Long May She Reign(66)

I had to be right.

Madeleine had been happy to take over Naomi’s styling duties, and Naomi had been more than happy to let her. Madeleine had brought hundreds of pots of makeup and hair ornaments with her when she moved into my chambers, and she laid them out on the table now, considering them before starting her masterpiece.

She styled me without reference to anyone, dressing me in an elegant dress without too many layers, and leaving the makeup light and bright. It wasn’t the fashion of the old court, but the look in the mirror suited me. I looked regal.

Madeleine separated out sections of my hair, sweeping it back one way, and then another. “The king was sick,” she said softly. “Did you know that?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t think many people did. He was unwell, for the past six or seven months at least. Not life-threatening, I don’t believe, but it scared him. He didn’t want anyone to know.”

“But you knew?”

“With my own illness . . . it was very different, of course, but I think he thought I might understand. It was strange, to hear him speak of it. He seemed so vulnerable. I was not accustomed to seeing him as a vulnerable man.”

“You were friends with him?”

“Not especially, before that. I’d never thought he cared for much outside himself and his own comfort, and that makes for a poor friend. And I did not always approve of his politics. The nobility have so much here, and everyone else is left to scrape for themselves, but he never made any effort to change things.”

“What would you want him to have changed?”

“People dying because they don’t have access to simple medicines. People kicked out of their homes because they cannot afford the rent. Farmers who go hungry because they can’t afford their own food. It is time somebody noticed. My cousin notices. But he is not helping things, with this attack.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in politics.”

“One can be interested in both fashion and politics, don’t you think? They so often go hand in hand. Appearances, saying the right words, making people like you . . .”

“I wish politics wasn’t like that.”

“Me too. But we have to do it, if we want to help.”

I stared at our reflections in the mirror. Madeleine ran her fingers through my hair, and prickles chased over my scalp. “I think my mother felt the same way. About court.”

Madeleine smiled. “What was she like?”

“Perfect. She always saw the good in everything . . . she told me people are waiting for you to let them in, if you’ll just give them a chance.” A lesson I’d decided several years ago only applied to people like my mother.

“I heard she was a legend of the court. The king’s relative, running off and marrying a merchant. And somehow convincing them all to accept it, without any consequences at all.”

“She could have convinced anybody of anything.” She’d even convinced me of my own worth, once. That I should embrace my own strengths, and others would love me for them, regardless of how I doubted myself. It had been a beautiful lie to a nine-year-old, but no one had been around to perpetuate it since.

“I don’t remember much about my mother,” Madeleine said. “She died when I was four. But I remember, she always smelled of turpentine, from the paints she used. I don’t remember her painting, but we still have her work in our manor, and so it is like she is there, too, or her perspective is, the way she saw the world.”

“Is that why you started painting?”

“I don’t know.” She considered my reflection for a moment, and then reached for a fine paintbrush on the table. She popped it in her mouth, almost absentmindedly, smoothing the bristles, before dipping it into a pot of red lip color. “I didn’t start until a couple of years ago, when I was home after my first bout of illness. I was terrible at it. But there was something soothing about it . . . it’s somehow freeing but methodical, you know. I felt like I had a connection with my mother as I worked. And luckily I have something of her in me, because I learned quickly enough. And now I am the one who sometimes smells of turpentine.”

“My mother smelled of lavender,” I said. But as I spoke the words, I wondered if they were true. I knew my mother loved lavender, she’d had a little water spray . . . but did I actually remember the scent of lavender, or was it just the idea that I clung to?

Madeleine swept the red paint over my lips, and then stepped back. “There. All done. What do you think?”

She must have spun some kind of magic. My hair looked extravagant and sophisticated, without overwhelming me or making me look like the uncertain girl I really was. The way the sides swept back created the illusion of cheekbones, and the spirals at the back of my head created volume without seeming overdone. A small curtain of black hair fell down from the bun, as straight as always, but the straightness looked purposeful now, refined rather than limp.

As a finishing touch, Madeleine draped the Star of Valanthe around my neck. It was the only jewel I wore.

“It looks wonderful,” I said. “Really, thank you.”

“I told you. You need to look like a queen. No one said you needed to look like the last queen.”

I nodded. The pins didn’t shift as I’d have expected. I felt confident, secure. I stood up and pulled Madeleine into a hug. Madeleine flushed, her smile growing. “I’m glad you like it. My art is useful, is it not? Now, let’s go and show those people what sort of queen you can be.”