These Hollow Vows (These Hollow Vows, #1)(17)

I look down at myself for the first time since Nik woke me. The silk dress she gave me is a bright red that nearly matches my hair. It sags at my chest and clings to the sharp angles of my hips before flaring out above my knees. The thin fabric exposes every underfed angle of my body, from my jutting hipbones to my sunken stomach. On Nik, its simplicity is probably sultry and seductive. On me, it looks a bit pathetic and ragged. Normally I don’t have time to worry about things as superficial as appearance, but next to this glowing woman I feel self-conscious.

“Don’t worry. I’ll help,” she says, offering the handkerchief to me. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

My arms are streaked and smudged with dirt. When I pressed into the shadows in the alley, I was thinking of hiding, of surviving, not of cleanliness. “Thank you.” I accept the soft fabric and gently wipe the dirt from my skin. “I guess I was in such a rush to get here, I didn’t even realize.” Beneath the filth, pink scratches—from running through the brush in the woods—crisscross up and down my arms. I’m not exactly a picture of beauty. “What do you mean they won’t let me in? Don’t they let everyone in?”

She digs into her purse again and pulls out a small bottle of ointment. “Even as massive as the queen’s castle is, it isn’t large enough to hold all the women who will show up for a chance at the prince’s hand.” She takes the handkerchief back and squeezes a bit of the opaque ointment onto it. She dabs it on a particularly ugly abrasion on my shoulder, and I watch the skin heal and return to a healthy ivory hue.

“I’m so sorry, but I can’t pay you for this.”

With a smile, she continues the application down my arm. “I won’t need your money once I’m Prince Ronan’s bride.” She winks at me like it’s a joke and only I am privy to the punch line. “My name’s Pretha.”

I swallow, still not sure what I did to deserve this kindness. “Abriella.”

“That’s a beautiful name.” She moves to my other arm.

“Thanks.” I scan the long line ahead of us. “How do they decide who gets in?”

“The majority of women will be sent home before they ever set foot in the castle. The guards at the door make the first cut on appearance alone.” She must see the disgust on my face, because she says, “I know. Shallow, right? But they’re looking for a healthy, beautiful human bride for their prince.”

The line moves slowly, and though I’m itching to get inside the castle and start searching, I’m grateful for the extra time. I never considered that I might not get past the doors.

“There.” She finishes the last scrape on my wrist. “And now . . . may I work on your face?” She pulls out a small mirror and turns it so I can see myself.

My face is no better than my arms were, but worse than the dirt and scrapes are the circles under my eyes and the hollows of my cheeks. Healthy isn’t the word that comes to mind when I look at my reflection.

Pretha dabs at my face with a clean cloth, then draws cosmetics from the endless depths of her purse. She lines my eyes with kohl, coats my lashes, brightens my cheeks with rouge, and paints my lips a deep red. When I look into the mirror again, my only familiar feature is my curly red hair. “You’re quite an artist,” I say, dabbing at my skin where the bags beneath my eyes used to be. “Are you sure you didn’t use magic on me?”

She laughs. “There’s nothing wrong with a little magic to enhance your natural beauty.”

I should expect the hairbrush that appears in her hand, but when she starts to work on my hair, I burst into laughter. “If that brush can tame my curls, you might qualify to join Elora’s Seven.”

“I wouldn’t dare mute your wild beauty. It’s what will draw the prince’s eye to you.” She gathers my curls into a crystal barrette on top of my head and arranges them carefully around my face.

I try to smile like a girl who’s anxious to have a faerie prince’s attention. The truth is, once I’m finally inside, I want the opposite.

When she’s done fussing with my hair, she steps back and cocks her head to the side. “Now the dress?”

The line is slowly creeping forward, and the moon is making its way across the sky. At this rate we’ll be in line until the sun rises. Maybe even after. “I suppose you have a needle and thread in those pockets, and you’ll be sewing this into something fancier?”

“Pssh.” She waves a hand. “I’m no seamstress.”

The word is a punch to the gut, a reminder that makes my smile fall away. “Me neither.”

She frowns, not missing the change in my mood. “Did I say something?”

“No, it’s nothing. My sister was . . . is a seamstress. That’s all.”

Her eyes soften. “I’m so sorry. What happened to her?”

“She’s been sold into slavery.”

Something flashes in her eyes, and for a second I think she might roar in rage on my behalf, but then she blinks and it’s gone. “And is that why you’re here?”

I sigh. I need a friend, but I can’t risk telling this stranger my plans. “I imagine every girl in this line has dreams of what she could accomplish with the power and privilege of a faerie princess.”

“Hmm.” She opens her palm and shows me a fistful of pins. “May I?”