Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(30)
This is apparently correct, because the crowd perks up.
Lady Medeiros takes control. Of the women, of the crowd, of the entire situation.
Of me.
I don’t protest when she peels the thick robe from my shoulders, exposing my barely hidden chest, and though she glances skeptically at my already-donned silk corset, she doesn’t comment. Gabriella picks up the brush and pulls it through my long hair as Lady Anaya takes my hand and begins rubbing a sweet-smelling lotion into my nail beds. Apparently I’m to do nothing for myself, and that’s why the crowd was so disapproving when I tried.
As they work, the women fill the air with inane chattering about the latest spat between Duke Lancel and Lady Grey—all in French, mais bien s?r. So naturally do they gossip that I find myself wondering why I’ve never heard of Duke Lancel and Lady Grey, shortly before I realize that they don’t exist. Whether rehearsed or improvised I can’t tell, but this is a play—a farce, truly, a show of casual, girlish fun so far from the truth it strains credulity.
Our audience behind the railing, where I doubt anyone can hear even one word in ten, is rapt.
When Lady Medeiros pulls the sleeves of my shift off my shoulders, it’s all I can do not to jump and pull them back up. Not even the lowest-cut gown I’ve dared wear in public reveals so much. I blush fiercely enough to feel it, and the audience murmurs with delight; through the chatter of my attendants, I swear I hear a tourist remark approvingly on my “unfeigned innocence.”
I want to murder them all.
In swift, efficient movements, Lady Medeiros diffuses scented rose water onto my chest and shoulders, then pats me dry with a linen cloth. It’s the most humiliating luxury I’ve ever experienced. I’m relieved when Lady Medeiros replaces my sleeves and pulls me to my feet, grinning at me with a severity that I belatedly realize means I should be smiling too.
I acquiesce.
The women drape gown after gown across the bed, layering them with a few accessories, waiting for me to choose one. I try to focus, to do my best, but all I really want is to cover my near-nakedness and get these people out of my room.
Still, a Queen must dress like one, and for all I remain seventeen, unwed, and untitled, Queen is the role I’m playing in Versailles these days. So I select an ensemble of colors, fabrics, and accessories that will best enhance my finest qualities.
I simply do it with great haste.
Lady Medeiros tosses the emerald-green robe à la Piémontaise over my head, and the smooth satin hisses down over my shift, armoring me at last against the intrusive gaze of the audience. My fingers toy with the texture of the tiny embroidered detailing all around the bodice, and I stand straight so she can fasten the closures in the back.
“It doesn’t fit,” Lady Medeiros hisses, close to my ear.
“It most certainly does,” I argue out of the corner of my mouth. “I wore it last week.”
“It’s five centimeters from closing.”
Of course. “You haven’t tightened my corset.”
“You slept like this?”
I turn and give her what I will later consider my first Queenly staredown.
Her throat convulses, but then she nods. “Turn. I can pull the laces through the open back.”
As she yanks on my corset laces, squeezing my already-confined torso down to my accustomed measurements, the women across the railing titter to one another, doubtless commenting on what they see as nothing more than masochism for beauty’s sake. Lady Medeiros grumbles that she has to pull the laces so hard they tear at her delicate fingers, but I feel the world click into rightness as the boning of my stays digs into my abdomen, pulling everything back together. Soon my waist is small enough to fasten the tiny hooks down the back of my gown, beneath the ornamental cape that falls from my shoulders.
“I changed my mind about the hat,” I announce as soon as the final hook is set. “I’ll take that one.” I point at a wide-brimmed bonnet designed not for luxury or decoration but for actually shading one’s face from the sun. It’ll require a simpler hairstyle—hardly more than a loose, over-the-shoulder braid—cutting the duration of my torment by twenty minutes at least.
Lady Medeiros reads my mind and casts me a sly smile that communicates her approval.
Once my hair is bound and my hat affixed, each of the three ladies takes turn after turn adorning me with smaller accessories. Far too many: a watch pinned just above my breast, a chain of delicate white gold around my neck, a row of lace tucked carefully into my low neckline—not awkward for anyone, that move—a bracelet, thin leather gloves, teardrop pearl earrings, a brooch on my hat, two more for my silk shoes, a ring big enough to be worn on the outside of my glove, a sash about my waist. Finally, another spritz of rose water and then the three ladies—I suppose I must call them ladies, girlish as they are, since each has more than ten years on me—adopt a posture of attention, brimming with anticipation.
Of what?
“Kiss their fingers,” Lady Medeiros hisses at me.
This I remember. A Queenly tradition for more than just the lever. I step forward and offer each lady my hands, palms up. They place their fingertips in mine and I raise their fingers to my lips and kiss them quickly, and as I release them, each woman drops into a deep curtsy, her skirts a perfect circle around her.
They stay low, their heads bowed, until I kiss Lady Medeiros’s hands and she joins them in their subservient position. As soon as she does, the room bursts into applause, and it’s all I can do not to flinch away from the din.