’d donned her cloak on cold mornings instead, and today was no exception. It was the same cloak she’d worn during the battle, and the wool was stained with soil and blood. She splayed her hand, noting dirt caked under her nails as well as the loose strands of frizzy hair that floated about her face.
Now she understood the emotions she’d sensed from the seamstresses. If they were used to fitting the Princess of Selay, they had their work cut out for them with Cora. They didn’t bother having her undress and they seemed loath to touch her or her filthy clothes more than necessary.
After a few more basic measurements were taken, the women stepped back and began holding bolts of fabric and even some finished dresses next to her as if testing the colors against her skin tone.
“These are Princess Mareleau’s old dresses, Highness,” one of the seamstresses said, addressing Cora for the first time. She held up a gown of gold taffeta and squinted at it before giving the dress a nod and taking it to the bed.
“More like rejected designs,” the eldest woman muttered, a wry smirk on her face. That earned a titter from the other two.
“I can’t imagine why Mareleau would reject any of these,” Lurel said, tone wistful as she watched the women lift dress after dress and hold it next to Cora. The seamstresses were careful not to let any of the gowns come within an inch of her current ensemble.
Once they seemed satisfied, they packed all their things back in their boxes. “We’ll have these gowns hemmed and adjusted by evening, Highness,” one said. “They won’t be perfect but they’ll do until you get home to your own dressmaker.”
There was that word again:home. She tried to associate it with Ridine Castle but forest trees and archery seemed more suited to it.
She shook her head. Maybe someday she could return to just being Cora, forest witch, friend to unicorns, and poisoner of enemies. Not yet. She’d chosen her brother. The safety of Khero. Until she knew both could flourish without her, she had to stay. Had to be Princess Aveline.
“You must be exhausted after everything you’ve been through,” Lurel said, rousing Cora from her thoughts. Only now did she notice that the seamstresses had left and had been replaced with servants hauling in a large washbasin and pitchers of steaming water. “Now, come. Let’s get you washed and styled. We’ll have you feeling like a princess again in no time.”
2
The bath was heavenly. Aromas of jasmine filled her senses while the enormous tub accommodated enough water to let her submerge up to her neck. The only part of her bath that was less than ideal was Lurel’s presence. She hadn’t bathed in front of an attendant since she was a child, but the girl had only scoffed when Cora suggested she wait outside her room.
“Nonsense,” she’d said. “You won’t get those tangles out of your hair without aid.”
Lurel had been right, and Cora was now suffering from it as the knots were combed from her dark strands. Cora could feel the other girl’s frustration, even with her mental shields in place.
“I’ve never met a more stubborn knot,” Lurel said through her teeth.
“You can cut more of my hair,” Cora offered, ready for her torture to end.
“I already cut six inches, Highness. I’ll take no more.”
