The Painted Slippers, An Undercurse Fable

Repulsive Smitteness and other such crimes (CH13)

The day of the royal visit came quicker than Rowena wanted it to. She had finished the drawing that Morfydd had so desired, but she had so much to do and Morfydd was acting so strange. Stranger than usual.

"Today is the day!" she had squealed as she waltzed around her room, hugging onto a fluffy pillow. That was before she stopped suddenly, as if stricken with a sudden thought and she gazed at Rowena for a good few seconds before opening her mouth to speak. "How flawless do I look?" She then proceeded to groom herself in the mirror by flouncing and un-flouncing her waves, then admiring them from all angles humanely possible.

By this point, having spent all of her time washing and drawing, Rowena had collapsed into a heap on the floor. She quite feared that if her legs wouldn't give way by her own means then it was certain that she would trip over a feather boa or two and then be berated for being too clumsy. The royal visit was surmounting her entirely and it all manifested itself into her two braids, that were becoming more voluminous with uncountable fly-aways. There would not, of course, be time to make herself look presentable. What a good thing she probably would even catch a glimpse of the royal family anyway, especially the womanizing prince with a taste for danger, ready to jump at any opportunity to laugh at her as Morfydd had promised.

"Just as flawless as yesterday..." she drawled, "and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the day before-"

The look Morfydd had gained was complete and utter mortification, as she twisted around and threw a fluffy slipper at her servant's head. It hit Rowena with considerable force. "Do you mean to say that I look common on the day that his highness, also known as my future husband, is the visit with his family?"

She hesitated, "um....no?"

"No!" Morfydd reiterated with a toss of her hair. She growled and settled before her vanity where she began submerging a voluptuous brush into an ornate pot of powder. The thing was then dabbed all over her face before she went to accentuate her beauty mark with a pencil, like she had done twenty times already. "Then you ought to make me less common, don' you think, silly girl?"

"Oh yes," she almost added a 'silly girl' on the end but quickly pressed her lips together to stop herself gaining perhaps another bruise.  And with this command, she had to get Morfydd into and out of several different dresses, all different shapes and colours. "Too warm," she said, "Not enough waist, this washes me out entirely, the neck on this one is far too stiff!" 

Her hair had to also be arranged in several different ways, but she settled for simple half braids tied with lilac ribbons to match yet another lilac dress that Rowena had to force her viciously into. In her franticness and in the midst of Morfydd yelling, "Tighter! Tighter!" with great agony, she knocked over a glass goblet of pink lemonade, the shards and wasted goodness lost in the furriness of the carpet beneath them. "Roweenah!" she shrieked like a banshee, almost knocking her own with another blow to the side of her head, "clean this mess up now! You had better count your lucky stars that it didn't get on my dress. Then we would be in trouble."

She did as she said, all the while rolling her eyes and feeling the bruise on he temple beginning to form, like the dabs of watery paint on a piece of cloth. Maybe her suggesting of going to the Kinellish palace with Morfydd was not such a good idea after all. It would mean two lots of this. And what if she was bound to the happy couple happy for life, and to the generations until her death? There may not even be that much of her left.

When she had finished cleaning up and began to stand, Morfydd stopped her by placing a gloved hand beneath her chin, forcing her to do little else but look up at her. To crane her neck until it hurt. But the fabric of the glove--it transported her. It sent her somewhere dreamy and hazy, somewhere in the Cricket Haberdashery.  "Try not to be so clumsy when the prince arrives," she warned, as if she was saying this all to be nice, "I don't want him being put off by you being around. If I was you, I would make myself scarce and I trust that you know what's best for someone in your situation." She followed this by snatching her hand away. She merely gravitated toward the window as if nothing had happened and pressed her face against the glass.