Page 58 of The War of Wings
“Relax your shoulders, your Majesty.” Tilda, a seamstress, gently pressed two fingers into each of my shoulders. I hadn’t even realized they’d been bunched almost all the way to my ears. I pushed out a deep breath as I stretched my neck and let my shoulders fall. Tilda returned to her work, measuring every inch of my body with squirrely movements.
A dress fitting. I kept myself from grumbling under my breath at the absurdity of a fucking dress fitting. Queen Irli had insisted a gown be made for me. “You can’t attend a ball in traveler’s clothes,” she’d tutted when I laid out the contents of my bag for her perusal this morning. So here I was, standing stock still on a pedestal in my underclothes as Tilda scratched one final measurement on her pad of parchment and scurried across the room.
“Queen Irli set aside some fabrics for you to choose from,” she said as she rifled through a trunk and pulled out a handful of swaths. “There’s this beautiful lilac silk here. I think it would look wonderful with your coloring. Oh, how about this light turquoise? We also have this peach organza.”
An internal cringe tightened my insides. My mind had been made up long before the seamstress had shuffled into my chamber. “Black.”
Tilda froze, thin brows rising over creased, dark eyes as she furiously shook her head. “Oh, no, your Majesty. Black is strictly for funerals in Nesan.”
Perfect. Because if we didn’t defeat Malosym, we’d all be dead. “I’d like the gown to be black, please,” I said quietly, but I made sure my tone was firm.
Tilda’s head continued shaking. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, your Majesty. Queen Irli would not be pleased.”
“I’ll talk with Queen Irli.” I recognized a flash of uncertainty in her eyes. Was that fear? I couldn’t imagine anyone fearing the Queen Irli I’d met last night, but then again, I wasn’t a subject of hers, nor was I in her employ. I lowered my voice, hoping I came across sympathetic. “Is she unkind to you, Tilda?”
“Oh,” she answered quickly, turning back to close the trunk of fabric before popping open the latches on another one. “No, your Majesty. Queen Irli is kind to me. It’s King Laion who–” A gasp squeaked from Tilda and her hands flew up to cover her mouth. “I shouldn’t say anything. Please forgive me, your Majesty, I’m not used to being spoken to much during dress fittings.”
Her words tugged at my heart, a physical ache that left a hollowness behind. I desperately wanted more information about the King and Queen. I wanted to figure out what the hell they were talking about when I overheard them last night. But that flash of fear I’d seen in Tilda’s eyes stuck in my mind. She needed some kindness, and I needed some answers.
“It’s okay, Tilda,” I said gently with a smile. “I won’t breathe a word of this to Queen Irli. Or to King Laion, for that matter.”
“Thank you, your Majesty,” she said quietly, digging through the trunk that was brimming with black fabric in every type of material. “Are you sure a black dress is what you want?”
I stared at the curves and dips of my body that had filled out since leaving Inkwell. It felt like a lifetime since I walked the dirt roads of the poorest district in Eserene. So much had changed. And yet, so much was still the same. I was still fighting. I was still focused on survival.
I was still me. Maybe a little rougher in some spots, smoother in others. But still me.
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
Tilda nodded quickly, pulling an armful of fabric from the trunk. She busied herself draping panels over my shoulders andhips, but all the while, she looked nervous. “I think satin will work best,” she said so quietly, it was almost a whisper. “Queen Irli likes satin.”
How could I tie that into another question? I didn’t want Tilda to close herself off. “Do you make many dresses for Queen Irli?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered, pulling a pincushion from a drawer in a small side table and spearing one through a few layers of fabric at my back. “Queen Irli loves gowns. She wears them often.”
I watched as she worked the fabric in different ways, shaking her head or nodding to herself as she folded and pleated and pinned. “I’m afraid my education is lacking,” I started, “so I’m unfamiliar with Nesan and its royal family. Forgive me for asking, but did King Laion and Queen Irli lose someone, Tilda?” I tried to keep my words as earnest as I felt.
Tilda’s movements paused, her eyes widening in the mirror. It appeared as if she was weighing whether or not to answer me. “Their son, your Majesty.”
I pursed my lips, nodding as she continued her work. “Thank you for telling me, Tilda. I’m not quite used to dealing with royalty, so I’m unsure I’d be comfortable asking either of them myself.”
Tilda pushed one more pin through the fabric before she moved to the small pad of parchment on a worn desk near the wall. With her head down, she silently began scribbling. I was afraid to ask her more, afraid she’d somehow pass along the message to the King or Queen that I’d been prying. I didn’t even have time to think of something else to say, though, because it took less than two minutes before Tilda rose again and presented her drawing to me.
On the parchment was a ballgown with a fitted, off-shoulder bodice and draped skirts. It was beautiful in its own right — nothing like the obnoxiously flamboyant Eserenian initiation gowns.
“Wow,” I murmured. “I can’t believe you sketched this so quickly. You’re very talented, Tilda.”
A near-instant blush crept over the seamstress’ cheeks as she bashfully lowered her head. “Thank you, your Majesty.”
“It’s beautiful, really,” I said, tracing the drawing on the paper with my fingers. “But, would you be open to another idea?”
Tilda blanched, her eyes widening.
“I assure you that should King Laion take any issue in my choice of color or style, you will not be blamed. This wasmyrequest.”
Tilda swallowed hard, but I swore I saw her shoulders drop the slightest bit. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I guess I should ask, how angry do you think he’ll be?”
