Page 91 of Of Realms and Chaos

The servant woman paid him no mind, dipping brushes into cosmetics and slathering my skin, going so far as to pluck some of my eyebrow hairs. I swatted her hand with a hiss, annoyed with her ministrations. More than that, I loathed the idea of being altered to fit whatever idea of beauty these people had. It reminded me of the way my eating had been restricted to please Sterling. Losing more of myself for anyone was not an option.

I was no one’s but my own.

Unperturbed, she shrugged and turned to gather something else. A brush. Joy.

After what felt like years of hearing her tsk in disapproval as she ripped through my knotted curls, she finished. I thought she would braid my hair back, something to mask the now unnaturally large fluff of frizz, but she instead bent down to retrieve something from her satchel. When she stood once more, now holding a comb made of metal, suspicion crept in.

She walked away, approaching the fire. Was she going to brand me?

“Are you going to brand me?” My shouted and bewildered question startled Trint, who had begun softly snoring with the open flask held tightly against his chest. The wine spilled across the violet couch, deepening the cloth to a nearly black color.

“No, stupid girl, I am going to fix your hideous hair,” she said in that throaty accent of Gandry. Surprised to hear the common tongue, it took me a moment to properly absorb what she said.

Girl? Hideous hair? Despite myself, I thought I rather liked this woman, if only for her brazenness. With that realization fresh in my mind, I settled back and begged the stupid God of Death and Creation to not take me today.

Odd, to think living was better than dying. Maybe one day I would want that for myself rather than the good of the world.

“You made me spill my wine!” Trint cut in.

“By the sound of your voice, it seems you have quite a bit of whine left in you.” My mocking earned me a quiet giggle from the otherwise-stony woman as she began to drag the hot comb through my hair. The first victory of the day, excellent. Happily, I closed my eyes, relaxing into the warmth of the odd device.

“I need to get rid of you before you make my hair turn gray.” Trint’s grumbling was followed by sounds of panicked scrubbing and rather filthy curses. My smile grew as the comeback he had so easily offered reached the tip of my tongue.

“What does not kill you, disappoints me.” A gasp sounded behind me, forcing me to open one eye and look at the king, who I imagined was as horrified as the woman. Instead of furious or appalled, King Trint looked as if he were fighting back laughter.

“You know, I do not recall us becoming friends, so please, save the flattering comments for someone else.”

With that, he took another hearty sip of his wine and proceeded to stretch out on the dry portion of the sofa, once more snoring after only a minute or so. What a talent, to sleep peacefully. To not fear what might come when you close your eyes. Comfort like that was a luxury, and I doubted he realized that.

The woman spent the next hour diligently combing my hair, returning to the fireplace when it lost heat. Smelling the burning hair made my stomach churn, images of so many dead flashing before my eyes. The sorrow of lives lost and debts owed threatened to pull me down into depths I would surely drown within—how could one breathe when the air was made of despair and regret? Though I wished she would stop, I knew better than to admit that weakness. So I dutifully sat still, eyes closed and mind slowly sinking from the memories of being taught to remain silent within my pain—of the screams that accompanied burning flesh.

Turn the sorrow into anger.

I repeated that over and over again, hoping that it would be enough to prevent whatever meltdown was threatening to burst free of me.

Finally, she finished, coming around to assess me once more, ignorant of the storm raging inside my chest. Apparently, she was rather proud of her accomplishments, because she offered a smile and said something to the king in her native tongue. When he did not respond, still snoring, she groaned and stomped over to the thin door on the right wall.

This allowed me a moment to properly take in the rest of the odd space, a welcome distraction from all that I could not ignore within my mind. The window behind me was not overly large, providing just enough light for her to work. On our right was what I now knew was a closet, which the woman was pulling a purple garment from.

Beads of sweat dripped down my neck from the heat of my hair, so thick it was stifling. What had she done to it?

When the woman was once more in front of me, she held up a pool of violet, the delicate and unique structure of it reminding me of Pino. Perfect timing, I was in desperate need of more grief right about now.

I stood, reaching for the dress, but the woman smacked one of my hands. I gasped, glaring at her as I rubbed my stinging skin. She hit hard for a mortal, especially one who seemed to be at least halfway through life. Muttering something that definitely sounded like insults under her breath, she began ripping open my robe. For a second, I attempted to fight her, but then she raised her hand again. With a mumbled curse, I took the note from Bellamy out of the robe pocket, being sure to only touch it with the cloth as I shoved it into my dagger sheath.

Whether I thought it would bring me luck or comfort, I was not sure. Both, probably. But either way, I knew I needed to have that piece of him with me as I did this. Then I nodded, submitting to her ministrations.

She stripped me until I was left in only my undergarments, my necklace, and my plain black sheath. Then the lunatic tried to rip off the band securing my breasts. This time, I swatted her, and I watched as her eyes went wide. The outrage was clear, but she also radiated respect, her mind practically singing praise to me. Still, she pointed her finger to the band, then to the ground, her frown so deep it looked as if it might go full circle and become a smile.

Sighing, I pulled the cloth over my head, earning a few more tsks of disapproval when my hair got wrapped inside of it. But, soon, I was nearly fully nude, and she was forcing me to step into the purple gown. When she pulled it up past my hips and stomach, I slid my arms through the sleeves and let her adjust the neckline.

Satisfaction and pride doused the air, warming it and me further. She stepped back, clapping her hands in front of her mouth. When a single tear fell from her left eye, I shifted on my feet in discomfort. Seconds passed, and then she was composing herself once more, taking a few deep breaths before ushering me to the long, oval-shaped mirror tucked away in the far corner of the room. We made our way there, my bare feet cold on the black quartz floor.

A gasp involuntarily left my lips when I saw my reflection. She had painted my eyelids black, making the gray of my irises stand out with an eerie quality. My lips were left untouched save for healing cream, my cheeks red from the rouge. Even my under eyes, which had once been dark and sunken in, looked bright and well rested. The comb-like device had stolen the curls from my hair, leaving it straight and silky.

Even more stunning was the dress. The torso was made entirely of black and purple beads, strung together on a thick purple thread. The designer had left some areas more bare than others, exposing small sections of my tawny skin. The neckline dipped into a low V shape, offering a silent explanation for why she had refused to allow my band to stay on. Both sleeves were also beaded, the swirling patterns reaching my wrists. She tugged on a small circle of loose fabric, wrapping it over my middle finger to secure the end of the sleeve over the back of my hand.

The skirts were equally beautiful, layers upon layers of sheer purple fabric that flowed with every small movement. They split up my left thigh, stopping at a high enough point that I wondered if I would scandalize people rather than inspire them. But she did not seem concerned with the way the beads barely stayed secure on the edge of my shoulders, or the fact that the fabric threatened to show my black undergarments.

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