Chapter Twenty One- That of Poison and Roses

Dresses.

Dresses.

Dresses.

It’s funny how something that is the dream of so many little girls is proving to be the bane of my existence. I sit in my room with a bundle of silver tulle thrown across my bed. Calling that thing a dress is a bit of a stretch.

“Princess?” The servant knocks on the door. “May I come in?”

I slip into the dress once more with a groan. I’m not shocked it’s fancier than even I’m used to. Burial Ceremonies- especially royal ones- are held to an entirely different standard of perfection. Silver is recognized as the color of death no matter what land you’re from, and it’s seen gracing both the cloth wrapping the dead and clothing of the ceremony-goers. Such is the cloth now enclosing around my body- a lacy sleeveless bodice cuts off right below my collarbone, while silver ridges of tulle fall off to leave my shoulders bare. At my hips, the dress goes from freakishly tight to layers of light fluff that cascade past my ankles.

The dress is gorgeous, no doubt.

So why don’t I feel gorgeous?

I hear a creak as the servant steps into the room. Her blonde hair is pulled tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck, and she wears the same white robe and maroon apron as every other Eldorian servant. When she sees me, her hands clasp over her mouth. “Princess!” she gasps, “You look gorgeous!”

“Oh… thanks.” I spin around carefully. The layers of fabric are too heavy for comfort, and clearly it shows on my face.

“Is something wrong, Princess?”

Yes, there’s a lot wrong, and I’m not talking about my outfit.

“No. It’s a bit heavy, but I’ll manage.”

The servant turns to head out the door. “I’ll fix it right away, just a second-”

She ducks out the door, and I hear her talking to someone in the hallway for a few minutes before she returns.

“Alright let’s make this quick,” Nova Aldridge storms into the room, “I sure as hell don’t trust you, but I also refuse to be the reason you faint from the heat at the burial ceremony. No prince is gonna catch you, hon. Believe me, life doesn’t work that way.”

I look to the servant, who explains, “I was going to do it myself, but she insisted she could do it better.”

“That’s because I can do it better. No offense,” she adds quickly, her words aimed at the servant. Nova didn’t seem like the type to care if she offended me. “But I also wanted to meet the new princess that’s got my siblings all riled up.”

“All riled up, huh?”

She answers the question with an eye roll before kicking out a stool that I hadn’t even known was under my bed. Her green eyes bounce from me to the stool, signaling me to step onto it. The servant leaves, and immediately, Nova lifts up the top layer of tulle, clearing the way to rip out some of the middle fabric with her bare hands. While the top ruffles and the underside of the dress against my legs is unharmed, I can’t help but feel the smallest bit insulted. I begin to protest, but Nova simply leans back, crossing her arms. “Would you like me to lighten the dress or not?”

I swallow my pride and nod, trying to hide my winces as she rips off pieces of the very expensive silver fabric. As she does this, I take in her features in flashes: pixie-cut black hair, emerald green eyes, lean frame, deep skin. She’s wearing a simple brown leather corset over a white shirt, paired with black pants.

“Hold this,” she orders, handing me the topmost layer of fabric. Her thirteen-year-old sass is immediately clear to me, though her confident and commanding nature is unusual. I knew better than anyone that princesses were often forced into submission.

As I pull the fabric away from the dress and towards my face, I notice that her haphazard fabric ripping was truly a careful art. The layers of fabric are now all different lengths, making the dress lighter while creating an even prettier ruffled effect barely visible under the top layer of tulle.

Nova takes a small knife, using it to cut away at any uneven rips or hanging threads. I don’t bother asking why she’s not using traditional sewing scissors. Nova’s methods might be unconventional, but they sure did work.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” I step off the stool. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” She kicks the stool back under the bed, turning to leave.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” I ask, half curious and half not wanting to spend the rest of the night alone to prepare for tomorrow.

“Trust is earned, not given.” She doesn’t bother to turn around and face me. “And if you want my trust? Well you better try harder, hon.”

With that, the door slams, and I’m alone once more draped in the silver color of death.