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Who designed dresses to be so fucking itchy?
You lifted the skirt that seemed to go on for a million miles clear off the ground to relieve yourself of a scratch that had been bothering you for the whole one minute since you'd put the stupid thing on.
The dress designer deserved to be fired.
Of course, seeing as the designer was an old woman named Nam Bora who had worked for your family since she was fourteen years old, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.
And the dress was gorgeous. Anyone with eyes could see that. But the lace underskirts were made of a material that must have come from the depths of hell itself, because it made your legs feel like they were constantly being attacked by pissed off fire ants.
You twirled half-heartedly in front of the mirror, watching the cream-colored gown flare around you like spilled milk.
Cream certainly wasn't your color. Hell, colors weren't your color. But your mother had bought dozens of gowns for you in anticipation of the courting season, and she would rather drop dead than allow you to wear anything else.
But the longer you stared at your reflection, the more you loathed the dress. Not necessarily because of the way you looked in it. In fact, you looked damn good, despite the dresses hearty attempts to thwart you.
No, if you were being completely honest with yourself, it was the way pleasing your mother made you feel. No matter how dreadful the gown felt, the thing that really made you break out into hives was the sight of your mother smiling approvingly at you, pleased that she got her way. Then she would say, "you look gorgeous, Tessa! Like a real lady."
As if anything you chose for yourself was unladylike.
And while your particularly angsty spirit might have been due in part to you being away at university for the past year without so much as one visit back home, you knew what you had to do.
