Ash Princess (Ash Princess Trilogy #1)(43)

But she is, and I’ve given her plenty of reason to be. Guilt lodges deep in my stomach. It’s not enough for me to change my mind, but it’s there all the same.

I open my mouth but quickly close it again, unsure of what to say, exactly, to convince her that I’m no threat. Cress is always so good at telling when I’m lying, though.

“After the rebel’s execution,” I say after a moment, choosing my words carefully, “I was disturbed. There was so much blood and I felt sick about it. S?ren found me afterward in the hall and I suppose he took pity on me. That’s when he told me to call him S?ren. And then I thanked him by vomiting all over him.” I cover my face with my hands in a show of mortification.

“Oh, Thora,” Cress sighs, and her expression shifts. She looks relieved, though she tries to hide it. “That’s awful! How embarrassing.” She takes my hand and pats it soothingly, pitying me once more.

“It was,” I say. “But he was so nice about it. That’s what we talked about at the banquet. I apologized and he said it was nothing to worry about. He’s very kind.”

Cress bites her lip. “But you don’t like him, do you?”

“Absolutely not.” I laugh, trying my best to seem surprised. “He’s a friend, I suppose, but that’s it. And he’s certainly not interested in me. Do you think a boy has ever fancied a girl after she vomited on him?”

Cress smiles, relief flooding her face before she glances at the strewn dresses again and frowns. “No idea of his favorite color, though?” she asks.

“He probably likes black best. Or gray. Something gloomy and serious,” I say, and do my best impression of stone-faced S?ren, furrowing my brow and pursing my lips. It’s enough to make Cress giggle, though she quickly covers her mouth with her hand.

“Thora!” she exclaims, trying to come off as chiding but failing miserably.

“Honestly, though,” I say. “Have you ever seen him smile?”

“No,” she admits. “But being a warrior is an awfully serious business. My father doesn’t smile much either.”

Small as it is, hearing S?ren likened to the Theyn is enough to remind me who he is and what he’s capable of. Maybe he is kind, but how much blood is there on his hands? How many mothers has he killed?

I force a smile. “I’m only saying that you deserve someone who will make you happy,” I tell her gently.

She thinks about it for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. “Being a prinzessin will make me happy,” she says decisively. “And being a kaiserin one day will make me happier.”

She sounds so sure of the future in front of her that I almost envy her, even though if I have my say she will never get it. Guilt hits again, but I try to ignore it. I can’t feel bad about Cress not getting her storybook ending when my people are dying. Instead, I reach for another dress, this one a pale blue Kalovaxian gown embroidered with gold flowers. I shake it out and hold it up.

“This is lovely, Cress,” I tell her. “The color will bring out your eyes.”

She considers it for a moment, eyes darting between the dress and me. The wheels of her mind are turning. “It’s boring,” she says finally before looking down at my dress. “I adore yours, though.”

“This?” I glance down at the blood-orange Astrean chiton I’m wearing. “You gave this to me months ago, don’t you remember? You said the color didn’t suit you.”

It was something she did often, ordering the tailor to make dresses she knew wouldn’t suit her so that she had an excuse to pass them on to me. Most of my gowns were once Cress’s, and they’re far more wearable than the ones the Kaiser sends me, which are usually designed to keep my back bare and my scars visible.

“Did I?” she asks, frowning. “I think I might be able to pull it off.” Her mouth purses before curving into a grin. “I have a splendid idea, Thora. Why don’t I try your dress on and you can try on one of mine? Just to see how it looks?”

I cannot for the life of me imagine what would be fun about that, but the only reply I can give is to wholeheartedly agree.

The orange color of my dress looks garish on her, clashing with her rosy skin and yellow hair—which was the reason she never wore it when it was hers—but she isn’t dissuaded. She turns every which way in front of her mirror, looking at her reflection from all angles with a critical pleat to her forehead and a glow in her eyes that I’d find frightening if I didn’t know her as well as I do. It’s a look she’s inherited from her father, but while the Theyn gets it in the heat of battle, Crescentia wears hers in a different kind of war.

It’s only when she has me don a gray velvet Kalovaxian dress that covers me from chin to wrists to ankles in one shapeless heap that I realize it’s me she’s waging war against. I don’t doubt that she believed me about the Prinz, but I suppose Cress isn’t one to leave anything to chance.

“That color looks so darling on you, Thora,” she says. Her smile is sweet but false. She tilts her head thoughtfully, letting her slate gaze travel over me. “Why, you look positively Kalovaxian, if you ask me.”

Her words rankle, but I try not to show it, forcing a smile instead. “Not nearly as pretty as you, of course,” I say, telling her what she wants to hear. “The Prinz won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”