“About…” She glanced intently up at the looming grandfather clock in the corner of my room. “Twenty-six hours now.”
“Oh,” I said, unable to hide my surprise.
“I’ve served in the palace since I was a child.” Blaise opened her mouth, as if to say more, but then she shook her head, moving on to what I assumed was something considerably less personal. “But before the ball, Andy decided to promote me to lady’s maid, so I could attend to whoever he picked to be his wife at the ball.”
There it was. That pet name again.
“I think he meant for it to be a promotion, but really, I’m still required to complete all my other tasks, so it’s more of a nuisance than anything.”
I waited for the aftertaste of her words to sting like bile, to turn bitter in the air, but they didn’t. Blaise went on applying my paint, and if she was aware of how her words could be interpreted as resentful, she didn’t show it on her face.
“But it could be much worse,” she said.
I had a difficult time believing that. “How so?”
“Andy has awful taste in women. I was prepared to spend the rest of my existence waiting hand and foot on a princess who expects rose petals garnishing her iced water and for her baths to be heated to the exact temperature of Paradise Cove at sundown on Summer Solstice.”
My laugh came forth so abruptly, it sent Blaise’s careful brushstrokes off-course. Her brown eyes went wide, and she clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles. When I attempted to turn toward the mirror to examine the damage, she grabbed me by the shoulder and shook her head. “It’s better if you don’t look. Trust me.”
By the time Imogen returned with the gown, Blaise had declared that she’d be leaving servitude to explore her options as a cosmetologist, given what she’d accomplished with my face as the canvas—which she still wouldn’t allow me to sneak a glance at.
“You look stunning,” Imogen whispered in a breathy voice, though I couldn’t help but notice the way her lips pursed when she glanced back and forth between Blaise and me.
Both maids helped me into my gown, and when Blaise finally spun me around to look at myself in the mirror, I practically gasped.
“I think you’re right about that career change, Blaise,” I whispered, catching sight of her smug grin as I examined my reflection in the mirror.
I had to admit. The gown wasn’t exactly unflattering.
My family had never wanted for fine clothing, at least not since I was old enough to remember. But our wealth hadn’t changed the fact that most of our neighbors still considered us a working-class family. It hadn’t mattered that my father had accrued his wealth from the business of practically every house in town, that we’d had enough money to buy our beautiful cottage on two acres of land within the city limits. Father had earned his money, rather than inheriting it, which meant while our neighbors had been careful to be polite, we had always lived on the outskirts of fine society.
I had never attended a dinner party, a ball, or any other gathering that would require me to wear a gown this fine.
Not that my family could have afforded a gown this fine.
The gown was a deep cobalt blue, the color of the slivers of sky that outlined the glow of the stars at night. And stars were an appropriate description, for the entire dress was embedded with tiny gemstones that sparkled in the chandelier light. When I moved, the skirt of the dress moved beyond me, fluttering and swaying as if it had its own life about it. The dress had a scooped neck that brushed the edges of my shoulders before descending in a small “v” that skirted just below my shoulder blades.
“This is…” I couldn’t find the words for the beauty of the garment that hugged my waist. Or for how I looked in it. With my curls pulled back into a low braided updo, a string of pearls crowning my head, and a matching set of a necklace and earrings, I looked, well, regal.
Blaise had been precise with my eyes, lining each with a dash of kohl, enhancing their round shape with a sharpness I quite enjoyed.
“The prince picked it out himself.” Imogen’s quiet comment caught me off guard, which she apparently picked up on because she quickly explained, “He originally intended it for the young woman from the ball, but…” She cleared her throat.
Blaise crossed her arms and huffed. “Well, that taints it a bit, doesn’t it?”
“You never know. You might have liked her, Blaise. The two of you might have been the best of friends.” I caught the reflection of her half-open mouth in an amused smirk and returned the expression.
She picked at her nails. “Like I said, Andy has poor taste.”
I couldn’t help but pick up on something else in the mirror—Imogen shifting ever so slightly on her feet.
“I have to admit, though,” I said, running my hand over the cinched waist of the dress, “I would have expected a gown the prince picked out to have less material around the bosom.”
Blaise gagged and made as if she were shoving her finger down her throat. That did little to distract me from the longing that deepened Imogen’s fiery eyes as she gazed hungrily at the gown.
She caught me staring at her, and a warmth overcame her features so quickly, it had me wondering if I’d simply imagined the bitterness I’d sensed rolling off of her.
Discomfort settled over me as I couldn’t help but compare us side-by-side. Imogen’s servant’s dress was black and lacked any frills or splendor. In fact, it barely fit her and seemed to hang off of her slender body as if it had originally been the object of a much larger maid.
A hand-me-down, probably.
I wondered what family situation Imogen came from, for her to choose employment as a servant. As much as living in Othian proved a better living situation for humans than most of Alondria, it didn’t stop humans from looking down their noses upon their own. Most men in Othian didn’t seek out employed females as their brides.
For me, that had never been an issue, for I’d always intended to use my self-employment as a weeding-out factor for eligible bachelors, as well as a reason not to have to marry anyone at all, should I find no one to my liking.
Which, let’s be honest, seemed likely.
But was this how Imogen had felt when she took this job? Had she longed for the financial freedom to choose whatever life she wished for herself? Or did her situation come from a place of poverty? I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious in the ornate gown, now that I wondered whether the ill-fitting maid’s dress was the nicest piece of apparel that Imogen owned.
I decided that, on the highly likely chance this plan didn’t work, and I somehow became Princess of Dwellen, I’d find Imogen something nicer to wear. And make sure she was being paid well, too.
Imogen took a courteous bow. “You’re all set, my lady.”
Blaise locked her arm through mine, surveying me up and down. Then she grinned. “You might just leave Andy at a loss for words.”
In what was quickly escalating into an unbecoming habit, I noted Imogen’s reaction to the pet name.
Her jittering fingers clenched.
