Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(29)
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I apologize. The sole of her dangerously sharp high-heeled shoe taps against the marble floor in decisive clicks. She’s a slight woman in her early sixties. Her silvery hair is pulled back in a severe knot, but it doesn’t hide her beauty. “I was on lockdown at the—”
“I’m secondborn. No explanations necessary for wasting my time.” Apparently, Crystal is a master at the passive-aggressive arts. My cheeks heat with a blush.
“Can I help you with your things?” I ask. Over her thin arm is a black garment bag. Under it is a long box. Clutched in her other milky-white hand is the black handle of a large black case. The case hovers above the ground. Judging by her small frame and the enormity of the bulky coffin-like box, I doubt she could carry it. The stress lines around her mouth pucker in disapproval.
“I’m capable of performing my duties,” comes her clipped response. “Please hurry, we have less time now.”
I’ve selected a non-goddess character to impersonate this evening. After Dune informed me of the invitation to the ball and assigned Crystal to help, I explained to her via hologram that I wanted to go as Roselyn. She’s not technically a goddess. She was Tyburn’s lover. I first saw Roselyn’s image on the side of the Tyburn Fountain, the monument to the God of the West Wind. Roselyn points to the door that ultimately leads inside the Sword Palace grounds. Hawthorne kissed me in that fountain. I can still feel it. All the costume entails is a crown of roses and a skimpy gown. Done.
I close the door behind Crystal. Phoenix’s clanging footsteps ring in the hall. He greets us with the bright-red glow of his eyes. Crystal’s already severe disdain turns to scorn at the sight of Phoenix.
“What is that creature?” she asks, recoiling.
“My mechadome. It’s harmless.” I’m pretty sure that it’s Phoenix, and not Reykin, greeting me now, because I left Reykin in the bathhouse with Grisholm and the others. I’ll have to watch the mechadome to see if it gets clingy. The minute that happens, I’ll know Reykin is at the controls.
“Where would you like to work?” I ask.
Crystal gives Phoenix a wide berth as she passes. She stops in the drawing room, her black coffin case still hovering by her side. “This will do.” She lets go of the black handle and touches her blue-diamond moniker. The crate opens and unfolds, becoming a vanity with a mirror and studio lights. Crystal hangs the garment bag on a hook on its side and sets the long box beside it. She lifts an ornate, gold-leaf-encrusted chair from near the bureau and places it in front of the vanity. “Please, sit.”
After I do, she opens a drawer that contains ropes of thorny vines and small red roses in various stages, from buds to full bloom. She pulls on gloves with polymer protectors on the fingertips and palms and immediately goes to work on my hair, creating a halo effect with a crown. She braids thorny vines into the full length of the long hair in the back, weaving the rosebuds and blooms into the thorns and around the crown. It’s a decidedly un-Roselyn-like look. Tyburn’s lover was soft, with flowing hair. This is very warrior-like. This reminds me of—
I stand up just as Crystal is about to place another rosebud. Opening the garment bag on the hook, I spread it wide. Instead of a flowy medieval peasant gown, I find an ancient warrior-goddess ensemble consisting of a fawn-colored leather halter that will barely cover my breasts. It laces in the back but leaves the shoulders and midriff bare. Low-rise leather pants of the same hue and a primitive cut hang behind it, and a tight vest of brown suede with a brown fur mantle hangs behind that.
“What is this?”
“Your attire for this evening.” Crystal eyes it with approval.
“This isn’t what we discussed.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Why did you change it?”
“Your name is Roselle. You should be the Goddess of War, your namesake.”
“I don’t want to be the Goddess of War. I want to be—”
“Tyburn’s lover.” Crystal’s austere posture takes on an even more rigid mien. “Why would you be subservient to a god when you could be the goddess who presides over him?”
I blink. I have no good answer, except to say, “That’s not the point.”
“It’s exactly the point. But it wasn’t me who changed your request, it was Commander Kodaline, so you should bring it up with him if you have a problem with it. Now, if there’s nothing further, I’d like to continue my work.”
I want to argue, but I know that she’s just following instructions, so I relent. I sit back down, and she releases a small, handheld drone into the air. The drone flies in close, airbrushing makeup onto my face. It draws an intricate vine of inky thorns on the side, beginning above my eyebrow and drawing sharp points near my eye and over my cheek and jaw. Continuing down my throat and over my shoulder, the thorns grow down my arm and wrap around my right index finger.
Crystal directs me to stand. The drone inks more thorny vines down the side of my abdomen. When it’s finished, the little drone flies back to Crystal’s hand, and she returns it to a drawer in the vanity. The makeup dries instantly.
With Crystal’s help, I dress as the Goddess Roselle. She ties the bodice laces, and I take care of the rest. Reaching for the box, she extracts long mocha-hued suede boots. The boots are lined at the tops with brown fur and reach to just below my knees. The leather pants tuck into them. Without the suede and the fur mantle of the vest, my thorny braids would slice my skin to ribbons.