Page 8 of The Beast King's Bride

3

ASH

I soon realize that there is a reason princesses always have a maid or two to help them dress. To tie the laces on the back of the gown, I have to contort myself like an acrobat. The corset of the gown is a little tight around my chest but otherwise, it’s a surprisingly good fit.

Maybe a good omen—or maybe not. I’m so nervous, I fumble the belt a few times before buckling it right, then make a mess of the bow behind. The third time, I get it right and I turn slowly in front of the mirror.

The gown sparkles and sparkles. I hope everyone looking my way is blinded enough by it not to notice my face.

As for said face, I washed it as best I could in the basin by the bed, pouring water from a painted jug. I also washed my arms and my neck, using a cloth I found nearby to wipe away as much of the filth as I could.

The face in the mirror is brighter now, paler, with color in the cheeks.

I smile at it.

It’s a sad smile, unpracticed.

Unlacing my messy bun, I use a silver brush to brush out my hair. It’s grown quite long, I realize as I twist it back up and secure it with a pin before donning the white wig. I slip my feet into the shoes and carefully pull the long gloves on.

The person staring back at me is… me and it isn’t. She looks like a princess now, even if her smile is still uncertain and her eyes look haunted.

I lift my chin, take a deep breath.

I was born a princess. I can pretend to be one for an hour or two. All I need is to act as if the world belongs to me, as if everyone owes me their obedience and admiration. An ego the size of the palace, that’s what I need.

Piece of cake. I can do this in my sleep.

I clench my hands at my sides to hide their shaking. You want to fly like a shooting star, I tell myself, then learn to accept the burn.

No reason to linger any longer. Do it now or not at all, Princess Ash.

I step outside the room and glance up and down the corridor. A princess—I think Lelia—is making her way away from me and crossing my fingers that she’s heading toward the ball, I follow her.

She’s accompanied by two maids who hurry to open doors for her and who seem to be carrying her fan and purse. We cross various parlors and salons full of bustling servants carrying platters of food and rolling barrels of wine, carrying tall stacks of plates and trays arranged with fluted wine glasses.

To my relief, nobody seems to be throwing me a second glance as I sail by, pretending to belong there, pretending to know where I’m going. The dress is heavy with all the layers of muslin and taffeta and the crystals sewn on it. The shoes are uncomfortable. The wig makes my head itch. But I keep my chin up as I cross more and more rooms, walk down more corridors, through a long portrait gallery, until I find the grand doors leading into the ballroom.

The guards posted there merely glance at everyone entering, probably just making sure nobody shabbily dressed makes his or her way inside. Only liveried high-ranking servants and aristocracy are allowed inside.

And me, I think as I pass through the double door and finally sweep into the ballroom.

Oh Gods. I made it.

I’m here.

Unable to stop myself, I turn in a small circle, taking in the high vaulted ceilings with the swinging chandeliers that sparkle like suns, the garlands of flowers hanging overhead, the tapestries on the walls depicting revels in the woods, the scent of flowers mingling with the aromas of food from the long tables set to one side.

When I walk further in, I see the dais with the twin thrones, dressed in royal purple velvet with gold trimmings, golden crowns carved on top of each one. Below them, the aristocratic crowd has begun to mingle, the men strutting around like peacocks, the women gliding like swans, swirling around each other as the first guests arrive.

Lured by the food on the long tables, I quickly make my way there. No chance of me sitting down properly as the possibility of being recognized will increase a hundred-fold, but I grab a little something from every platter—a piece of meat, a roasted prune, a roll of sweet bread, an almond pastry.

Is it wrong that I’m drawn as much by the food as by the mesmerizing decorations and the costumes? After the bland gruel I have had every day of my life since a young age, these tastes seem to wake up my senses. They are half-remembered—I used to eat this kind of food as a child princess—and as I swallow bite after bite, images come fluttering to my mind: playing with my cousins. Running after a colorful ball in an enormous salon. Caressing tiny kittens on my bed. Laughing as the court jester cavorted on the floor in the great dining hall.

I let fall the last piece of sweet roll I got and walk away from the table on unsteady legs. This is the wrong time to start crying over the past. Soon I will have to leave the ball. What I should be doing is using this brief, precious time to take it all in, hoarding the memory for when I sit back in the dark kitchen, peeling onions and shedding deservedly hot tears.

Lifting my skirts, I walk across the ballroom, turning my face up when everyone oohs and aahs at the twin staircases.

A lady is coming down, her bell-shaped skirt swishing on the steps. She’s wearing a tiara on her head, and her wig is almost as tall as herself. She snaps her fan as she comes down and steps into the ballroom as if she owns the place.

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