Page 7 of The Beast King's Bride

Still panting, my palms pressed to the door, I wait far longer than is probably necessary. I don’t know where Milhelmina is—but then I remember that she’s spending the night in the tower. Tomorrow she’ll probably be back—to lie in bed, or sit at the arched window and continue the embroidery I can see there, set on a stand.

Turning away from the door, I make my way to the window and examine the embroidery. It shows a pastoral landscape, fields and cottages, trees and hills, white sheep grazing. Is she embroidering this because she would like to escape there, escape this room, this palace, this sickness, and be free, or is it my own desires that color everything?

Sick or not, she is a princess, well taken care of, with rights, with time to embroider this picture sitting at her window.

It is I who want to leave.

And go where? I laugh quietly to myself, stepping back from the window. This desire for freedom is just that. A formless desire with no substance. I’ve spent my whole life here, in this palace. It’s all I’ve ever known. Peeling vegetables and fetching water from the well and talking to ravens and Pete. Hardly prepared for the world outside. Besides which, a girl on her own, with no protector, no gold, no friends outside these walls—where would I go?

Dispirited, I walk over to the mirror. The girl facing me is grimy, her dress half-torn and stained, the hem worn and black with filth, the apron streaked with green and brown from the vegetables I peeled. My chestnut hair is coming loose from its bun, and my hands are reddened and cracked. I’m so far removed from this royal life as I could ever be.

I lift a hand to my face and pause. This is me, I think. I look… ordinary. Definitely dirty. I look just like the other maids I see scurrying around me every day. I don’t know why I thought I’d look any different.

My pale gray eyes look wide and startled in my pale face.

I step back, turn away. This brief glimpse into this alternate life I might have lived, this brief flare of hope for a different future has left me sadder and more despairing than ever. It was a mistake, coming here, a mistake in every way, and it’s time I abandoned ship before I sink with it.

If I’m careful and avoid the guards, I can be out of here quickly, and if I make up a good story to tell the cook—since stories have so much power—I might escape the beating. Worth a shot.

But as I turn to go, I see the dress.

It’s laid out on the ornate chair beside the mirror, a river of sparkling lights spilling on the floor. Beside it are laid its accessories—long white lace gloves, a silver-white wig, a fan, a purse—and on the floor lay the shoes, delicate white slippers embroidered with more crystals and gems.

It’s like something out of a dream I never had. You can hardly dream of things you didn’t know could exist, right? I never dreamed of clothes or ornaments—after all, there are no mirrors in the kitchens and the servants’ quarters, so I never really thought about my appearance. But this dress is otherworldly as if made by the Fae, the tricksters, as if they did magic and brought down the light of the stars and poured it into the form of a gown.

And I can’t help but wonder how I would look in it. If putting on different clothes would change what I look like, what I feel like—what I am—return me to my childhood, return me to my previous self.

If it would allow me to go to the ball.

It’s a crazy idea, and it leaves me breathless.

Prince Alfred said that Milhelmina won’t make it to the ball. She won’t come back tonight to find her gown missing. Nobody has to know. She is roughly my height and body shape. I bet I could pass off as her. Who’s going to notice?

“She’s contagious,” Alfred had said. Victim of a Fae plague. Would I contract the disease by wearing her clothes? They look unused, as if she had them sewn but never had the chance to wear them.

In any case, I don’t care. I’m going to the ball. Better shoot across the sky like a fiery star rather than live a life in the dark.

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