Bisclavret

Chapter 10

"I can't wear this," I say into the mirror.

Henrietta clasps her hands behind me, her expression pleading. "Oh, but you look divine."

I eye my reflection. She convinced me to try on the red dress, and now that I'm in it, she refuses to help me out of it. It's a violent shade of crimson, unadorned with the usual floral-patterned stitching, ribbons, or bows that clutter the rest of my wardrobe. Its simplicity will likely be in total contrast to every other gown worn tonight. Some might think it plain without any extravagances, but its effortless design makes it all the more stunning to my eyes. With the aid of my new corset, I even manage to look womanly in it. The tight fit accentuates my narrow waist, and my breasts are pushed up enough to give me a small cleavage line, something I never thought possible with my lack of endowment.

I reach down and roll the fabric between my fingers. I've never owned anything so fine, never even hoped to. As a handmaid, I didn't wear the same uniform as the other maids in the marquis' household, having a somewhat elevated status. And unlike some of the luckier handmaids of my station, my height meant that I couldn't wear Livy and the marquise's castoffs. Instead, they were kind enough to purchase my dresses for me. The gowns were nicer than what I could afford on my own, made of high-quality, durable cotton, but none of those dresses could hold a candle to this one.

I lift my gaze from my skirt, startled by the young noblewoman looking back at me. I can't help but wonder who she is, who I'm becoming. The arterial hue of the dress lends me an aggressive edge I'm not used to, and it makes me think of how I felt stalking through the woods after Livy, just before I stabbed her would-be rapist.

Henrietta has darkened my eyebrows again and added more rouge to my cheeks. It's a deeper shade than earlier, closer to the dress's color, but it's blended in well enough that I should be able to get away with it. She said it would be perfect in the candlelight, and I can't help but think she's right as I inspect her work. I almost balked when she offered to stain my lips the same color, but she wore me down.

I raise a still ungloved hand and brush my fingers over them. My mouth is large, my lips full, and with the stain on them, I worried they'd dominate my face. I was right, they do, but I like it.

My hair is piled on top of my head, and though Henrietta wanted to dust it with powder, I declined. For once, I think the dark brown strands are fine as they are, an excellent contrast to the red of the gown. I'm not wearing jewelry, just my black armband to indicate my mourning for Antoine and the black silk ribbon Henrietta thought to tie around my neck. The effect only adds to the drama of the dress.

"You're right," I say, and I'll probably never hear the end of it. "You've done a beautiful job."

Henrietta smirks as she hands me my black satin gloves. "I know."

I shake my head at her and pull them on.

A knock comes from behind us. I turn toward my adjoining door. "Come in."

Livy strides in but pulls up short. We stand on opposite sides of the room, inspecting each other.

She looks grown, I think. Her green dress is embroidered along the bottom and through the bustier, gold and red stitching catching and reflecting the candlelight. Lace spills from the hem of her sleeves and skirts the edge of her bodice and neckline. Her petite frame appears more womanly than mine, with a narrow waist that blossoms up to display her ample bosom. She's wearing panniers beneath the dress, those strange board-like attachments that sit on a woman's hips and flare a gown out even further at the waist. Marie Antoinette made them all the rage a decade past, but I've never been a fan. I once saw a noblewoman knock over an entire tea service while wearing them, and I know myself well enough to know that I'd likewise forget about them and run into someone or something, causing a scene.