story - part 19 - preparation - 1529 words

My night is dissolved into the memory of the smug expression on her face as I try on the over shirt and it fits perfectly, the way her eyes glitter as she watches me. It is strange, this is not the kind of clothing that I generally would wear. I usually would be uncomfortable in it, I would feel gaudy and awkward. She seems pleased with it, however, and for some reason that is enough of a reason to wear it. I do not know what to make of this.

In the morning, the palace is abuzz with activity. Servants scurry through the halls, from one room to the other, dragging out tapestries and coat of arms, countless costumes and huge platters. They are digging out the fancy supplies, the party supplies, the things that are used to impress and appease nobles.

Lessons in the morning are a hectic affair. Tumaire is excited and attempts to act sullen and annoyed at the same time. He pretends he does not want to go to this event, even though he is barely able to sit still, he bounces enthusiastically in his chair.

Lunchtime, the kitchen has exploded into chaos. There are dozens of people coming in and out, there are complicated dishes already being cooked. The meat will take hours, it must be started immediately. The deserts are prepared and put aside, they will be cooked later.

This afternoon's court has been postponed, for obvious reasons, for a few days. Everyone who does not have a job around the house, who has this time free, has retreated off to dress for the event. Hours spent on hair and face powders, on carefully hiding the signs of age. Every event here is a masquerade.

I plan to retreat to my own rooms, for some time alone. I round the corner and stop cold; Amazilia is in the hallway, holding a hushed and angry conversation with one of the servants, a timid young man with wide, deer-like eyes and an edge to him that makes me worry; he is preparing to leap away at any moment, to bound away down the hall and hide in the underbrush.

"I don't really give a shit, honestly, if he wants me there or not. You can tell him I'll be delighted to attend, just like that, polite and nice." It is obvious what her birth was like, where she was raised, what her background is. Her family may have money now, but they did not always. She is a noble, but not noble.

The poor young man, wide eyed, bobs his head in a nod and dashes away down the hall. He will deliver her message in a stammer, likely be yelled at on the other end for the bad news there, as well. As if it is his fault.

"You should not punish the messenger." A hiss, casual, as I wander past her. Her head jerks up and she turns that vicious, accusing frown on me - she must assume that I have been lurking again, intentionally listening in on her conversation. For some reason she assumes I care what happens in her life.

"King's advisor told me it wasn't wise to invite me to the party, and that he strongly suggested I don't come." Something sing-song in that tone. She is mocking, she is quoting him, still frowning deeply up at my face. She is pretty, when she smiles and pastes on that coy expression, but when she glares like this, she loses her beauty and merely looks angry.

"I think he's afraid I'd make a scene or something. And, what? Telling me to stay hidden away in my chambers is going to make me less likely to spill the King's secrets? Not very likely." It occurs to me that she is nothing more than a petulant child, scowling and wanting and never worrying about the consequences of her actions.

"Obviously not. Allow me to guess. You plan on going to the party and making a scene, to show them that you would not go to the party and make a scene." Tone dry and drawling. I have paused to speak with her, settled with hands in my pockets and eyes locked intently on her face. I would love to see her bite back, to be bright enough to come up with an appropriate response.

Instead she flounders, mouth opening and closing, and glares at me. Her displeasure is not expressed in elegant words, or even in a snapped, nasty comment. Instead it comes in a gesture, something rude and direct, before she turns around and disappears back into her room with a slam of her door. I can imagine her throwing things around and throwing a tantrum in there, one that no one can see.

When wandering steps finally bring my back into my own room, I find the Prince perched on my bed, blinking up at me expectantly. For a moment, I am too surprised to react. He has never been in here, before, he has never taken the time to come wandering down the hall to find me. He has always sent a servant to do it for him, and has had me ushered back to him.

"I, um. I need help getting ready, and no one knew where you were." One of his legs is dragged up onto the bed, hugged against his chest. He seems strangely uncomfortable, he doesn't have that same indifferent air about him. He is too intense and excited, watching me with wide eyes.

"You could have left me a note. You did not have to come all the way out here." Equally uncomfortable. I pull my cloak carefully back into place and stare down at him, not quite sure how to deal with this strange situation. After a long minute, I blink away from him and toward the door, avoiding that fascinated and attentive stare.

"Do you want me to go back to your room with you? Are there clothes there for you?" Uncertainty can be tasted in my voice. This situation makes me fidget, it makes my stomach flip and my head buzz. I do not like the fact that he is in my room, invading my private space and coloring it. And I am afraid there will be something, somewhere, that will give me away to him.

"There are a couple changes of clothing, and they are all nice, and I do not know which one is best. Will you come help me decide?" Fidgeting on my bed, weight shifting to one side and then the other, lower lip dragged nervously between his lips. I have never seen him quite this edgy, he has never had this much energy.

When I agree, he hurries away down the hall and to his rooms with me in tow; shows me the four changes of clothing that have been spread out neatly on his bed. It takes me a moment to figure out why they seem so familiar and so disconcerting - they are all red and black, my colors. Is he trying to mimic me, or mock me?

"You should wear blue, I think." Frantic to fix this, to make sure he does not grow too attached to me, that he does not trust me too much. The closer he is to me, the more he will want to know, and I hate lying.

There is a touch of disappointment in his face, but he must be able to read something in my expression. A glance from the clothing to me and back again before he nods. The movement is almost reluctant, and his lips shift into a faint pout. For once, I do not mind. I would far rather he sulked than emulated me.

From here, it is easy to get him dressed and ready. Blue and black clothing, a long over shirt embroidered in gold. Those long lines of buttons up his back, around golden wings. He looks much better than this than he would ever look in my colors. This is what he was designed for.

I make sure that he has something on hand for if those aches and shooting pains kick in at some point during the party. I will be there, but he does have an image to keep, and it would be best if he did not have me treating him in the public eye. It seems to me that he searches madly for any excuse to keep me around longer, ranging from help with his hair to a small injury on the side of one arm, but I am finally able to escape out of his rooms and back out into the draft of the hall.

Now, of course, I must return to my own rooms, and pull myself together. There will be no intricate hairstyles for me, no difficult clothing choices. I will instead deliver myself into Lady Calidris's capable hands, allow her to do what is necessary. She knows better than I what is appropriate and what is not - and I like watching her smile, some small part of me rejoices when she is happy.