Rodan's Embrace

Don't Run

Ella

"Do you ladies have pins? We need more pins!" Mother screams amidst the chaos of women who flutter back and forth in my chamber. One holds my chamber pot and my cheeks heat. I was going to empty it myself but I became too busy. I've never asked my maids to carry out such a degrading task, and this morning my nerves got the better of me. They stole my breath and clenched my stomach. I hang my head. Watch as more women crowd about my feet, fitting shoes, cinching stockings, and all the other items that need cinched; they clip small pale pink roses to the bottom and sides of the dress.

The women work their way up to my bosom with those roses until my entire chest is outlined by them, as if my breasts are the part of me that should be the most prominently displayed and accented.

I do so wish to impress my groom! But oh! This corset. When I take this off for our first night together, my groom will see that those pale roses lied; the flesh-coloured corset held in so much flesh, and my figure lacks the curves it appears to have now.

"Pins!" Mother cries again. And I cannot bear it.

"Mother, if you stick me with another pin, I swear-"

Mother growls like an alley mutt. "Don't you swear. Not in the presence of such company! Control yourself!"

My desire to yell back, to utter my threat, diminishes as more ladies circle us, providing a protective barrier between me and my mother. For this, I am grateful. I fear there would have been bloodshed otherwise. Not that the opportunity has forever vanished-only for the moment.

A mirror is placed before me. I don't recognize myself. Rogue and paint hide the reality of me. I appear as a woman for the first time in my life. No longer a girl. But that, too, will wash off. My groom, in the morning, will see that we lie. We lie because if we don't, no one will love us as we are. No one will want to run their hands over the meatier parts of our flesh or the rough planes of our unpowdered faces.

I've never been a beauty. Never will be. But the mirror, the dress, the rogue, the corset-they lie. I lie. I am a liar. I want to crawl out of this skin or rather back into my own.

My wedding night will reveal me to him as a girl. A girl who is plain at best, unsightly at worst.

My wedding night. What will occur? My heart. The pulse of it bounds through my ears and spreads through my veins. The corners of my vision blur and I am so unsteady a maid must prop me up. She whispers words of comfort to me. The ring upon her finger tells me that she's been where I am, before the mirror, the lie beneath the layers piled over her, terrified to reveal herself.

"Ella, dear," Mother says. She sits at my vanity, collecting yet more powders and paints to smear across me. Even my bust has been powdered. My hair. Desperately, I want to scream; "No! This is not Ella. This is what you've made Ella into. A false representation," but a mere squeak escapes my lips, pushed by the smallest breath.

A violinist plays Vivaldi on a corner bench, but the beautiful notes do nothing to soothe my nerves. I hold my dress up with one hand while the other is busy keeping my tresses from falling out of the style Mother picked for me. The pins are likely needed for the dress as well as my hair, and both slip and slip. The dress is off-the-shoulder and I barely hold it above my bosom. The corset makes the act of sighing into a matter of life or death.

What ghastly tricks time plays on us all!

Sixteen years passed quickly, and being an aristocrat, I was often aware in the back of my mind that I would be married before I turned seventeen.

The sun shines through the sheer white curtains, which are the same off-white color as my dress. Mother argued that for purity's sake, my dress must be white because some woman elsewhere started a trend of associating the two. But the family of the groom, apparently, has an affinity for beige. The beige tulle and corset wash out my features and leaves nothing. I'm a blur.