Snow Like Ashes(29)

Why am I dreaming about this again?

Alysson sits on a chair in front of Sir, who leans over the back of it with his head to his chest. They’re both somber, half crying and half not, trying to stay strong before their queen. Alysson has her arms cupped around a tiny wad of blankets.

“I don’t know what else to do,” Hannah whispers, stretching long, pale fingers to touch the bundle in Alysson’s hands. One tiny hand shoots up and Hannah takes it, wraps both of her hands around it.

Mather.

“You don’t have to go,” Hannah says. “You don’t have to obey me.”

The queen of Winter, groveling before her general and his wife.

Alysson looks up at her queen, one hand still around Mather and the other moving to grasp Hannah’s. “We’ll do it,” she whispers. “Of course we’ll do it. For Winter.”

“We’ll all do it.” Sir now. He looks up, alert and focused. “You can trust us, my queen.”

Hannah stands, her fingers absently stretching down to her son. She nods, or bows her head, staying quiet so long that when a distant explosion crashes, everyone jumps.

“I’m so sorry that I did this to you all,” Hannah whispers. “So sorry . . .”

“Lady Meira?”

I fly awake expecting explosions, ready to grab that tiny baby and run. It takes a couple of deep breaths and a few moments of focusing on the canopy before I believe that I’m not in that study—I’m in Cordell. I’m in Noam’s palace with Rose bending over me, excitement stretching across her face.

It was just a dream. Another dream about Hannah. But why did it feel so real?

“Are you ready to be made beautiful, Lady Meira?” Rose asks, overlooking my steady blinking at the canopy.

I cock an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m not already beautiful?”

Rose’s face collapses. “No! Of course not—I mean—”

“It’s fine, Rose. I’m joking.” I swing my legs over the bed and assess the situation before me. Three additional servants have tagged along with Mona and Rose, each holding either a bag or a piece of clothing. This is part of whatever Sir is planning, I guess—prettying me up, like trussing a chicken before cooking it. Can’t go to a ball in my travel garb, and I wince that I didn’t realize this sooner. I’ve never worn anything fancier than the same threadbare clothes I’ve always had. I’m not sure whether or not I want to be fancier—every time Dendera described ball gowns to me, my only thoughts were Sweet snow, that sounds like a lot of unnecessary fabric, and Skirts were probably invented as a device to keep women from running away.

“Of course, Lady Meira,” Rose says, and turns to the servants. “Girls! Let’s get to it!”

I fling my hands up. “Whoa—now? Wait! I want my clothes and chakram— Ow!”

All five girls descend on me at once. They yank me out of bed and shove me onto a dressing pedestal that makes me feel like one of Noam’s silly golden trees with people twittering below me.

“Mona, legs and feet. Cecily, bodice and sleeves. Rachel and Freya, hair and face.” Rose falls into step as a general would over a gaggle of confused captains, ordering and scolding. The girls tug me this way and that, shoving me into layers of fabric and dousing me in weird powders and oils. One grabs my hair and jerks it up into a curly design—one paints something glossy on my lips and cheeks—one shoves stiff-heeled shoes onto each foot—one tugs the strings on a corset so tight I can taste the inside of my stomach.

“Are you—sure—all this—is—necessary?” I sputter between tugs on the corset. I understand wanting to be more put together for a ball, but surely all this discomfort isn’t really needed? Can’t I just slip on a simple dress? Or, better yet, not go at all? But Sir and Mather will be at this ball, and I don’t want to wait until it’s over to figure out what they’re planning. If I have to suffer through a few too-tight corset strings, then fine.

Rose, finger on her bottom lip, lifts an eyebrow at me. She turns to the armoire without a word and pulls it open. On the inside of each door is a mirror, and even though the racks within are stuffed with dresses and nightgowns, I’m too focused on the reflection staring back at me to notice much about the clothes.

Noam’s servants are talented. Or I’m prettier than I thought.

The dress they stuck me in—or are still sticking me in—is a deep ruby red, billowy, swishy, with an intricate gold design threaded into the bodice. The gold loops up into two sheer straps that slide just under my collarbone, showing off the necklace of braided gold one of the girls has fastened around my throat. My hair, a giant array of pinned-back curls, hangs messy yet deliberate with a few white strands dangling free around my face.

“Well?” Rose crosses her arms. She seems way too satisfied with herself.

I click my mouth shut. Maybe being a little fancier isn’t a horrible thing. “You’re . . . good at what you do.”

Rose sighs as the girls back up, finished with their assault. A few of them coo at me, “Aren’t you so beautiful! He’ll fall for you for sure—”

I throw a finger up and look around. “Wait. He who?”

Mona closes her bag of supplies. “Prince Theron, Lady Meira. He’ll be smitten!”