A Wicked Thing by Rhiannon Thomas

Author:Rhiannon Thomas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-12-22T16:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, AURORA WAS summoned to the queen’s private rooms. Light poured in through large, high windows, making the space seem cheerful and airy. The queen sat at a round table, staring at papers laid before her. Aurora’s stomach clenched at the sight of her. Three older ladies waited behind the queen, their hair tied up in neat buns.

“Ah, Aurora,” the queen said, smiling her thin-lipped smile as though they had not argued the last time they’d spoken. “How lovely to see you. We were just looking at the design for your wedding dress. Come. Take a look.”

The dress was sketched out on a large piece of parchment, in charcoal first, then in pencil, and finally, a version washed over with delicate colored inks. It was an ethereal thing, layers of gossamer floating outward from a tight bodice and reflecting every color of the light, like something from a dream. Old-fashioned yet fantastical, impossible to touch.

“It’s lovely,” Aurora said. She ran her finger over the page, tracing each pencil stroke and splash of color.

“I am glad it pleases you, Princess,” said one of the women. She bowed as she spoke, a stiff jerk of her neck.

“These,” the queen said, standing up with a flourish, “are the best seamstresses in Alyssinia. They have come here especially for you and will be taking your measurements today.”

The women all bowed again, and one murmured, “Your Majesty is too kind.”

They wrapped tapes across every inch of Aurora, squeezing so tightly around her waist that she had to hitch in her breath. Once they had scribbled down every measurement on a long piece of parchment, they began to fuss with her hair, piling it on top of her head, twisting it around, inspecting her earlobes and wrists while the queen looked on.

“We will leave her hair loose,” the queen said. “For purity. But perhaps some garlands . . .”

“A line of flowers,” one of the women—the tallest one—said. She ran a finger from the middle of Aurora’s forehead to the back of her ear. “Here.”

“No, no,” said the austere one who seemed to be their leader. “A single lily, tucked behind her right ear. Beauty, purity, grace.”

The queen nodded. Aurora forced herself to stand still, her face carefully blank. No one asked her opinion. Finally, the prodding and poking ended. The seamstresses collected their piles of papers, covered in measurements and notes and little sketches of thoughts, thanked the queen profusely for her patronage, and promised, with a severity that prevented any sliver of doubt, that they would start work immediately and meet with the queen to discuss further details on the morrow. The queen dismissed them with a delicate smile. With a few more bows and curtsies, they departed, leaving Aurora and the queen alone.

“Now that went well,” the queen said, and her smile was broader than usual, as though she felt genuine relief at the proceedings. “These ladies made my coronation gown ten years ago, and they have only grown more talented with age.

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