TRB | MW [✔]

06.

Wonwoo tried not to gawk as he followed Chan through the palace. His personal groomer had somehow managed to lead from behind and had looked aghast at Wonwoo's suggestion that the boy simply go ahead of him. Apparently one of the rules of his new station was that no one beneath him in rank should precede him. He wasn't sure he was ever going to get used to the idea that he had somehow become an important person. As he walked down the exquisite halls, he couldn't help but feel out of place. That was true even though his new clothing made him look more regal than he would have expected for everyday wear. The green kirtle mirrored the style from the night before, but with sleeves this time, and the trousers were of the same soft material. Chan had called it cotton, and it was almost as lovely as silk and velvet. The fabric moved with him—freeing, not binding or stiff, nor was it itchy. He enjoyed the feel of it against his skin.

He still couldn't understand why it was so critical to go order more clothing this morning. Apparently, he needed a new outfit for his tea with the dowager queen. When he'd suggested that he could simply wear what he already had on, Chan's expression had been so appalled that it was as if Wonwoo had proffered that he could go naked. The boy had explained with the kind of slow, clear speech that one might use with a very small and not particularly clever child that Morcondian people of power changed their clothing throughout the day to match whatever they were doing. It seemed a waste of time and material. What would these people who snuck peeks of him as he passed think of how he'd often worn the same clothes for days on end? At least he and Chan were headed for the ground floor, a place where the servants went about their daily business. Wonwoo would feel more comfortable around such simple folk. And he had insisted on this journey instead of making the seamstress and her helpers haul many bolts of cloth up to his chambers. He hoped he never reached a point in which he was indifferent to making ridiculous work for others.

"How many floors are there?" Wonwoo wanted to learn the layout of the palace as quickly as possible. Dragging Chan around with him everywhere wasn't going to be practical. He needed to be more independent throughout the day. That's assuming Chan isn't my jailer. It was important to remember that he was as much a hostage to the treaty as a pampered consort of a prince.

Chan pulled almost even with him. "Four, Your Grace. This is the first floor, where all the public rooms are for the palace residents and their visitors to meet and socialize, as well as the throne room and the great dining hall."

"Yes, I was there last night for the banquet, but I must confess I wasn't paying attention to where my husband took me."

"Navigating the palace takes some getting used to. It will become easier quickly. You really don't need to learn the layout of more than this floor and the second one, where the chambers are for the royal family and higher-ranking officials. The top floor is for servants and lower-ranking residents. You won't have a need to go there. And after this one trip, the basement floor is also not somewhere you will ever visit."

Wonwoo turned his head to glance in Chan's direction. "You don't know that. Perhaps I'll want to go to the kitchen for a bite to eat."

Chan actually gasped. "Your Grace, you'll do no such thing! If you want something to eat, I or another servant will bring it to you."

Wonwoo shook his head. "That seems like an awful inconvenience just because I want a slice of bread with cheese or something."

Chan sniffed. "You are the Duchess of Vostguard. I will gladly bring you bread and cheese or anything else you desire every hour on the hour if that is what you want."

That show of devotion made Wonwoo very uncomfortable, but before he could think of a suitable, if futile, reply, a group of five women approached him from one of the many intersections of the hall. Each one was dressed far more elaborately than he was and flashed large, painted fans in front of their faces as they walked. The fans were nothing like the ones Marsher women made out of large leaves to shoo insects away from food. These were purely decorative and being waved in a performative way that he supposed was meant to be coy. Gods, he hoped that wasn't part of the female style he was supposed to adopt. He didn't relish the idea of putting his attention into such frippery, given that he could barely walk without tripping on his long skirts as it was.