She picks up the white card and studies the cursive letters, written with such painstaking precision.
I was born into the Court of Light, but;
My world is cast in perpetual gray.
Shadows are my friends, and;
Darkness will be my legacy.
—Nova
Staring at the note, she rereads the poem until she can recite the words by heart. Those four lines resonate deep within her, speaking to the loneliness and defeat she battles every day. Beautiful, albeit heartbreaking, Rachel can’t help but wonder if this is a premature admission of guilt. The poem may be relatable, but it is not hers.
“What are you up to?” she whispers. Gently, Rachel places the note on the counter as if it might explode if she isn’t careful, and goes to work on fixing herself breakfast. The heavy, sinking feeling persists long after she’s satiated her hunger, though. She eyes the note when she finally musters up the courage to open the package. Inside, Rachel finds a sea-green cotton muslin dress with a high empire waist. Her fingertips run across the bust, tracing the delicate golden embroidery on the organza. Curious as to how transparent the bust’s fabric is, she sticks her hand into the neckline and coughs a laugh.
She pulls the almost Regency-styled dress from the package and spies the carefully folded knee-high stockings and beige leather walking boots beneath it. The shoes will undoubtedly fit, and the dress—
“What? No nipple rouge?” Rachel shakes out the dress and holds it high enough so it doesn’t touch the floor. It’s not horrendous, but the low-cut and see-through bust is worrisome, and it’s not really her style. There is no note explaining the new attire, which is cause for concern, too. But yes, the dress will definitely fit her.
“When in Rome,” she trails off with a sigh.
Rachel grabs the note off the counter as she heads back to the bedroom she occupies and places the dress on the unmade bed, careful not to crease the fabric. She returns to the kitchen for the boots, before setting off for a bath in the rock pool. The water is, as she’s come to expect, always comfortably warm. Whether this is due to a hot spring somewhere or because magic is employed, Rachel doesn’t know. She doesn’t care. Simply having a bath, something she has taken for granted before this trip, is a blessing in itself.
After the bath, she braids her long, thick hair into a loose style, then puts on the stockings and shoes. She slips on the dress next, snorting in amusement when she notices the only thing keeping her modest is a few golden threads. As revealing as the dress may be, she doesn’t dislike it completely.
It’s kind of empowering. Rachel turns sideways to appreciate how the dress fits her body. Mrs. Crenshaw will approve of the draping. She turns to the other side, studying the impeccable sewing.
“I’m told it’s the latest fashion where you’re from,” Nova says from the doorway, startling Rachel out of her thoughts.
She quickly covers the gauzy bust with her hands, effectively hiding her chest from his appreciative gaze.
“Showing off one’s”—she clears her throat—“assets is not popular where I live.”
“Assets?” Nova raises an eyebrow.
“Boobs,” Rachel clarifies.
Nova tilts his head, a deep crease forming on his forehead. The cog turns, but there’s no sign of understanding.
“Breasts,” she finally says in an exasperated tone. “We don’t show off our breasts all willy-nilly like this.”
“Why?” There’s genuine curiosity in his voice, even a hint of naïveté.
“Well, some people find women’s exposed breasts offensive. Others deem it indecent.”
“I repeat, why?”
“Don’t you have laws prohibiting public indecency?” Rachel asks.
“There are many subspecies of Fae who prefer not to wear clothes. It is their right. Therefore, there are no laws prohibiting exposure to any of my subjects.”
“Oh.” Rachel doesn’t lower her hands. “As much as I like the dress, I think it’s best if I don’t wear it. I had a rather unpleasant run-in with a Halfling who would’ve had his way with me if I didn’t fight back, so ...”
The muscles in Nova’s forehead twitch before he seems to force a neutral expression. “Did you kill him?”
“Unfortunately not, but I think the Sluaghs may have gotten him.”
“Good,” Nova says. “Shall I wait in the parlor for you to dress in something more comfortable?”
“Yes,” she exhales the word in relief.
A ghost of a smile plays on his lips as he turns and makes his way down the hallway. Swiftly, Rachel closes the door behind him and undresses before pulling on her wrinkled black T-shirt. The boots are troublesome to get off, but soon enough she’s free of them, and shimmies on her pair of black jeggings. She slips the note into her back pocket, not knowing why she doesn’t want to part with it yet, and ventures out of the bedroom and toward the living room—or parlor, as Nova calls it.
Eyeing her from across the room, Nova asks, “Do authorities deem your current ensemble appropriate attire in your realm?”
“Appropriate, yes, but not quite fashionable,” she says. “I didn’t expect to be in the presence of a king, so I left my evening gown at home.”
“Are you mocking me?” Nova perches on the ledge of the open window, crossing his arms.
Rachel gestures with her index finger and thumb set slightly apart. “Just a bit.”
His silvery eyes twinkle with amusement, but his face remains unreadable.
She pushes her hands into the back pockets of her jeggings. “Thank you for the food, by the way.”
Nova inclines his head, but doesn’t speak.
An awkward silence stretches on between them, before Rachel says, “So, what’s it like to be a king?”
“Exhausting,” he answers without missing a beat. A smile tickles the corners of his lips again, as if that single word has lifted a burden off his shoulders.
“Take a vacation for a couple of weeks? Go lie on some exotic beach and order
