My gut churned and my eyes burned. Vasile dead? I swallowed hard, trying not to give him the satisfaction of the grief that felt like a fist to my gut.
And my parents? If I couldn’t save Vasile, I would do everything I could to protect them.
The sound of nearby footsteps made my heart somersault in my chest. Help must be coming. It had to be. But as I craned my neck, I saw that it was just the opposite.
Rushing toward me were six women that I had never seen before, dressed in matching silk dresses with flowers in their hair. They were all thin, eyes red rimmed and glassy, reminding me of how my friend Natasha had looked of late, and that just made my heart ache for someone familiar.
Wordlessly, the six of them grabbed a hold of me, and the bone-grinding pain of Petre’s heel in my spine was exchanged for their rough hands on my arms and my body.
For once, I didn’t fight. There were too many of them, and what was the point? I’d seen Vasile surrounded by Petre’s men, I’d been brought here against my will. I was going to be married and there was nothing anyone could or would do about it.
The only person in the world I wanted was certainly dead and unable to protect me. And if I didn’t go along with what Petre wanted, he would kill everyone I still cared about.
I let the women drag me down a snowy path without even trying to pull free, through frozen and forbidden gardens, and finally into a room in the disused monastery behind the cathedral, where a wedding dress awaited me.
The women shoved me into the room, and I stared at the dress, stunned. It was, in fact, the same dress that I had picked out myself. But so much had happened since then that it felt like some other version of me had picked out the pearl details on the corset, the satin trimmings on the sleeves.
No doubt most girls in my position would have felt like they were standing in their fairy tale gown. But to me it was as forbidding as a noose.
Five of the attendants stripped me naked, while the sixth stood watch at the door. They treated me with a humiliating ruthlessness, like I was a cow being prepared for slaughter rather than a human being.
I desperately tried to cover my nakedness, but they were uninterested in my comfort or embarrassment. Two of them seized my arms, holding them out straight, and two others shoved me into my undergarments, two layers of crinoline, wrapped me in my corset then finally, into my gown, pulling the corset ribbons so tight that my ribs and stomach screamed for mercy.
Before any of them could see the ring Vasile had placed on my finger, I slipped it off and hid it between my breasts to keep it safe.
Once the encasing was done, I was shoved into white satin ankle boots, and a wide diamond choker. Patting it with my fingertips, I felt that it was made of three parallel rows of square diamonds, but each setting had a prong that dug horribly into my skin, turning even the tiniest shift of my head into pure agony. I clawed at the clasp on the back of my neck but one of the attendants swatted my hand with such force that I felt one of my nails split in two.
“Who are you?” I asked desperately, searching their eyes for any hint, any sign of kindness. But I found none.
They gave no answer, but one by one left the room, until only a single attendant remained. She wrenched my hair out of its braid and brushed it ruthlessly, with an awful sharp-tooth brush that made my scalp feel like it was starting to bleed. I shoved her away from me, snatching the brush from her hand.
She eyed me with a worrisome, empty coldness. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice raspy and hollow, “I’ve been ordered to do your hair.”
I clenched the brush hard in my hand, readying myself to hit her in the face with the back side.
Even through my panic and exhaustion, I realized I was not completely powerless. She had called me Your Grace. That meant she recognized my title; she knew who I was. Which meant she very well might recognize my authority. And so for the first time in my entire life, I decided to pull rank.
In the grand scheme of Praquean royalty, I was nobody of any importance at all. But as my father had often told me, there was royal blood in my veins. And for the first time ever, I was proud of it.
“Get out,” I said, pointing at the door.
In her eyes, there was a momentary hesitation. An impasse. An uncertainty. A doubt.
“Out,” I repeated. “Unless the King himself ordered you to do my hair, it’s my word you’re bound to obey. So get the hell out of this room before I have you stoned for disobedience. Or hanged for mistreatment of a royal. Petre is not royalty, he holds no power. I do.”
The words felt like they were coming from some other woman’s mouth, but whoever she was, I was damned grateful to have her inside me. The attendant dropped her head and did a quick curtsy, then scurried to the door.
I needed to be alone. I wasn’t some show horse and if I walked down that aisle, I was going to do it with messy hair and dirt
