“Nothing.” It comes out too fast, too brusque.
“Nervous?” she prods. “You’re not usually one for nervousness, but . . .” She gifts me with a soft smile. “This is a very big day.”
When I woke this morning, I told myself that I would maintain my composure no matter what, no matter what, but Mara wields empathy like a weapon. The understanding in her face undoes me; my cheeks grow hot and tears prick at my eyes.
I whisper, “I’ve worked for this ever since I was a little girl. All those years . . . everything I’ve learned . . . and finally, today . . .”
“Ah. I see.” Mara applies a final brushstroke to the roots of my hair. Then she reaches down for Ximena and lifts her from my lap. “Go get some breakfast, Mena,” she says. “Take one of the Royal Guards with you—no sneaking away, yes? When you’re done, I’ll help dress you for the ceremony.”
“All wight,” the princess says. Then she wags a finger at me. “Don’t be late, Wed!”
“I’ll be right on time, I promise.” I watch as she disappears behind the curtain.
After the girl is out of earshot, Mara says, “You had that dream again, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
In my dream I was running through snow, my feet icy with cold. The hunger in my belly was like a raptor clawing at my gut. I remember wind cutting my cheeks and felled branches cutting my feet and a clear sense of needing to move fast, fast, faster, but I was going nowhere, just away. There was no safe place for me. My dream self knew I would run forever, all alone.
“You have worked hard,” Mara says. She’s dabbing powder on my face now, which tickles my nostrils and almost makes me sneeze. “I’ve never seen anyone work harder. The hours of study, the dancing lessons, the travel tour . . . you impressed everyone who was watching. Exactly as hoped.”
This isn’t what I want to hear.
“Red?”
I don’t want to hear about my hard work. Or that I’m half Invierno. Or that my adoption will begin to change the cultural and political landscape of our empire, opening hearts and minds to the possibility of long-term peace between our people.
Mara says, “Your adoption will begin to change the cultural—”
I hold up a hand. “I know.”
“No, you need to understand. This is the culmination of reforms that Elisa and Hector have been working on for years. Joya d’Arena is so easily bogged down by tradition, but when the court accepts you as an heir—”
“I know, Mara. It’s just . . .” Shame clogs my throat. It’s embarrassing and weak of me—when I’ve been working so hard the past few years to appear strong—but what I want to hear is that Empress Elisa and Prince Consort Hector love me. That I’m part of their family, no matter what.
Maybe that makes me a stupid, pitiful child, but I did have that dream again, and I just want to feel like I’ve finally run home.
Mara dabs rouge onto my lips and says, “There’s something you’re not telling me, but I won’t pry. I’ll just say that we have every reason to believe the day will go exactly as planned, and after it does, you will be a princess of the empire and third in line for the throne.” She stands back to admire her handiwork. “Not bad for a foundling girl with slave marks on her feet.”
I force a smile. “Not bad.” Mara has always been frank about what I am. Other people think it’s polite to pretend away uncomfortable things—the magic mark in my hair, the faded slave tattoos on my feet, my undeniable paternity. It never occurs to them that because those things are part of me, they’re pretending me away.
“Time to don the monstrosity,” she says.
I rise from the stool. “It’s only for a few hours, right?”
Mara smiles in sympathy.
The monstrosity is my ceremonial adoption gown. It’s a horror of ivory silk, to make my skin appear more traditionally dark and to mute the golden color of my eyes. The sleeves explode with ruffles the size of the Hinder Mountains, a fashion that is apparently all the rage in the vassal kingdom of Orovalle. Worst of all is the train that will stretch behind me, roughly the length of the Joyan coastline, during my formal procession down the aisle.
Everything about the monstrosity has been carefully engineered to make me seem both royal and blandly pleasant. The train and fine silk confer status. The color and ruffles wash away every part of me that might intimidate or dismay.
Mara holds it out so I can step into it, then she shimmies it up over my waist and lifts the billowing sleeves over my shoulders.
“Deep breath,” she says, and I comply. “Now let it all out.”
I push the air from my lungs, making my torso as small as possible so Mara can quickly lace the back.
“There!” she says, standing aside.
The corset is snug, but comfortable enough. I’ve always been slight, and tying everything too tight might make me appear smaller, weaker. “What do you think?” I prod.
Mara’s lips twitch. “You look like a vanilla scone with sugar icing.”
“So . . . perfect?”
“Exactly the look we’re going for. Definitely younger.”
Which is good, because Empress Elisa, my soon-to-be-mother, is probably only about ten years older than I am, and the Quorum felt that making me look younger might put the court at ease.
“You’re as ready as you’ll ever be,” Mara says. “I’m going to chase down the princess. There’s still time; if you want, you can go to the monastery to prepare your heart with prayer—”
“You know I don’t believe all that,” I snap, harder than I mean to.
Her face softens. “I know, Red. But this is a religious country, and for appearances’ sake . . .” Her voice trails off at the look on my face, and she looses an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t know how Elisa thinks she’s going to make a politician out of you. You have no patience for dissembling.”
I plunk down on the bed, not caring that this will wrinkle my overwrought train. “I’m wearing the monstrosity, aren’t I?”
“A more than acceptable compromise, if you ask me.”
A knock sounds at the door, and Mara rushes over, hand to the dagger at her belt. I tense and clench my fist. It’s not that we’re in any danger; it’s just that I and everyone I know and love—Mara, Hector, Elisa, Rosario, Belén—have been through so much that peril is a constant, comfortable companion, and we are prepared to welcome it always.
“It’s me,” comes a muffled voice through the door, and Mara swings it open.
“Good morning, Highness,” she says to Prince Rosario, my soon-to-be stepbrother and my best friend.
“Mara,” the prince says, striding inside. When he sees me, he stops short—and doubles over laughing.
The fifteen-year-old heir to the Joyan Empire is as tall, slender, and strong as a palm, with dark eyes full of mischief and lips always on the verge of smirking. He’s the object of many a young court lady’s dreams, and depending on which day you ask, either the bane or the pride of his stepmother’s existence.
“It’s not that funny,” I say with a mock glare.
“Oh, yes it is, little sister.” He straightens the vest of his ceremonial garb and pretends to dab tears from his cheek. Then he raises one eyebrow and gives my gown a thorough study. “It’s even worse than you described.”