Under the Willow Root

Chapter 24

I begin to worry about developing a twitch in my face from the effort of keeping my mask on. It's exhausting. At first it's only a nuisance, but soon I begin to really worry that I'll lose it and let something slip. Then, at long last, something happens to break the monotony. Ismeni finally decides that I'm ready to accompany her to the palace. I think she's not entirely happy about it, but she doesn't have much choice. Dove is too weak.

On the night of my big debut, I settle Dove by the fire with a basket of mending and prepare myself. I style my wig on its stand, braiding and looping various pieces in a way I know Ismeni likes. My hair has grown past my shoulders, but I still wear a wig most of the time since my own hair isn't long enough for Ismeni's favorite styles.

I dust my face with powders and creams from various jars, reflecting as I do so that I never wore this much makeup or spent this much time on hair in my old life unless it was for a performance. It irritates me, and the fact that I'm doing it all to make someone else look good makes it so much worse. And the fact that this 'someone else' owns me...

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I carefully relax each muscle in my face and open my eyes, inspecting my reflection without focusing on anything in particular. The eyes were the hardest part of my mask to perfect, and lately I know I've been slipping. I made the mistake of meeting the eyes of Ismeni's nasty sister-in-law once. It was barely for a second, but Cimari watched me for days afterward. I hope she's forgotten me. I haven't told Sadra about it.

I finish up and touch Dove's shoulder in farewell. Ismeni is waiting for me when I arrive in her rooms, but she doesn't seem annoyed. In fact, she looks happier than I've seen her in weeks. Her eyes shine and she sings a love song while looking over several dresses. She looks up when I enter and grins.

"Oh, Blue," she cries, seizing my hands. "Don't you look precious! Come, help me pick a dress."

The urge to roll my eyes is overwhelming. I don't have the mental capacity to be worried about Dove but I can have an opinion on fashion? I remind myself that I refused to believe the evidence of my own eyes for the better part of the year. I know I should be more understanding, but I can't quite do it.

"Clever dolly," Ismeni giggles when I pick a dress at random. "That's just what I would have picked."

Ismeni acts strange the whole time I'm helping her get ready. She sighs, she glows, she bursts into song at odd moments. She changes dresses three times and fusses with her glamours until every detail is perfect. Is she like this every time she goes to the palace? I would have thought partying with the royals was old hat for her.

As annoying as it is to keep redressing her, Ismeni's excitement is infectious. The palace is the most beautiful building I've ever seen. I can't wait to see what it looks like on the inside. As I climb into the litter after Ismeni and Cimari, I let myself imagine what it would be like to arrive at the palace as a guest rather than a servant. The very first thing I would do is go to the pretty bridge overlooking the waterfall. Perhaps a handsome stranger would make an appearance. Dancing would not be out of the question.

It almost seems possible. I already have the pretty dresses and pretty hair, even if it's not mine. But no one will see me. No one will see anything more than Ismeni's personal slave. My dress and hair and face paint--it's all to enhance Ismeni's image. I'm an accessory, like a designer purse.

As if she can hear my thoughts, Cimari starts complaining that my presence has made the litter feel too cramped. I keep my eyes soft and unfocused, settling my gaze on the fancy pillows across from me. My jaw aches with the urge to grit my teeth.

"Honestly, Isi," Cimari huffs. "Must you bring the dratted thing with you everywhere you go?"

"Of course," Ismeni says calmly. "I can't see why you leave yours at home to mend your riding gear all day, every day. She was my gift to you, remember. It hurts me that you don't take better care of her."

"It's fed and clothed," Cimari says dismissively. "What more does a thrall need?"

Ismeni shakes her head. "My dear sister, you are completely heartless."

"And you're completely naive," Cimari returns. "They're not actually your friends, Ismeni, no matter how well you dress them or train them. They're barely even alive."

I fight the urge to sigh, my Cinderella-at-the-ball fantasy dashed to pieces. At least I'll eat well tonight. It disgusts me that this small fact actually does cheer me up. Even a year after my traumatic arrival, I eat whatever I can get my hands on, whenever I can get my hands on it. I never want to be hungry again.

Our journey lasts all of maybe five minutes. Ismeni and Orean's house is only four or five houses away from the palace because they're so important. I guess being important also means they can't walk to a party even if it's practically next door. I wonder briefly where Orean is, then shrug. He's never around. I don't know why tonight should be any different.

Once we arrive at the palace, I trail after the ladies with my head bowed and my face blank. Even so, I manage to catch glimpses of magnificent tapestries and paintings. A musician plays a small harp-like instrument in the entrance hall, and another plays a wooden flute further on.

We enter a room filled with fabulously dressed men and women standing and chatting or lounging on long couches while thralls circulate with drinks and snacks. At Ismeni's gesture, I join the thralls lining the wall. I stand clutching Ismeni's silk pouch of emergency cosmetics and wait...and wait. After at least an hour of standing still, my calves begin to cramp and I start to sweat, remembering those awful days in the caged wagon.

Aren't they ever going to go in to dinner? Or is this not a dinner party? I hope this isn't all there is. At least let me walk from one room to another. Please, please let Ismeni need a touch up or something. Anything. My feet hurt, my back hurts, my knees hurt. My face hurts from the effort of not showing that everything else hurts. And I have to pee. How in the world did Dove do this in her condition?