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Instead, a group of cheerful, chattering women came in, pushing a rolling rack of clothes with them.
“It’s time to dress you,” cried one of the women. “On this happiest and most auspicious of days!”
Madelyn looked more closely at the rack as they rolled it over toward her and saw that it was stuffed full of dresses. Beautiful dresses, it had to be said, but something inside her turned over and went cold.
“I don’t need to get dressed. I am dressed.” She sounded odd and strained. Even she could hear it. “For traveling, which is handy because I need to go home.”
Another one of the women smiled even more broadly than the first. “King Paris Apollo has finally returned to his people. It is a day for celebrating, not for traveling. And as you are in the palace, an honored guest of His Majesty, it would be better if you were dressed like everyone else. Don’t you think?”
Madelyn couldn’t really argue the logic in that, so she didn’t put up a fight. She told herself it wasn’t so much that she was surrendering so much as conserving her energy for bigger fights to come.
She didn’t ask herself how she knew they were coming. Though the blaze of Paris Apollo’s green eyes seemed to light her up inside all the same. Even if only in her memories from last night.
Though she kept that shivering thing locked down tight, deep inside.
And so she let the women lead her deeper into the apartment that she hadn’t bothered to explore, until they reached an expansive walk-in closet that opened up into the kind of dressing room she’d only ever seen on reality shows. Certainly not in real life. They sat her down on a little bench before a mirror—it was called a vanity, wasn’t it?—and fussed all around her, talking over her head and giving her entirely too much time to think.
It wasn’t the dresses that put her off. It was that the last time she’d fussed over pretty things, and watched herself so closely in mirrors, was back when this game of dominoes had begun, one tipping the other over, on and on, until there was Troy.
And now her presence here, in apalace,of all things.
Madelyn decided that the only thing to do was to think of it in terms of the story she would tell Troy of her adventures here. She could tell him that she’d been a bit of a Cinderella for a few days. He would love it.
The three women settled on a palette they all liked, after holding up a variety of fabrics and shades and studying Madelyn’s reflection with great intensity. They did her hair. They applied more cosmetics than Madelyn had ever owned. They had her step into a dress, and then they sewed it a bit here and there for the perfect fit.
Madelyn told herself she didn’t care, that it was all part of the story she would tell her son later, but she did sneak sideways looks at every mirror they passed once they led her from the room.
Because maybe she wasn’t immune to Cinderella stories, little as she’d like to admit that.
And as they led her out of the guest wing and into the more public parts of the palace, she conceded—privately—that she really would have felt out of place if she were dressed in the clothes she’d worn on the plane. Everyone else seemed effortlessly chic and elegant, even the people who were very clearly staff.
“Where are you taking me?” she thought to ask when she finally found her voice. When the dazzling splendor of the great palace all around released its grip on her somewhat.
But only somewhat.
“This is the new wing,” one of the women told her. “It was thought you would be more comfortable there, being American and all. Americans like new things, don’t they?”
“I...” She’d been about to argue, but Madelyn stopped herself. The truth was, she’d stood in buildings in Cambridge that were hundreds of years older than even the oldest buildings in the States. She had no idea how old this palace was, but clearly, Ilonia had been around for centuries. “I suppose we do like new things.”
The women all looked pleased at that. Madelyn was pleased in turn, until one of them breathed, “His Majesty is so thoughtful and wise.”
But there was no time to argue the point. They walked faster then, crossing through one marble courtyard and leading her down halls festooned with dazzling mirrors and paintings the size of walls, then leading her into a vast room that felt like it was outside though it wasn’t. It took her breath. Because on one end, there was nothing but the sea and sky, there just beyond the walls of glass. And on the other end, there was a gleaming throne set high on a raised dais, arranged beneath a trellis made of gold and marble and the kind of backdrop that made her think of organs in cathedrals.
King Paris Apollo stood there, dressed in ceremonial robes.
And for a moment, Madelyn felt light-headed. As if every bit of blood inside her body deserted her. As if she’d fallen off that narrow trail after all and was even now hurtling down the steep side of that cold mountain.
Because it was one thing to understand who Paris Apollo was. To know, intellectually, that he had been a prince in Cambridge. That he had become a king two years ago, however tragically.
But in all the interactions she’d had with him, in and out of that bed of his in Cambridge, what he’d been to her was unfathomably rich. That was all. He had also been equally unfathomably beautiful and perfect, but she hadn’t spent time thinking aboutthronesandkingdoms.
Words likeprinceorkinghad been just that. Words.
Now there was no pretending. He looked like every painting of a monarch she’d ever seen. Every history book, every movie. There was a crown on his head. He wore fussy robes of red and white that somehow seemed to make him look more attractive when he should have looked as if he was playing dress-up. In one hand, he even held a scepter.
Madelyn’s throat went dry. She felt her heart beat hard, deep inside her, as if it was trying to knock her sideways. It took her much too long to even notice that this particular vast hall of a room was crowded. There were seats set up in the center, with rows of cameras lined up behind them, and so manypeople.And yet she was glad of the bustle of it all as her attendants led her to a front-row seat at the foot of the wide stairs that led to the throne.
She was grateful to be seated that far away from the cameras and all the curious eyes on her, because she had to do something with her face. All she felt was overly red and somehow vulnerable. Exposed. As if finally seeing Paris Apollo for who he really was—who he had always been—meant she was revealed as well.
