All's Fair in Revenge

Chapter 51: The Procession

The ladies and a contingent of Second Guards I'd watched train but never met escorted me to the bridal chamber at the same time as the start of the tourney, the announcer's voice echoing across the castle's grounds.

On our way, I fielded questions about Lady Liv's whereabouts by explaining she forgot the utmost important Kelvian wedding talisman in one of the tea rooms below and would join us shortly. They seemed to buy it, but the Second Guards shared an unmistakable look of suspicion.

In a blue dressing room near the queen's quarters, I stood on a platform in a whirlwind of needles and thread, fabric and ribbon, jewels, and face paint. All the while a cacophony of crunching armor and cheers lured me through the open doors of a balcony overlooking the game field. The girls insisted I stand where I could watch them work on me in the mirror. I tore myself from their grips and faced the open doors instead.

The first round began with a traditional quintain, the reverberation of lances smashing into tin circles spinning around and around and creaking on wooden hinges filtering in like crashing waves. The faceless servants winced at each hit as they rolled stockings to my knees and folded the excess over when they gave up trying to stretch what was left over my thighs. A thin sleeveless chamise draped my shoulders and they layered skirts over my hips, tying each at my tailbone.

"Did you hear what Matthew said," asked a young girl with straw-colored hair to another with a birthmark across her cheek, "about Master Wickham leaving late last night after the king passed on?"

"Yes. It's all very mysterious," the other girl answered.

"Suspicious if you ask me," said the seamstress. Both girls nodded in agreement while I tried my hardest not to snicker.

At the second round, the servants layered a thick white dress with thirteen rows of gold military braiding peeking out from an overdress. Outdoors, thundering hooves rocked the foundation of the castle. Ohs and ahs measured the progress of the round all while I ignored the dress' embellishments of pearl and golden lace appliqué swirling from lower ribs toward the stiff collar that cut my chin. I'd later learn the seamstresses had even capped each shoulder with similar adornments to hide the seam of a thick white cape that traveled far beyond the overdress and floor. A golden belt with soft beads and sharp edges cinched my already taut waist. But there was no corset and I had Liv to thank for that. In fact, from the broad shoulders to the perfectly tailored length, she'd designed a dress that afforded an authoritarian ambiance I didn't hate.

By round three we'd moved on to melee and makeup. Eyeliner sharper than swords and lipstick redder than blood stained my face. A pink blush hollowed my cheeks as if flushed with exhaustion. On the tourney field, a synchronous intake of breath had me pushing out of the chair they'd forced me into only for the hairdresser to yank me back and finish her job. Pins poked and prodded my scalp like tiny daggers and a lady with a rough hand sewed a golden tiara with overlapping arcs and citrine stones into my curled hair.

Outside, the crowd chanted, "Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!"

The girls ran to the balcony to see the commotion unfurl. "The court's left and there's soldiers all over the place," said the blond girl. "I think they're arresting someone."

The hairdresser yanked my shoulders back as I made to rise. "Not surprising. Barbaric game if you ask me." She threaded a last string through the metal, fastening it to my head. "Someone nearly always dies."

The blond looked back at her friend who approached from behind. "Is that Lord Thorne?"

"Why is he kneeling?"