Ruslan Bogdanovich Makarov's spoiled, twisted family is desperate to retain their power, but refuse to name him Tsesarevich, the crowned prince or heir apparent, because of his birth gender. Instead, they've welcomed Alexander Vissarionovich Sokolov...
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Seeing Bernard again for the first time in what felt like weeks, though it hadn't even been a full day, was the greatest blessing Ruslan could've asked for. The experience was marred however, by the task Bernard had at hand—aiding Ruslan into his wedding dress for a fitting so that last minute alterations could be made...
The monstrous gown wasn't actually his, in that it hadn't been made for him. Instead, the palace seamstresses were in an anxious rush to resurrect grandmother Makarov's silk gown that she wore for her wedding ceremony to his grandfather.
It was a stunning piece of carefully preserved family history; gold silk brocade fabric littered with stumpwork embroidery, pearls, and glistening gemstones...long draping sleeves that reached the floor to pool there along with a long train... It would've looked beautiful on anyone except for him.
Ruslan felt swallowed by the garment. It was so heavy that he could hardly imagine his grandmother, who was never a large woman, moving in it—much less hope to move in it himself. It still even smelled faintly of her perfume and of what Ruslan assumed was the lingering scent of ceremonial incense.
Grandmother was present, of course, to oversee the process, seated next to Aunt Oksana and his mother. He hated the way they stared and chatted as if he wasn't even in the room. Like he wasn't even human.
"Maybe you should pad the bust," Aunt Oksana suggested. "To fill it out more?"
Lisa sipped her tea before adding, "Yes, something. It looks dreadful in the front."
"The ermine mantle will mostly cover what she doesn't have there," Grandmother said, voice grating. "I wouldn't waste time with that."
"Oh, yes! Yes, I suppose it would, wouldn't it?" Aunt Oksana replied. "Well, that will save them a little time...Maybe taking it in a little more there at the waist?"
"Right here, my lady?" The maid's question prompted Oksana up out of her chair to point more closely.
"Bernard, get the other veil," Lisa ordered. "The shorter one...maybe a sash, too."
"Yes, by all means, add on more shit," Ruslan sneered. "Maybe I'll just topple over and Cousin Nikolai can roll me down the aisle like a barrel caught in five bolts of fabric."
His mother rubbed her temples in a self-soothing manner while Grandmother pursed her lips "...She'll be fortunate if Nikolai wishes to consummate this marriage."
Ruslan had already been uncomfortably warm in the dress, with the maids pinching and pinning fabric, and making stitches, and the fireplace roaring, assuring the gallery of awful crones were kept comfortable—not that any amount of heat could do a thing for his mother's shriveled, frozen heart. But now, Ruslan's face was burning. How much embarrassment was he expected to endure?
Yes, Nikolai was a very handsome man, but the idea of being intimate with him nauseated Ruslan.
