Chapter 2 Traditional Dress

I get out of the bath and dry myself, pulling the shift over my shoulders. Potts steps forward to help me tighten the back, but three women step into the room before she can finish. It takes me a moment to realize that they are tattooed, much like the few mages I have seen. They are all carrying bundles of fabric, and they don’t ask for permission.

They just begin. 

Hands guide me to the middle of the room, too gentle to fight against. Potts stands against the wall, watching with furrowed brows. I give her a soft smile, and she lets out a sigh and lets her shoulders droop. 

“Arms, my lady,” one of them says softly. I obey easily, lifting my arms up. A basin of water is brought forward. I frown as one of the attendants dips a cloth into it, wringing it out before running it down one of my arms. The water is cold, and I almost pull my arm away.

“Did I not just bathe?” I ask, frowning as she moves my arm higher.

“It’s tradition, my lady,” another attendant says, grabbing a second cloth. I flinch as the cool water drips down my back.

“Forgive me,” the attendant murmurs, though she doesn’t falter.

The water smells like crushed leaves and some kind of fruit I can’t name. The attendants work in a quiet rhythm, smoothing the damp cloths along her arms, her collarbones, down her back. It isn’t exactly unpleasant, but I kind of hate that. 

I want to hate this, to be angry at this. This, though, is new. I’m used to rougher hands that pull laces too tight over my chest. This feels like something else entirely, like they have actual care for the person they are dressing.

“Lift your hair,” another says.

I do, gathering it over one shoulder. Deft fingers unfasten the shift, letting it fall from my body. Before it can touch the floor, the attendant catches it before it can crumble to the floor, looking up at me as she waits for me to step out of it. 

For a moment, I consider resisting. I might not be able to take all of them, but I can probably surprise them. I have no doubt that Potts would step up and help, letting me escape into the hallway. Would my sister try to stop me? The king?

I don’t. I know what would happen if I try to run.

A new undergarment is brought forward, and I frown when it’s draped over my shoulders. It’s cool to the touch at first, then it warms almost instantly against my skin. It drapes rather than clings, slipping easily over my shoulders in whisper-thin layers. Hands guide the fabric into place, no pulling or forcing like the dresses of my people. 

“Stand straight,” an attendant orders, and I do as I’m told.   

The full dress comes next, slipping over my shoulders easily. The attendants are at my back, the bodice taking shape as they work. It’s fitted but not playing with my ability to breathe either. It molds to my body nicely without the harsh construction I have grown to expect. No laces dig into my back; my chest can move as it needs to.

I feel free.

They shift their attention to the skirts next. They are panels of fabric, layered and shifting, brushing against my legs. When I shift my weight, they move with her, parting slightly then falling back like leaves settling after the wind. 

It’s beautiful and so free.

One of the attendants smiles, faint and knowing, as if she can see exactly how I feel about it. “Shall we take a look?” 

I nod, and she gently leads me to stand in front of the mirror in the corner. The fabrics are varying shades of green, shimmering in the light of the lanterns around us. Soft fabric is drawn over her arms, sleeves that are not fit to my arms, but spill from my shoulders in sheer, flowing lengths. 

“They are made for the walkways,” the attendant says, bringing a stool forward. I sit as she and another step forward to mess with my hair. “You cannot be walking among trees in crinoline’s and corsets.”

“Thank you,” I mutter aloud.

I continue looking at the dress, and a golden thread catches my eye. It traces along the bodice and down my hips, curling into delicate patterns that almost look like the veins in leaves. They are not heavy lines; in fact, they are almost unnoticeable except in certain light. 

“Let me in here,” one of the attendants says, kneeling beside me. She wraps a belt made of golden leaves round my waist, one only meant to anchor the fabric of the dress around me. Another is placed around my neck, falling down to rest on my collarbone, though far thinner.

“Let’s see,” one of them says and has me stand and face the mirror. I look…taller. The dress shifts with every movement, the gold catching the light. The greens seem to shift from dark to light like the forest itself. Her hair is loose against her back but adorned with golden leaves and flowers. A golden circlet rests over my forehead, the rest woven into my hair, looking like tangled branches. 

I don’t look like myself. 

I don’t look like the daughter of a cursed king, or the girl who had stood at her fiance’s funeral just hours before. I look new. 

I lower my gaze, swaying slightly and watching the fabric move around my ankles. The dress shifted and followed, allowing me to move. Before, dresses have always made me feel stuck and kept in place, like something be shown off. This one…this one feels as if it’s waiting for me to run. 

“It's a traditional dress,” one of the attendants says, mistaking her silence, “for when you make it to the court.”

Right, for them. 

My chest tightens, but I force a smile onto my face as I turn toward them. I say, “it is beautiful.”  

“Yes,” the attendant says, bowing her head. She stepped up with a green cloak. She drapes it over her shoulders, fastening it around her neck. She carefully lifted the hood over her hair before stepping back. 

“I will let you be for a moment while I get the carriage ready.”

They all leave, and I turn toward Potts, who is already surging forward. I wrap my arms tightly around her, digging my face into her shoulder. Potts pats my head through the hood, promising me that everything will be okay. 

“We will see each other again,” she promises. “I’m sure your sister will find a way to get them to have you visit. You know how she is.”

“Indeed,” I chuckle, tears brimming in my eyes. There is a soft knock on the door, and I step forward as it opens. One of the attendants from before bows slightly before stepping aside and pulling the door open more fully. 

I make my way out of the church, keeping my head forward. There’s no one in there to watch my tears as I follow the attendants to the door.