Princess Cyra is recovering from a failed engagement, a lack of friends, and possibly inheriting a kingdom when she meets High Prince Halewijn, who is set on making her his bride. When it is revealed to her that he is actually her assailant's son, t...
Cyra stared out at the landscape with a wistful look.
The previous ten weeks had quickly passed without incident; she hadn't seen much of Omar, despite running into Leonel quite a few times while walking about the palace grounds. Armantha visited her irregularly, and it usually involved petty gossip from her "sources" or updates about her status on the plot to help Halewijn usurp the throne.
Halewijn, for his part, seemed to grow increasingly affectionate as the day of the wedding drew near. Strolls in the hedge maze seemed to be a staple of daily life, as well as conversations about the mundane over breakfast.
"Princess," Mirabel called out over her thoughts. "The dressmaker has finally arrived." Cyra had almost entirely forgotten about her wedding dress and the day of the mummer's play. The rosy-cheeked woman swept into the room with no greeting, instead instructing a young man to place a large, black garment bag on Cyra's bed. The round woman milled about the room, adjusting the mirror so it faced away and putting her hair in a swirled brown bun on top of her head.
"I will need your lady-in-waiting to leave the room." The command was met with no hesitation; Mirabel took her leave without question. Finally, alone, the dressmaker exhaled, unzipping the garment bag with care.
She produced a flowing white gown with long sleeves, just as Cyra requested. "I will help you with it today, as well as the day of the wedding." The promise made Cyra shudder with anticipation. She disrobed herself before stepping into the gown and letting the woman zip her up. The gentle kiss of the satin against her skin soothed her senses; she would hate the feeling of itchy tulle as she danced or walked down the aisle. The dressmaker made a few adjustments; tugging in places, tucking in others. But when the woman turned the mirror around, Cyra witnessed the garment's full effect on her body.
"It's..." Words escaped her as she turned about, looking at the short train and v-shaped back dipping below her shoulders. The dress's front was off the shoulder with long-sleeves, the v-shape coming to a dip just below her collarbone. Cyra adjusted the long-sleeves to meet at her wrists and examined the small beading on the waist with her fingers. "I..." The elegance of the dress, despite the simple shape and fabric, could not be described. "This is astonishing."
"And the veil." The woman draped the traditional lace cloth over her head, letting it fall around her shoulders. The woven roses and birds were delicate and ornate; Cyra swore she could see the feathers on each wing and the indention of the petals as she tried to pick apart the shapes. "I have no tiara for you that will match the Crown Jewels of the High Princess. No one has seen them item in over half a century, and I certainly won't be permitted to look upon it until your wedding day."
The thought that no one she personally knew had seen the crown she would own upon her marriage to Halewijn made the day seem even more daunting. Not even Halewijn's mother had been privy to wearing it.
"Allegedly, the last Princess who wore it was not much older than you, but just as beautiful." The dressmaker continued making her adjustments on the dress without further comment.
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