Finally, we’d decided the material was designed to cross over my chest, intersecting in the front, draping over my shoulders, then crossing again in the back. I was fairly certain that was how it was meant to be worn, with my belly and sides exposed and the rest of the fabric cascading down my back in a sash tied into a bow.
I made Imogen help me wrap my torso in it instead.
By the end, we’d constructed a well-formed bodice I’d thought was rather elegant, in an earthy kind of way.
Perhaps the lower half of the garment was the offensive part. While the taupe fabric flowed loose like a dress, these were most definitely pants. I wasn’t accustomed to wearing pants, not even while working in my father’s workshop, though now that I’d tried them out I thought I might have to make them a regular piece in my wardrobe.
Just not to be worn at another luncheon, clearly. If I ever got invited to one again.
On second thought, perhaps I should wear pants to every royal gathering I deemed an unpleasant waste of time.
The queen’s eyes landed on me, and a somewhat forced smile crossed her cheeks. Not the saccharine smirk of a conniving female attempting to ensnare a young girl with flattery so she could backstab her with little resistance. No, this was the pained smile of a woman who looked as if she were trying to truly force herself to be happy.
Like the queen figured that if she pretended to like me, it would eventually come to pass.
“Our dear Blaise must have picked that out for you, then?” she asked, her shoulders tense, but her voice steady and sweet. “She’s always possessed a keen eye for which fashions are about to peak the horizon. I’ve always been a bit too timid to let her dress me, much to the poor girl’s chagrin. You would think by the way she looks at my dresses that I were threatening to bore the girl to death.” She flourished at her own gown, and now that she pointed it out, it really was quite simple to be adorning a queen. A rose-blush dress, structured at the bodice with a flowing skirt that revealed little of what I imagined must be a beautiful form. Even her hair was simple, tied in a simple plait that had been tucked underneath itself just behind her left ear. Her fae features might have kept her looking barely older than me, but her dress, her hair, even the way she carried herself, suggested a female from a different time.
“Careful, dear. My other guests have more sense for fashion than I do. They might threaten to rip that right off you.” The smile that overtook her face was real this time, a gentle, teasing fondness for a group of females apparently more cutthroat than herself.
While I might have interpreted the words themselves as a threat, coming from the queen’s mouth, they sounded more like an invitation.
Guilt twanged in my chest at that thought. I’d given her every reason to despise me, yet she was still trying to get along with me.
“To be quite honest, I would have much preferred your gown to this…” I gestured to my garment. “Whatever this is called. You wouldn’t believe the tribulations Imogen and I faced trying to get it on.”
At that, a genuine laugh threatened the wrinkles next to the queen’s sparkling eyes. “I can only imagine.”
The room went quiet, and I felt pressure to keep engaging this female in conversation, lest the opportunity slip away from me. If I were to be her daughter-in-law, stuck in this palace for the rest of my life, I figured it would make life easier if we got along.
She’d never make up for my mother, of course, whom I missed desperately. There was even a pang of guilt in my chest for even attempting to befriend the queen, like I was betraying my mother.
But no, Mother would want me to make the best of an unpleasant situation, so I would.
I could sense the moment fleeing, slipping from my fingertips, so I grasped at the only bit of conversation starter I could find in the vicinity.
I nodded at the pieces of paper on the table. “What were you studying when I interrupted you? You seemed pleased with yourself.”
The queen gestured for me to join her side, and I did. The scent of cloves and cinnamon wafted over me as I approached.
Were the fae obsessed with perfume, or did they just come out of the womb bearing their own unique and lovely scents?
Good gracious, just standing next to her gave me the urge to flee back to my rooms and bathe in scented oils, though I’d done so just this morning.
“This,” she said, pointing to the paper, “is my cheat sheet.”
“I thought the fae had near-perfect memory.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, is that another thing humans have made up about us? They act like we’re mystical beings.”
“Well, you did enter Alondria from another realm,” I said, then as her expression soured, added more meekly, “didn’t you?”
“I suppose we did, waltzing into another world like we owned the place.” She rolled her eyes, which shocked me a bit. Was that disapproval I sensed in her voice?
“I suppose you do own the place now,” I said.
She met my gaze. “Yes, I suppose we do.” Her attention returned to the sheet of paper. “Regardless of what the humans make up about us, no, we do not have perfect memory. Which becomes quite the struggle when one lives for centuries. Especially as a queen, when I’m expected to remember the names of a lord and lady I met one time three dozen decades ago.”
Even the idea made me want to scratch at my throat, like it was giving me hives.
“So was born the cheat sheet,” she said, flourishing at the neatly scribed parchment. Then, with a mischievous glance I’d only ever seen on the face of her son, she said, “After I accidentally mistook a minor lord’s wife for his mistress and called her by the mistress’s name.”
My hand found my mouth as I tried to stifle the bout of laughter.
“No need to hide your amusement on my account, my dear. I was not the one who went home to an empty bed that night.” Again, that pleased look crossed her face. Was…was the quiet, austere queen making a joke about… “Still, while I wasn’t sorely disappointed in myself for exposing the lord’s indiscretions, I decided I’d rather not do so on accident in the future. The wife was quite upset. It would have been better for her to discover it in private…” The queen frowned at the memory, then quickly straightened. She pointed to the column on the left of the page before reciting the intention of each. “Here’s the list of each person’s name. This is a record of their physical description…much easier with fae than humans. Oh, I can hardly recognize the human ambassadors after a decade of not seeing them. It’s mortifying and I’ve yet to come up with an adequate system for it. And here is where I keep my less than pleasant tidbits of information: affairs, scandals, that sort of thing… I know you’re probably thinking I’m horrible, keeping people’s darkest secrets here, but I try not to use them unless it’s absolutely necessary. They mostly keep me from treading on topics that are uncomfortable and might inhibit trade relations if brought up. You must think me horrible,” she repeated.
“No,” I muttered, half flabbergasted, half in awe. “No, I don’t think that at all. I think it’s…” Diabolical? Wonderful? Beautifully organized and intentional and plotted and… “Strategic. I think it’s strategic. That has to be a vital part of being a queen, is it not?”
A pleased smile crossed her pursed lips. “Indeed.”
I wondered then how many beings she’d shown these records to. Likely very few.
I wasn’t sure whether to be honored or debilitatingly horrified, or a little bit of both.
“Oh, and lest you think me a gossip-mongerer, I do keep the pleasant things too. People—human and fae alike—respond well when you take the effort to remember something specific about them. It doesn’t even have to be anything profound or amazing. Even a simple recollection that they prefer a specific sauce with their vegetables can go a long way.”
“A long way toward what?” I asked.
Again, that naughty grin that strikingly resembled her son shone on her face. “Anything you need it to, my dear.”
