'They can wait a minute!' declared Melissande, having shoved the hapless herald aside.'Lional, hold your horses! I want a word with you!'
'Blimey bloody Charlie,' Reg muttered as the shaken herald hurriedly closed the chamber doors. 'She wants a word with a fashion consultant is what she wants.'
The princess, marching towards the dais, had made a valiant effort to match her brother's habitual magnificence… and failed. Gerald felt his jaw clench, and his guts turn over in horrified sympathy. Melissande, Melissande… what were you thinking?
Her rust-red hair was tortured into an odd looking construction on top of her head and stabbed to death with crystal-topped pins that looked like an outbreak of colourful warts. Her face — minus its glasses — was coated in makeup: bristly mascara-laden eyelashes, startled blue-rimmed eyes, embarrassed cheeks and lips the colour of over-ripe plums turned her ordinary features into a poster for bad abstract art. Her dress was a bilious green satin sack trimmed with blue-dyed feathers and finished about the hem with voluminous mulberry-coloured netting. To complete the ensemble she'd chosen thick dark tights, laddered at the ankle, and bricklike shoes in a moth-eaten black.
The only part of the outfit that worked was the matching pearl necklace and earrings.
'Melissande?' Lional enquired, his voice suggesting that hidden within its velvet sheath was a very sharp knife that could see the light of day at any moment. 'Would you care to explain?'
She halted before the throne. 'Look,' she said forcefully, 'sorry to interrupt, Lional, but who's the damned princess around here anyway? I'm just as much Blood of the King as Prince Nerim is Blood of the Sultan and on top of that I'm the prime minister. I deserve to be in this meeting!'
Lional frowned. 'Melissande, you'd be well advised not to take that tone with me. / wear the crown in this family, not you.'
She waved a pointed finger under his nose. 'Exactly! So why are you letting the Kallarapi tell you who can and can't be present at a meeting in your audience chamber?'
Lional leaned back on his throne and considered her from head to toe. Eventually he said musingly, 'I don't suppose you know exactly who is responsible for that fetching gown you're wearing, do you?'
'I might,' said Melissande, suddenly wary. 'But only if you want to write them a card saying how nice it is.' 'That wasn't my first thought, no.'
'In that case,' she replied, chin up, 'I found it in the bottom of my closet and I don't have the faintest idea how it got there.'
Lional sighed and passed a weary hand across his eyes.'If only I didn't find that so easy to believe.'
Through gritted teeth his sister said,'If I've told you once, Lional, I've told you a million times, I'm not a clothes horse. If you want a decorative female around here you'll have to marry one. Now can I stay or can't I?'
There was a long silence, punctuated by Tavistock's heavy breathing, during which Lional stared into the distance with half-lidded eyes and his lips pursed. Then he nodded. 'Very well. On one condition.'
Beneath the layers of makeup Melissande blushed with pleasure. 'Name it.'
Lional turned. 'Dear Professor. Be a good chap and fix her, would you?'
Taken off guard, Gerald answered without thinking.'Fix her? I didn't know she was broken.'
Lional waved an impatient hand. 'Her presentation, man. Do something about that abominable frock… and the rest of her.'
He didn't dare look at Melissande. She'd kill me, she'd kill me, I'd wake up dead. 'Ah — forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty, but do you really think it's appropriate for me to — '
'No, it isn't!' snapped Melissande.'There's nothing wrong with how I look! Honestly, Lional! I'm in a dress, what more do you want? I'm not going to have him — ' 1 MelissandeV
Her eyes were very bright. With tears or temper, Gerald wasn't sure. 'Sorry'
Lional's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. 'It's your choice, prime minister. Change your unfortunate appearance or leave.'
Melissande let out a shaking breath. 'Some choice,' she muttered.Then she turned, glaring.'Well, Professor? What are you waiting for? Get on with it.'
Gerald swallowed.'Certainly, Your Highness. If I might just have a moment to confer with my — my — fashion consultant?'
She made a rude sound and glared at the ceiling. Lional sighed. 'A very brief moment. I'm sure I have nothing better to do with my time than kick my heels while you and your feathery friend natter about last year's hemlines.'
He bowed then put some distance between himself and the royal siblings. 'Help, Reg!' he demanded in an urgent whisper. 'If I put her in the wrong frock I'll offend her, Lional and the Kallarapi!!'
'The Kallarapi are going to be offended no matter what frock she's wearing, sunshine,' Reg pointed out. 'And I wouldn't worry too much about offending her, either. Not if that sack she's wearing is her idea of fashion that flatters.' She snuck a look under her right wing. 'Give me strength! If only she wasn't such a box of a girl!' 'RcgV
'All right, all right!' She heaved a long-suffering sigh and stuck her head under her wing for another look. 'Cripes. Just don't expect a miracle.'
He closed his eyes and concentrated as Reg whispered into his ear. When she'd finished designing Melissande's new ensemble, she shook her head. 'And that's the best I can do on short notice.'
'Thanks.' Turning to Melissande he said, 'I'm ready, Your Highness. Are you?'
'Yes.' The word came out cold and clipped, and in her eyes a promise of hot words later.
He swallowed annoyance. Because this is all my fault, of course… The words of the incant hovered on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be spoken. Opening his mouth he let them fly free.
Power licked his bones with a lascivious warmth. Revelling in it, he uttered a silent command that summoned to his inner eye an image of the princess as she was at this moment: vertically challenged — horizontally overcompensated — crowned with that unfortunate hair — slathered with all the wrong makeup and swathed in that dreadful dress. But not for much longer.
Preserving modesty, the bilious green satin darkened and transmuted to a rich, glowing blue-green shot-silk taffeta which melted over the feathers and the tragic squashed-mulberry netting, swallowing them entirely. For a moment it slipped and slid around her as though making up its mind. Then the fabric settled sinuously into place… and Melissande was wearing an elegantly simple frock with a demure v-neck, long sleeves and tapered skirt that finished a decorous two inches below her knees.
'So far, so good,' Reg whispered. 'Now for the shoes.'
He snapped his fingers and recited the next incant. The little Melissande before his mind's eye squeaked as the black bricks disappeared from her feet and she immediately became four inches shorter. Then she squeaked again as new shoes appeared. Slim, elegant midnight blue shoes, with just enough heel to enhance her posture and lengthen her legs, and a gently tapered toe to lend an air of sophistication. The finishing touch: sheer silk stockings. Black. Unladdered. 'Very nice,' approved Reg. 'Hair next.'
Still watching his inner Melissande, Gerald uttered a new incant. Obediently the princess's rusty red hair untangled and became a smooth, shining fall of rich auburn that rearranged itself into a gleaming helmet and rolled into a smooth twist at the back. The warty crystal pins disappeared, replaced by pearl-headed pins that inserted themselves diplomatically and discreetly, keeping the twist in place without the least sign of frenzied skewering. They matched the jewellery perfectly, which he left alone.
Reg clacked her beak. 'Well done. Now gild the lily.'
He frowned. Gild the — oh. Melissande's makeup. Yes. Of course. But makeup? He took a deep breath and thought of his mother's quiet, understated elegance.
With a raised fingertip he erased the virulent blue eye shadow, the clumping mascara, the clown-red rouge and the flaming lipstick. Replaced them with a discreet feathering of lavender, a tinting of eyelash, a hint of blush on the cheek, a suggestion of rose on the lips.
Tentatively he opened his eyes to check the result in the flesh, and only just stopped his jaw dropping in shock.' Wow Your Highness, you look… wonderful.'
'I'll be the judge of that,' she said, nervously truculent. 'So don't just stand there. Fetch me a mirror!'
With a careless snap of his fingers he produced the full-length cheval-glass from his own dressing room.
