The Unseelie King and I by Milana Jacks

Author:Milana Jacks [Jacks, Milana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Milana Jacks, LLC
Published: 2023-05-04T16:00:00+00:00

26

AUGUSTA

One would think that after the king leaves, the awkwardness in the room would subside and that people would relax, especially the tailor, who appeared comfortable and confident of his craft. But now that King Aamako has left, while some of the tension has lessened, the tailor, along with the ladies sitting at the table, aren’t at ease yet, and the twins, who were so friendly to me only moments ago, seem skittish now.

I try lessening the tension by smiling more, and while they return my smiles, they’re wary. It’s almost as if they’re afraid of me. Which isn’t only weird, it’s absurd. They ought to be more afraid of Aamako than me, yet they didn’t seem so troubled when he was around.

“Is there something wrong?” I finally ask.

“No, milady,” one of the twins answers.

“What are your names?”

The twin who wears her hair in a braid that falls over her left shoulder answers. “I’m Rin, and this is Nami.”

Nami steps up to the podium with her father. “Would you try the dress, milady?” he asks.

After struggling with the layers, I find the hole in the middle of the dress and fit through it rather easily. Too easily. The dress proves too big and slides right down my body. The tailor stares at it crumpled around my feet. I pick it up and try adjusting it, but it just slides back down.

I pick it up again. “Good sir, are you going to help me fit into the dress or not?”

He goes to touch it, but then pauses, his hands awkwardly hovering in midair.

“Shall we start with the hair before the dress?” a male voice asks while a female approaches me. She’s tall and might’ve been a male at some point in her long life.

“Milady.” She curtseys. “If I may touch you?”

“Sure.”

Her heavy boots slam on the platform as she climbs. I have to crane my head to look up at her. Immediately, I notice the bump in the middle of her throat that only males carry. She smells like blossoms and evergreen, neither a male nor a female scent.

Pursing her glossy, pink-painted lips, she says, “I suggest a trim.” Long, elegant fingers with pink-painted claws thread through my hair. “You have lovely curls. I want to show them off by letting your hair down, and yet your collarbone is pronounced.” She taps said bone. “That’s seductive. If your hair is down, it will draw more attention than the bones.” She sniffs visibly. “Also, you smell like a thousand aroused summerlings, and when I’m done with you, every male in the Court will be a drooling fool over you.”

The other female, seemingly middle-aged, with short dark hair and a large frame, approaches the mirror. Magic colors her eyes purple, and the room dims a bit. “I’m Dahlia, milady,” she says, her voice evoking images of my mother for some reason, perhaps because of her age, perhaps because of the worn-out face telling me her life hasn’t been easy. “I’m a pictorra.”

“She’s a shoemaker,” the male spits.

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