Cornrows glowered at me. She stepped down the line of tiaras until she arrived at one that looked to be half as tall as the first. I shook my head again.
Her mouth compressed until her red lipstick all but disappeared from sight—an accomplishment, considering how full her lips were.
Cornrows stomped down to a tiara with a delicate silver filigree placed three to the end. She held it up with a single finger and glared, daring me to say no.
I pressed my lips firmly together to keep from smiling. “Um, yeah. That one looks good.”
She sniffed disdainfully. “The first would have looked stunning,” she said, walking past me to drop the tiara into Beehive’s hands. Beehive patted her shoulder.
“There, there. Elves simply have no fashion sense.”
“I guess.” Cornrows glared at me hard enough that I had to look away.
It wasn’t a second later that they were back to yanking my hair around with more force than I suspected necessary.
Beehive stabbed the tiara into my scalp, making me wince. “Ow!” I yelped, bringing a hand to my head. Cornrows slapped it away. “Don’t touch,” she commanded.
The pixies stepped back in unison, scrutinizing me from a distance.
“Do you think it’s…enough?” Beehive tapped her pink frames again.
“Hmm…” Cornrows stepped back a bit further, narrowing her eyes. “It is quite simple, but…”
Beehive nodded sharply. “You’re right. It still manages to have its own…”
“Flare,” Cornrows finished.
They smiled at each other.
I sighed, relieved to still have my hair firmly attached to my head. When I reached up to feel the updo, Cornrows slapped my hand down. “Don’t, you’ll mess it up!”
Meanwhile, Beehive dug out a large pink and purple tool chest, set it on the counter, and sprung it open to reveal a manicure and pedicure setup complete with at least sixty different shades of nail polishes.
She shoved my feet into a large bucket of warm water as Cornrows lugged over a lime green and pink tool box. Once opened, the toolbox revealed a gazillion shades of eye shadow, numerous flesh tones for foundation, and an entire compartment devoted to lipstick.
Cornrows advanced toward me with a towelette in hand and mercilessly scrubbed my face raw.
She stepped back, tsking at my bruises, and tapped her chin while Beehive grunted at my feet, attacking the calluses on my heels.
I lost track of time as they plucked my brows, ripped off the remainder of my skin with a face mask, and scrubbed my lips until I couldn’t take anymore and tucked them under my teeth. For a while there, the only thing I could see was Cornrow’s face, scrunched up in concentration, as Beehive shaped my nails and attacked my cuticles.
“There,” Cornrows said at last. “That should do it.”
Beehive looked up from clear coating my nails. “Oh, my. You’ve done it! You know you are absolutely brilliant with cosmetics!”
Cornrows beamed and turned toward Beehive, running her gaze across my fingers.
“And you are absolutely…” She faltered, her eyes widening.
“Moira, we talked about this.”
Beehive—Moira—shrugged dismissively looking up at the ceiling, a stubborn tilt to her jaw.
“We don’t have time to fix this now,” Cornrows wailed.
I looked down to see what the fuss was about.
Moira had painted my fingernails a shimmering mother-of-pearl, accenting them with tiny leaves made from flecks of crystals that budded from silver vines.
“But it has silver, see, Tibby?” Moira pointed out the vines.
“No, the base coat has to be silver, remember? She always wants silver,” Tibby said, tugging at her hair in agitation. “She’s going to kill us.”
“Now, now, that’s not true. There’s enough silver in the vines, I’m sure! She’ll love those!”
“Well, I think they’re beautiful,” I said, getting a bit tired of the dramas.
Tibby sniffed. “You think so?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you think she’ll think so?”
Moira and Tibby looked at me with identical expressions of hopefulness.
“Um…who?”
“The queen, of course,” Moira said with a huff. “Not that you’ve met her, but perhaps since you will be her vessel…” She gestured to me with a careless wave of her hand.
Tibby nodded. “The vessel can sometimes alter the queen’s sense of aesthetic. Figgy said right after the last coronation, the queen rid her entire wardrobe of light blues. She’d adored the color before.”
I coughed. “I, um, I love the nails.” I wiggled my fingers for emphasis. “I’m sure that the queen…that I will be able to, ah, influence the queen to…agree with me.”
Moira nodded like a bobble head and elbowed Moira in the ribs. “See, see? It’ll be fine.”
Tibby seemed torn between continuing her fit of despair and giving into hope. Hope won out, and she giggled. “It’ll be all the rage!”
“I know!” said Moira.
“It’s a pity she wouldn’t let us use Big Bethy.” Tibby shot me a disapproving glance.
I shrugged, deducing that Big Bethy was the ginormous tiara.
Moira patted her shoulder. “You can only lead a traveler to the bridge, dear.”
She sighed. “You can’t make them pay the toll.”
“Pixies,” Louie said, glancing at his watch. “Get out. Your time’s up.”
The pixies opened their mouths but before they could say a word, Louie jerked his head toward Stuart, standing in the entrance.
They quickly packed their supplies and flounced out the door, their tulle skirts clinging to Stuart as they brushed past him.
“Hey, Kella.” Stuart beamed, holding a garment bag in his arms. “We’ve got a fitting to do.”
I scrunched my brows. “But you already have my measurements. Everything I have fits perfectly.”
“Eh, but who knows what ye’ve been eating over the past week? And anyway, I like to do me fittings a wee bit closer to the final hour. As is, Louie says two hours will have to do.”
“Two hours?” I gasped. “I thought it was going to be later this evening.”
“Nope. So as I was saying,” he said, unzipping the bag slowly. The skirt of a navy blue dress overlaid with spider threads of silver spilled out of its confines. “I don’t want ye to be eating anything more than a few crackers and some water after the fitting be done.”
“What? But—”
“Nothing.” Stuart’s piercing stare brooked no argument.
“Um, o-okay,”
