Snow Like Ashes(34)

“Of course, Lady Meira,” Rose says, and turns to the servants. “Girls! Let’s get to it!”

I fling my hands up. “Whoa—now? Wait! Ow!”

All five girls descend on me at once. They yank me out of bed and shove me onto a dressing pedestal that makes me feel like one of Noam’s silly golden trees with people twittering below me.

“Mona, legs and feet. Cecily, bodice and sleeves. Rachel and Freya, hair and face.” Rose falls into step as a general would over a gaggle of confused captains, ordering and scolding. The girls tug me this way and that, shoving me into layers of fabric and dousing me in weird powders and oils. One grabs my hair and jerks it up into a curly design—one paints something glossy on my lips and cheeks—one shoves stiff-heeled shoes onto each foot—one tugs the strings on a corset so tight I can taste the inside of my stomach.

“Are you—sure—all this—is—necessary?” I sputter between tugs on the corset. I understand wanting to be more put together for a ball, but surely all this discomfort isn’t really needed? Can’t I just slip on a simple dress? Or, better yet, not go at all? But Sir and Mather will be at this ball, and I don’t want to wait until it’s over to figure out what they’re planning. If I have to suffer through a few too-tight corset strings, then fine.

Rose, finger on her bottom lip, lifts an eyebrow at me. She turns to the armoire without a word and pulls it open. On the inside of each door is a mirror, and even though the racks within are stuffed with dresses and nightgowns, I’m too focused on the reflection staring back at me to notice much about the clothes.

Noam’s servants are talented. Or I’m prettier than I thought.

The dress they stuck me in—or are still sticking me in—is a deep ruby red, billowy, swishy, with an intricate gold design threaded into the bodice. The gold loops up into two sheer straps that slide just under my collarbone, showing off the necklace of braided gold one of the girls has fastened around my throat. My hair, a giant array of pinned-back curls, hangs messy yet soft with a few white strands dangling free around my face.

“Well?” Rose crosses her arms. She seems way too satisfied with herself.

I click my mouth shut. Maybe being a little fancier isn’t a horrible thing. “You’re … good at what you do.”

Rose sighs as the girls back up, finished with their assault. A few of them coo at me, “Aren’t you so beautiful, he’ll fall for you for sure—”

I throw a finger up and look around. “Wait. He who?”

Mona zips up her bag of supplies. “Prince Theron, Lady Meira. He’ll be smitten!”

Noam’s son. I frown, absently clutching the fabric of the skirt. I knew I was forgetting something.

The girls start to leave, Rose herding them out with sharp orders to see if other guests need any last-minute assistance. I leap down from the dressing pedestal and grab Rose’s arm.

“General William and King Mather.” Saying his title flows out surprisingly easily, and I start in discomfort. “Where are they?”

“Getting ready themselves, Lady Meira. They did say that if you were to ask for them, they would meet you in the library before the ball.”

“And when is the ball?”

“In ten minutes.”

I smack my fist to my forehead to fight down a sudden migraine. “Lady Rose, if you wish me to attend this ball, you will tell me exactly where the library is. Now.”

Rose points down the hall and to the left. “Two lefts, one right. First door on your right.”

I start to say thank you, but realize—I’m wearing a ball gown. How many times will I have this opportunity? I drop into a sweeping curtsy, skirt fluffing out in my descent, fabric swallowing me up. Rose applauds as I leap up and start to run out the door. Then I pause, pull back, and stuff the small blue stone into one of the gown’s pockets. Just something to hold on to.

Two lefts. One right. First door on the right.

I repeat the instructions as I run, trotting past scurrying servants and fancy-looking people I don’t know. Cordellan royals, probably. Running in a dress is hard enough, but running in a ball gown is like trying to run while wrapped in a tent, so eventually I concede defeat and heft the whole mess of silk into the air. A few passing courtiers raise their eyebrows, but I hurry past them, too glad to move my legs freely to really care about their shocked looks. I was right—skirts are inventions meant to make running harder.

The library door is already open when I dash in, but the room is empty. Books line shelves three floors high, and windows just as tall let in rays of dying sunlight. Three balconies wrap above me and a grand piano stands in the center of the bottom level, but there are no people, not even a servant dusting old books in a corner.