Page 28 of Crown Prince's Mate

11

ADRIANA

The knock on my door sours my already dark mood.

I told my assistants I wanted no one to bother me, and that I didn’t want to see anyone until I was walking out to the ritual itself.

“Who is it?” My voice is a little shorter than I would have liked.

“We are sent by Thrain.”

I get up, pressing the button to open the door, and I’m greeted by two women in gray metal suits, their helmets off, showing their buzzed heads. In contrast to the dull uniforms, their make-up is perfect, and they are holding satchels of supplies and a fine, threaded metal vein.

I instantly know what they are here for, and there’s a snowball’s chance in a magma vein that I’m going to get dolled up for the prince.

“No. I’m doing this ceremony in my Administration uniform. I am a representative of our entire system,” I say, and realize I’m justifying myself to two random civilians. Not a good sign.

“You invoked your right to our betrothal ceremony, and while you are on Magnar, you represent us. Please, PrimeMinister, adhere to our customs fully, or we will be shamed,” says the one holding the veil carefully, her voice gentle yet filled with pride.

I force down my frustration. I’ve gone from Prime Minister to a woman playing dress-up.

It’s only for a little while longer. Tonight, I’ll be free, and so will my sector. And every one of the Aurelian warships will turn tail. He’s an asshole, but his word is iron. When he fails the ceremony... we’ll keep everything.

“Come in.” The doors seal behind them. In my cramped quarters, they place their satchels of beauty supplies on the desk where, just minutes ago, I scrutinized holographic strategy displays of Pentaris.

“I am Selena, and this is my apprentice, Myria. Is there somewhere we could go with more space?”

“Will this suffice? I’m already going to become spectacle enough.”

“We can make it work. Myria, get out the dress, please.” They both take the metal gloves off their hands with ceremony, placing them on my chairs, and the younger woman unfurls her satchel, revealing a long, flowing silver robe.

Myria is biting her lip, barely containing her words. “It’s a great honor, Prime Minister Adriana,” she blurts out, her eyes wide.

I don my diplomatic mask. “I’ve been clad in the grays of the Administration for so long, being wrapped up in the wealth of Magnar is going to feel strange,” I say, to relax her, making it clear she’s needed as she adjusts the long silvery dress, crafted from fine, interwoven strands of silver. Only the Magnarians have such an expertise in metal.

“I’m so jealous, if my boyfriend ever proposes then?—”

Selena gives her a gentle, chiding look. “The Prime Minister has enough on her mind without stories of your love life, Myria.”

To my amusement, Myria clasps her hand against her lips, the picture of regret.

“Prime Minster, would you please disrobe?” asks Selena.

I methodically unbutton the gray top of my uniform, followed by my pants, folding them with military precision on my bed before I stand. Myria presents the long, flowing silver dress, holding it up against me, its hem brushing my ankles. Selena is watching like a hawk, nodding appreciatively.

“You’re taller than a Magnarian, and willowy,” says Selena. “But this will fit nicely, when we’re done.”

Together, they assist me into the dress. Its weight is tangible, a formless, silvery embrace that drapes over me, and with practiced hands, they retrieve their tools from their satchels. Selena holds small metal clamps with fine, tapered edges, while Myria wields a thin, pencil-like metal rod, its end glowing red at the press of a button. Before the mirror in my room, they labor with expertise, Myria warming the fine strands, and Selena shaping the delicate silver threads. Gradually, the once-shapeless mass conforms to my form, elegant and flowing, the silver threads ascending, a warm embrace around my neck.

I feel like a woman again and not a Prime Minister, not a representative of billions of lives. I think back to my childhood on Virelia, long days in the grass chatting idly with my younger sister. She told me about her perfect husband, and each time she added a new feature to him, she made me laugh until my stomach hurt. A squat man, she said, with complete sincerity, a squat man with an uneven nose, hair coming from his ears, and a rather large belly.

When, between fits of laughing, I questioned her on her dream man, she looked at me like I was an idiot.

“Because, Adriana, I’ll look prettier next to him,” she said, in a tone too serious for a twelve-year-old. I was sixteen, and I thought that summer would never end.

Selena steps back, her eyes surveying their handiwork, making one final adjustment to the bodice. “We have completed our task, Prime Minister.”

“Thank you,” I respond, as she delicately lifts the veil, placing it with great reverence upon my head. The silver threads are so fine I can see through them, leaving me encased head to toe, as though I am armored for battle.

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