Duty-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book II ]

17

Mhera gazed into her cup of steaming tea. She wished desperately for just a moment alone. Ever since she had come back to the palace—a home she had longed for, once upon a time—she had been focused on one thing after another, in the constant company of others. She just wanted an afternoon to herself, some time to rest and think.

"Some pearls, I think."

Pulled back to awareness from her thoughts, Mhera looked up. She had the sense that Gella had said more, but she had missed it. "I'm sorry, madam. I was lost in thought."

"For your coronation gown, dear." Gella was sorting through some bolts of cloth. She held up a length of shimmering blue silk. "I wish a date had been settled; I do not know whether we have a week or a year for the work."

Mhera frowned, looking at the cloth Gella held, trying to understand its significance. "My gown," she echoed.

Gella raised her brows, giving Mhera a patient look. "Yes. My lady, you shall have to have something to wear."

Setting her tea aside, Mhera rose to her feet and crossed the room. There, next to her wardrobe, stood a long looking glass. She had often peered at herself in that glass when, as a child, she had wished for beauty and finery like Empress Esaria's. She had gotten little of the one and none of the other when she came into womanhood; Daughters of Zanara wore plain gray homespun.

The dress she wore that night was a dusty brown color and lacked any embellishment. It was the simple garb she was used to now. She had found it in the servants' quarters. It fitted her well enough at the bodice, but was slightly overlong. "This will do. Can you help me hem it?"

Madam Gella cocked her head at Mhera. She gently set aside the folded blue fabric and, too late, she laughed. It was a deliberate, forced laugh; she clearly thought Mhera was joking and did not appreciate the humor in the situation. "My lady, I'll gladly help you hem that dress, but you cannot wear it for your coronation. We hardly have time to jest. You must help me make some decisions, and we must set to work right away."

"Why? Why can't I wear it?"

"Look at it, child: it's near as old as you are, patched, and plain. Would you have the world see you as the Patchwork Empress?"

Now it was Mhera's turn to laugh. "That is not what I was thinking, madam, but now that you say it, it's apt. I will be a Patchwork Empress."

"My lady, please—"

"No, don't you think it will be so? Part lady, part vagabond. A Starborn sympathizer to the rebels' cause. A Seer and a Daughter of Zanara far removed from the Haven. Gella, I am many things, but my aunt I am not. I will never be a golden swan."

"I mean simply that we should think of how you'll appear, my lady. You must present yourself with regality and grace, not to mention power."

"I haven't any power except that which the people will choose to instill in me, and I'm afraid there will be precious little of that at the start."

"But you must—"

"I refuse it." Mhera spoke now with all the authority she could muster. "People have died, Gella. Others are starving—and so will we, if we cannot sort matters out in the capitol. It is not a time for lace and pearls, and even if it were, I would look out of place in them."

Gella looked at Mhera, her thin lips trembling. Mhera could tell she was battling the desire to argue. Finally, she said, "Very well; no silk, no pearls. But indulge me in one thing, my lady."

Mhera raised her brows in question.

"Do not wear that dress." Gella paused, seeming to fumble for words, which was odd; Gella always knew precisely what to say. She continued, "It should have been...It should have been that we would work together on your wedding gown, but that was never to be."