Chapter Twenty-Three
“As good as new. And much easier to manage than some of your past injuries.” Wendeline holds up the mirror in front of me.
I scrunch my nose and wiggle it. Aside from a touch of stiffness that she promised would vanish by tomorrow and the dried blood on my lips and chin, no one would ever know that only hours ago, half my face had been shattered by my darling brother.
“Thank you.” I offer the priestess a genuine smile.
She returns it, though it’s laced with the exhaustion that comes after a healing—her eyelids drooping, the whites of her eyes tinged with red. “You would have healed within a week or so regardless, but I am always happy to speed up that process.”
I was eleven when I broke my ankle playing soccer. It took four weeks for it to heal. As much as I am loath to agree with Sofie, this elven body I’ve inhabited is superior to the human one I left behind.
“Sit down and have some tea, Priestess,” Corrin orders, pointing to the tray next to the settee and the pot she fetched when Wendeline set to work. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Corrin sets a bowl of water on the table beside my chair and begins wiping away the streaks of blood with a damp cloth. Her touch is unusually gentle, her efforts motherly. For once, I don’t argue or begrudge the attention, my focus intent on my bed and the secret passage I now know hides behind it. Zander was reluctant to reveal it to me. I don’t blame him. How the mechanism unlocks from this side is still a trick I need to figure out, but I am determined.
“I hope the visit with your brother was worth all this.” She dabs under my nostril.
“We’ll see what Zander thinks.” It’s the safest answer, and it reveals nothing.
A heavy knock sounds on the door to my suite, followed by Elisaf’s voice carrying through the sitting room. “Your Highness, the seamstress Dagny requests an audience.”
An audience—as if I’m someone important. Will I ever get used to this?
“What does she want now?” Corrin mutters, pausing in her ministrations to rush for my bedchamber door. “Her Highness will see to Dagny in the sitting room shortly. In the meantime, stop hollering at us like we’re animals in a barnyard. You know better,” she scolds, shutting the door with a thump. “A bloodied princess would make for delightful gossip, and there isn’t a soul in this castle that woman does not talk to on a daily basis.” She smooths the rag over my neck and chest.
Dagny can’t be that bad. “Have you ever tried just asking her to keep quiet about something?”
Corrin snorts. “That’s like dropping a bale of hay in front of a horse and asking it not to eat. Quickly now, into a fresh dress.”
“Your Highness! I have the most thrilling news!” Dagny announces, her knee practically grazing the stone floor in a curtsy as I approach. “The Silver Mage has arrived in time for the city fair. I’ve already sent word, tellin’ Odier that I’d be down to his booth in the morn to see the fine silks that were promised. Her Highness must be seein’ them before anyone else. I was thinkin’ why don’t ya come along? You could pick something ya like for those designs of yours. Or for your wedding gown.”
“To the market?”
“Yes, Your Highness! First thing in the morn, before the streets get busy. It’s the biggest market of the year. Lasts for ten days. People come from all over Islor to enjoy the wares, the delicious food. There are street buskers and actors in costume! The clothier section will be especially hectic.”
“I’d love to—”
“The future queen traipsing around with the commoners! Are you daft?” Corrin blurts.
The seamstress’s head bobs. “It was a thought. A silly one, of course. Albe always likes to tell me what a foolish woman I am—”
“It wasn’t silly at all, Dagny. I would love to go. We’ll see if we can make it work.” I shoot Corrin a warning glare, to which she lifts her stubborn chin but says nothing.
Dagny beams. “Also, here. I brought you these.” She collects a stack of folded cloth from the settee and hands them to me. “Made one in every fine cloth I could scrounge up.”
I finger through them. They’re capelets, of varying color, material, and style—some heavily detailed with embroidery and lace, others simple and unadorned. I count twelve in total. “These are gorgeous. This is … how did you make them all so fast?” And by hand.
Pink blossoms in her cheeks. “Oh, these take nothin’ to whip up. Nothing at all. And I’ve got me some keen helpers lookin’ to learn and eager to have a hand in somethin’ Her Highness might wear. But don’t worry. I watched their stitchwork like a mother hen, makin’ sure it was impeccable. I said nothin’ but the best for our future queen.”
“I’m sure they’re all perfect. Tell them thank you.”
Corrin swoops in to collect them from me. “I’ll hang these in your dressing room. If there’s nothing else, Dagny …” She disappears into the other room.
“Best get back to your gown, Your Highness.” Dagny marches away, her hips swinging with her determined steps.
An impulsive urge seizes me. I know this will probably be my only chance. I rush forward, grabbing her arm. “Dagny.” I glance over my shoulder to make sure Corrin’s not there and then lower my voice to ask, “Do you know anyone by the name of Ianca?”
Dagny’s brow creases as she shakes her head. “No, Your Highness. Can’t say I do. Is she here in the castle?”
“I don’t believe so.” If what Corrin says is right, Dagny would know if she was, unless she’s using an alias.