Page 16 of The Call of Crimson
CHAPTER FOUR
BREYLA
Another day, another funeral pyre. I’ve lit so many in such a short time. Now, I was preparing to light another.
A soft knock pulls me from my thoughts, the door creaking open.
“Can I help you dress?” Ophelia asks softly. She’s dressed in a black, long-sleeved, velvet gown. Her raven strands hang in loose curls around her face, bouncing slightly with each step.
I nod, and the door clicks shut behind her.
“I don’t know what to wear,” I admit as she joins me at the wardrobe. A black silk robe is all that covers me as I stare into the oak armoire, overflowing with options that all feel wrong.
“Why wouldn’t you wear your leathers as you did for the others?”
“We wear leathers for fallen soldiers. I was acting as the General then.” I pause, voice cracking. “My mother was not a soldier. And I’m not just attending as a general today. I-I’m…” I choke on the words my mouth refuses to utter.
Ophelia, ever perceptive, nods in understanding. “So what are you feeling?”
I know she’s referring to clothes, but the truth escapes me. “I feel broken. Weak.”
Her expression hardens. She turns me to face her, her storm-gray eyes searching mine. “You are not broken, Breyla. Nor are you weak; never have been.”
Her bottom lip quivers as tears pool in the corner of her eyes. The words are as much for her as they are for me.
“I’m sorry, O,” I whisper. “Somehow I manage to forget I’m not the only one saying goodbye today.”
I pull her into a tight embrace. She melts into me, and for several long moments, we hold one another. Two females fighting to hold back the tide of grief.
Then, gently pulling away, she wipes her eyes. “Okay. Let’s find you something that shows them all you’renotbroken.”
“Mother would have wanted me to wear a dress. I hate dresses.” I run my fingers along a few options, none of them appropriate for a funeral.
Ophelia stops in her perusal, her eyes widening. “This one. It’s exactly what you need today.”
She pulls the garment out for me to examine and my eyes rove over the unfamiliar item. “I don’t recognize this. It’s not one I’ve ever worn before.”
It’s black with a fitted corset top, modest V-neckline, thick straps, but no sleeves. Running my fingers down it, I realize the material isn’t one that is typically used for dresses; it’s eerily similar to those used for fighting leathers. It’s softer, but it’s notsilk or wool. The real draw of this dress is the hemline, though. It falls long in the back but tapers up and cuts just above the knees in the front. Deep crimson satin lines the inside of the skirt.
“It was made for you. It had to be.”
“Help me put it on.” I untie the robe, letting it fall to the floor at my feet.
The dress slips on with ease, perfectly hugging every curve. Ophelia’s adept hands quickly lace the bodice, and I savor the feeling of the material on my skin. It provides the familiar comfort of my leathers but satisfies the image I need to portray. The higher hem in the front still allows me the freedom to move about should a threat arise.
“You were meant to wear this dress, Breyla.”
I pull my thigh holster on, slipping a dagger in. The level of the gown hits perfectly to keep it hidden. “Whoever made this dress clearly knew who they were creating it for.” Ophelia hands me the slim dagger I frequently keep in the front of my bodice, and I slip it into place. I’m stunned to find a pocket sewn into the lining, a perfect fit for the blade.
Taking a seat in front of my vanity, I let Ophelia brush out my gold-streaked copper tresses. In a matter of minutes, she has it tamed into soft waves that frame my pale face. She completes the look by placing the usual gold and ruby crown atop my head.
Laying a petite hand on my shoulder, she leans down and meets my eyes in the mirror. “We’ve got this, Your Majesty.”
I lay my hand on hers and muster a smile. “Yes, we do.”
Elijah’s eyes widen when he takes us in. “Is it in poor taste to whistle at my two favorite females looking as beautiful as you do for a funeral?”
“Probably, but I would expect nothing less from you,” I tease. For just a moment, Elijah’s humor breaks through the fog of grief that hangs low over me. He’s always had a way of making me laugh when I shouldn’t.
