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I did not deserve Mother’s affection. Nor would I permit myself to get attached.
She made a show of stirring, not just with her sparkling eyes but with her whole body, with her limbs stretching to the foot of the bed and the crisp scent of apples infused into her hair—red like mine, but aged to rust.
Aside from our tresses, we were nothing alike. When I was born, the people of Autumn had foreseen another jewel, a female graced with Mother’s ripe, curvy attributes.
They got me instead.
To the naive and the uninspired, princesses were supposed to be lovely, from their manicured toes to their polished crowns. A princess possessed the desired traits: long curls, a rosette mouth, actual height. Royals were the pinnacle of beauty.
No one imagined an heiress homely or plain. Or Seasons forbid, sharp. A princess was the bud of the flower, not the thorn.
Well. This unanimous assumption was quite stupid.
In any case, Autumn had not anticipated a female like me. A knobby twenty-year-old bramble with steely irises, pinched features, and the body of a twig. I didn’t see a problem with this, except it made me appear too much like my dead father and not enough like my living mother. Our subjects wanted the future queen to be honorable, but also a duplicate of Mother—radiant, voluptuous, and overflowing with what they called sociability.
She was a wise ruler, but she had her amiable ways of getting things done. And I would have my own someday, exercising sound judgment and a steadfast mind. I wouldn’t require the people’s adoration, only their respect and loyalty.
“Uh-oh,” Mother said. “You look cross. What is it this time?” The mattress cushioned her figure as she patted the space beside her. “Come. Join me and speak your mind.”
The image of Mother spreading her arms to my troubles choked me with longing. Her hope to share my bed had nothing to do with full moons, apparitions, or legends such as incubi, and everything to do with resurrecting the closeness we used to have, back when I was a child. We’d been a complete family then, before this place held painful memories.
I wanted to curl up with her and explain myself. I wanted to protest that she should have left me behind in Autumn, where I could help run the kingdom in her absence instead of leaving it to our advisors.
However, the very act of confiding anything—to anyone—made me queasy.
The mystery gift bestowed upon me was another vexing matter. But if I showed the ribbon to Mother, she would only tease me for taking the gesture too seriously.
Known as the wiliest and most wanton of courts, Spring flourished a world away from the perpetual Autumn foliage of my own home. Every year, the Royals traveled to this region for the Peace Talks, a truce gathering between The Dark Seasons. It was an important cause, yet an invisible weight pressed my shoulders down. Anticipating the welcome feast tonight gnawed through me. I did not relish drinking or dancing.
Most certainly not dancing.
A princess never puts herself first.
Indeed. I had no right to brood. This trip wasn’t about me.
I retreated to the wardrobe. “We need to get ready for the feast.”
Except I was the only one not dressed. And it had come out sterner than I’d intended.
A mirror hung above the dressing table. In the pane’s reflection, Mother flinched, the sight chafing me with remorse. I opened my mouth to apologize just as she forced a smile onto her face. She swung her legs over the mattress and sashayed toward me, her ample hips jutting from side to side, as though she’d been conceived in this risqué court instead of in Autumn.
How did she move that way so effortlessly? How did she make herself malleable, worthy of our conservative homeland yet skilled at blending in with this indiscreet land like a chameleon?
I twisted to face the wardrobe. The hangers were inundated with the toasty colors of Autumn, plus a few alternatives customized for Spring. From the selection, I grabbed a stately gown of hazel damask with exquisite tailoring and simple, clean lines. The notched collar would offset the short sleeves, and the lavish textile would elevate the straightforward cut from industrious to celebratory.
No trim. No beading. No nonsense.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Mother inquired.
Every single vertebra prickled. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll rephrase: That won’t do. Not in this court.”
Reaching over my shoulder, Mother thrust her hand into the wardrobe and withdrew one of the alternatives, a new design she’d ordered from the seamstresses. I dutifully allowed her to button me up. The pine green silk gown had elbow-length sleeves, alowsquare neckline, and a tight bodice that inflated my breasts to their full capacity. The hem bustled around my knees while a longer skirt of lighter, complimentary green silk flared out beneath, the folds reminiscent of inverted petals.
Two embellishments followed: a gold belt whittled into leaves and a matching pair of hair clips. Mother argued with me. She insisted the clips sweep only half the layers off my face, enabling the rest to tumble carelessly down my back, in the fashion of Spring.
The prospect curdled my stomach. An Autumn female did no such thing—plaits and headdresses reigned in my land—and allowing my hair to run rampant was a recipe for tangles. In addition, it would draw the sort of male attention I did not care for.
