She holds up a corset of leather nearly as stiff as rawhide. “I had it specially made,” she says with a pleased look. She knocks it with a fist, and I wince at the hollow sound. “It should repulse a dagger, or at least minimize damage. And it’s fitted, just flexible enough to wear under a gown.”
I gaze at it in despair, already feeling suffocated. “All right,” I say, resigned. When she fits it around me and begins to lace it, I try to convince myself it’s not much worse than my regular corset with its thick stays.
Mara looks on with amused interest. “It looks like Hector’s informal armor,” she says. “Except with space for breasts.”
“Funny,” I say with a glare. But my glare dies when I see my reflection. I hardly recognize the girl looking back at me. She seems so strong in her corset armor. I throw my shoulders back and hold my head high.
My gown—made of aquamarine satin—slides over it with surprising ease. It’s a bolder color than I usually prefer, but I like the way my skin glows next to it, the contrast of my dark skin and black hair. The gown is sleeveless but has two impossibly long chiffon ties that form a halter behind my neck and float down my back, all the way to the floor.
Ximena sweeps my hair up, leaving a few curls to trail down my neck. Mara lines my eyes with kohl and adds a little sweep at the corners, which enhances their cat shape and makes them look huge. She steps back, grinning smugly, and says, “I’ve been practicing on the laundress.”
Tears fill Ximena’s eyes. “You look like a queen, my sky.”
Mara says, “You look like the most eligible marriage prospect in the country.”
The face staring back is strange. More chiseled, less pudgy than it used to be. And the eyes—so dark and dramatic and large! They are the eyes of someone who has seen and lost much.
Softly I say, “I look like a widow.”
They shift a bit closer, as if forming a protective hedge, and Mara settles an arm across my shoulder. I’m grateful for their sympathy, their understanding.
Mara squeezes my shoulder. “You’ll find love again,” she says.
I catch my breath. But I already have. And I don’t know that it matters. Carefully I say, “Love is not for me. I’ll marry for the good of my kingdom.” But my words seem too hard and sharp. “Probably a northern lord,” I continue, forcing nonchalance into my voice. “Approved by the Quorum.”
Ximena regards me thoughtfully—she knows me too well. But she doesn’t press the matter, just arranges the ties of my dress to drape more fluidly and says, “You’re ready to go as soon as Hector gets here.”
My heart does a little flip at the sound of his name, but I ignore it, saying, “First I have something for you.” I gesture for them to follow me into my bedchamber. I reach into my nightstand to retrieve the gifts I’ve hidden there and hand each of them a packet wrapped in supple leather.
Mara beams as she opens hers but then gasps with astonishment. “A spice satchel. With marjoram, cinnamon—oh, Elisa. Saffron! How did you procure saffron?”
I’m so glad to have surprised her. “There are advantages to being queen. Now you, Ximena.”
My nurse peels back the leather wrapping to reveal a bound book with a painted cover and gilded pages. “The Common Man’s Guide to Service,” she breathes. “It must be two hundred years old.”
“Look at the pages.”
She opens it. “Oh, my sky.”
I laugh, delighted with her reaction. “They’re illuminated!”
Ximena runs a finger across the elaborate lettering, caresses the border painted in shimmering sacrament roses. Tears fill her eyes. “I’ve never owned something so valuable.”
It takes so little to please my ladies, and my heart fills to see the happiness shining in their faces. I reach my arms out, and then the three of us are elbowing one another in an awkward hug. “Happy Deliverance Day,” I whisper, and they respond in kind.
Someone’s throat clears, and we separate. Mara moves from my field of vision to reveal Hector standing in the doorway.
My mouth goes dry.
For the first time since I have known him, he is dressed as a Quorum lord. He still wears the red cloak of the Royal Guard, but instead of combing back his black hair, he has let it curl naturally at his forehead, at the nape of his neck. In lieu of a breastplate and thigh guards, he wears a loose white blouse tucked into tight black breeches. A sword belt slings across narrow hips, but it’s a smaller gentleman’s sword. Without the bulk of his armor, I see how very broad his shoulders are, how tanned the skin of his neck and collarbone is.