"If your father insists . . ." she said.
Gavril gave her a hard look. "If you do not behave, you'll be returned to the dungeon. Behaving includes 'not attempting to escape.' I should also warn you that the dungeon guards are comrades of Halmond. He is doing poorly. His friends are not pleased with you."
"I understand. I have no intention of attempting--"
He cut her short with a look. "If you are sent back there, I'll not help you, Keeper. I'll not."
Now her look was dead serious as she met his gaze. "I have no doubt of that, my lord."
"Good. Now, I will leave you to bathe and dress under Rametta's care. Then I will return to explain your role for the evening."
THIRTY-FOUR
Escorted by two guards, Rametta took Moria clear across to the next build
ing, where she had a proper bath with a proper hair washing, followed by a thorough scrubbing, waxing, and plucking. Or . . . not completely thorough, at least not when it came to the waxing and plucking. Moria knew that was the custom in the imperial court, but even with the language barrier she was able to tell Rametta that there was no need for her body to be completely without hair.
While Alvar Kitsune was not empire-born, he was adhering to the customs and practices of the empire. Moria supposed that made sense. To do otherwise would only remind people that his heritage lay elsewhere. He intended to rule the empire, not conquer it.
The reception, then, would be court style, one that hearkened back a decade. A message that said that the empire's golden age had passed with Alvar Kitsune's exile.
While the current custom was for ornate, upswept hair styles, the previous one called for long, straight hair on women. The longer the better. In both cases, extensions were often employed, but Moria--who as Keeper was not permitted to do more than trim her nearly waist-length hair--needed none. Nor, she would argue, should she need to apply rice powder paste to whiten her face. Rametta agreed, after trying it and frowning at the effect, and settled for a dusting of powder instead.
Next came the makeup. Charcoal for her eyes and brows. Red dye to make a "rosebud" of her lips with honey glaze to add shine--a small pot of which was to be tucked into her dress to reapply after eating and drinking, though Rametta seemed wise enough to realize the chance of Moria actually doing this was about equal to the chance of the sun consuming the earth.
Finally the dress. First the under-robe. Then the split skirt, with a short train. Then silk, silk, and more silk. Ten layers in all, each brightly colored or brocaded. Finally the most ornate layer of all, in the finest silk, covered in gemstones and iron. A warrior's heaviest leather scale armor did not weigh nearly so much. Moria wondered why Gavril had bothered to warn her against escape--her outfit would hold her as fast as metal shackles.
At least there were a few beauty customs that had disappeared from fashion long enough ago that Alvar didn't see fit to resurrect them. Foot binding had gone out of style in the last age. More recently, but before Emperor Tatsu's reign, there'd been the custom of teeth-blackening. One problem with whitening women's faces was that it made their teeth appear yellow. The solution, back then, had been to black them out altogether, leaving a dark hole of a mouth, which Moria was sure had been a lovely sight.
Once Moria had the dress on, the serving girl returned heaving a large looking glass, which Rametta made her prop in the corner.
Moria walked over, glanced at her reflection, grunted, and stepped away. Rametta scolded Moria like a chattering squirrel. Moria sighed. She stood in front of the looking glass. Then she glanced through it at Rametta, beaming behind her.
"I know you put a lot of work into this," Moria said. "So I will refrain from pointing out that I look--and feel--like an overstuffed cushion."
She watched Rametta narrow her eyes. The woman understood far too much of the common language.
Moria sighed again. "All right. Given that this is the customary attire for such an occasion, I look perfectly serviceable in it."
"Serviceable?" The serving girl stared at Moria, her eyes round. "You are beautiful, my lady. Your hair shines like gold. Your eyes are like sapphires. And that gown? I have never even dreamed of something so . . ."
She couldn't finish, her face filled with such longing that Moria felt a stab of shame. For a girl like this, such a gown wouldn't be possible even on her wedding day. While Moria may have looked in the glass and seen an awkward girl stuffed into an equally awkward outfit, the girl saw a fantasy come to life.
"I'm sorry," Moria said. "I'm in an ill temper today. Thank you very much for the compliments. It is a lovely gown. I am blessed to wear it."
"But you should be blessed. You are the Keeper." The girl moved behind her and fingered the silk before Rametta's throat-clearing made her stop. "You look lovely, my lady. And on the arm of Lord Gavril . . ." She sighed. "He is so handsome. You are blessed to have him favor you."
"He doesn't favor me," Moria said as gently as she could. "He's escorting me because his father demands it."
"But he is still escorting you, and he will see you in this gown and . . ."
As much as Moria tried to hide any reaction, she must have failed, because the girl looked alarmed.
"You don't find him handsome, my lady?"
At one time, Moria would have readily admitted she'd not seen a young man more pleasing in face and form. But that young man had locked her in a dungeon. Deprived her of any comfort. Refused even to tell her if her bond-beast lived. There was no way she could look at Gavril now and find him handsome.
But when Moria said nothing, she felt the weight of not only the girl's stare but Rametta's. Refusing to flatter Gavril risked insulting the healer worse than refusing to enthuse over her new dress and makeup. She opened her mouth to lie, but nothing came out, and panic ignited in her gut.