by Roxie Noir
At 7:30 the next morning, there’s a knock on my door. I’m awake, but still lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, so I roll out of bed.
The knock sounds again.
“Coming!” I shout.
Maybe it’s Kostya, I think as I grab the black silk robe that came with the room.
It’s not. It’s Irina, the palace seamstress, and she’s got a rack of clothes behind her.
“Good morning,” she says.
“I already picked a gown,” I say, my brain not fully firing yet.
“Yes,” she says. “Alterations are ready and you need to try it on again.”
“Right,” I say. “Uh, please, come in.”
Five minutes later, I’m standing in nothing but my underwear as Irina applies double-sided tape to something that looks a little like a dead jellyfish, but firmer. I’m not awake enough to protest any of this, and besides, she seems like this is a normal thing for her to do before eight in the morning.
“Arms up,” she commands, and I lift my arms over my head. She plonks both jellyfish onto my boobs and then squeezes them.
It’s the least sexy I’ve ever felt while rounding second base, that’s for sure.
After a moment, she steps back and examines her work.
“Much better,” she says, nodding.
Irina orders me into the dress, and then spends several moments examining parts of my body up close, including the way a seam wrinkles directly over the curve of my ass. After a bit, she seems to decide it’s okay, and I look over my shoulder into the mirror.
Oh shit, I think.
The dress looked fine before alterations, but hello, bootylicious.
Irina sees me looking and almost smiles.
“This dress is a husband-finder,” she says, and gives my butt a friendly pat.
I get a break for a couple of hours, but still no correspondence from Kostya.
It’s not like he’s some guy who didn’t text you, I think. You’re fucking in secret while he runs a country. He probably couldn’t send a note without getting busted.
Starting in the early afternoon, my mom’s lined up a whole beauty regimen, even though I begged her not to, pointing out that I’ve got eyeliner already. She just told me to relax and enjoy being pampered, so that’s what I try to do as a very friendly woman wearing a leopard-print bustier puts curlers in my hair and applies layer after layer of makeup.
On layer two, I’m nervous. By layer four, even though she won’t show me yet, I’m certain that I look like a cartoon panda, and I’m panicking. There are false eyelashes. There is a worrying color of eyeshadow, but every time I try to stop her, she just tells me to trust her.
It’s the same thing for my hair. I try to tell her that when I wear it up, I prefer to wear it lower and not piled on top of my head, but does she listen? Fuck no.
Finally, she spins my chair toward the mirror, and I hold my breath in horror.
Staring back at me is a hooker from an 80’s movie. She used the wrong shade of foundation, and since she wanted to cover my freckles, she used a lot of it and I look like a garish clown. I’ve got the wrong shade of blush on, along with blue eyeshadow that’s nowhere near the actual contours of my eyes.
And my hair. Jesus, my hair. It’s a pile of awful curls on top of my head. I hate every single thing about this.
“What do you think?” she asks, grinning.
I force myself to smile back, because I can’t change this now.
“Great!” I say.
The moment I’m out of her sight, I run to my room. I’m still getting the foundation off when there’s a knock on my door.
“Hazel?” my mom calls.
“Come in!” I shout.
I hear her walking through the rooms.
“We should go in a few—”
She stops short, and I can see her over my shoulder in the bathroom mirror.
“Oh, dear,” she says.
“Help,” I say, desperately.
She steps up behind me and surveys my hair as I wipe blush off myself.
“You do your face. I think I can give you a passable chignon with this mess,” she says.
“Okay,” I say.
Sometimes it’s useful to have a mom who plans. Ten minutes later, my hair is in a not-fancy-but-perfectly-nice knot at the base of my neck, my face is clean of foundation, and I’m leaning toward the mirror, swiping on eyeliner. I kept the fake eyelashes, but ditched pretty much everything else.
Finally I step back and look at myself.
“Much better,” my mom says. “I’m so sorry. She was highly recommended.”
She points at the bed.
“Dress, stick-on-bra, underwear, shoes, necklace, earrings, mask,” she says. “We’ll meet you in five. I gotta go put my own mask on.”
“I can’t believe there’s masks,” I mutter.
“They can be very traditional,” she says, giving me a light hug. “By the way, the Queen says that a few pieces of double-sided tape under the mask works wonders.”
I make a face, and my mom laughs as she leaves. I get dressed like lightning, and check myself out in the mirror.
From prostitute to class act in fifteen minutes, I think. Thank god for teamwork.
Then I stick the mask on my face and fly out the door.
When we walk into the ballroom, I think two things right away.
One, it’s enormous and beautiful, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, tall windows looking out over the ocean, a string quartet playing on stage. The woodwork is all beautifully carved, obviously something else they managed to save from the Soviets.
Two, with everyone wearing these lace masks over their eyes, I feel like I’m walking into a weird sex club with my parents. It’s not a feeling I really enjoy, and I wonder if I’m the only one thinking it.
I hope I’m the only one thinking it.
We run the gauntlet of officials and high-ranking people, and of course my parents have to stop and have a quick chat with everyone. More than one mostly-drunk old man gives me an up-and-down look and then tells me to save a dance for him, and it makes me feel slimy, but I smile and agree while hoping he’ll forget.
The whole time I’m smiling, saying niceties in Russian, and scanning the room. I have no idea if Kostya’s here yet, but I feel like a pre-teen with a crush at a middle school dance, my heart beating fast and my palms sweaty.
I thought I’d feel half naked with my low-backed dress, but looking around, I feel like a nun. All the women here are wearing brightly-colored dresses, hair piled high, cleavage on full display.
Yet again I feel like an alien who’s just come to Earth to observe human behavior, because Svelorians are confusing as hell. On one hand, women aren’t supposed to curse, they don’t drink vodka, they’re demure and polite and always dressed to the nines.
But on the other hand, my backless, bootylicious dress may as well be a paper bag here. At least now I understand why Irina was so concerned about my bust.
I sneak a glance down. They’re not winning any prizes, but they... exist.
Better too conservative than too slutty, I tell myself.
Can you imagine if you showed up with your tits half out and everyone else was wearing high-necked Elizabethan gowns?
Another old man shakes my hand, kisses my cheek, and touches my shoulder a little too long, but then I finally spy Kostya, taking a glass of champagne from a tray. My heart does a little flip in my chest, and I stare a little too long, because he’s wearing his military dress uniform and damn.
God damn.
Then he hands the glass of champagne to Yelena, standing right next to him, and I force myself not to make a face.
“Everything all right, Miss Sung?” the man says.
I look at him, smile, and nod.
“Good,” he says, and grins lecherously to me.
I walk away, following my parents, but I sneak a look back at Kostya. Now he’s drinking his own champagne. His mask is solid black,
more Zorro than sex club.
Just as I’m about to turn my head, he looks right at me. I swallow hard and look away, forcing myself not to smile.
24
Kostya
“Kostya,” says Yelena’s soft voice.
“Yes?” I ask.
After one more moment I tear my eyes away from Hazel’s back. Her dress ends right above those two dimples, and just thinking about them makes my mouth go a little dry.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, her big blue eyes looking up at me.
For at least the twentieth time in the past week, I feel guilty for how I treat Yelena. Just because I don’t find her attractive or interesting doesn’t mean I should be openly gawking at someone else while I’m escorting her at the masquerade ball she organized.
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” I say, which is at least true. Last night I wasn’t in bed until nearly four in the morning, and I wake up by six at the latest, no matter what.
She pats my arm.
“I’ve arranged for Turkish coffee in the gallery at ten,” she says. “Though I’m afraid it will smell too strongly, and then the drapes in there will never let go of the scent.”
“I’m sure it will dissipate after a few days,” I say, and Yelena heaves a sigh.
She’s dressed like most of the women here: a bright red dress, hair piled elaborately on her head. The neckline on her dress isn’t as drastic as most, but there’s more than a hint of cleavage visible, and it pushes upward every time she breathes.
I dart my eyes at the spot where Hazel was again, but she’s gone.
“There’s Vika and Sasha,” Yelena says, suddenly perking up. “Let’s go say hello.”
I’m starting to feel like I’m playing hide-and-seek with Hazel. Yelena is still talking to her friends, the other daughters of rich men, and even though I’ve had two more glasses of champagne they’re still not interesting.
I keep catching glimpses of black lace swishing through the crowd, and it’s starting to drive me mad. To make matters worse, my father is here, my mother on his arm, striding back and forth and watching everything with his unpleasant hawk’s gaze.
If I had any goddamn sense at all, I’d slip Hazel a note and show up in her bedroom later.
If I had good sense, I’d stop this completely.
“Excuse me,” I say to Yelena.
I bow my head slightly and then walk away before she can protest that she wants to come with me. I don’t know who told her it was attractive to act like a barnacle — probably her father — but someone did.
In one corner, my father is speaking with a few old men in one circle, their wives clustered together next to them. I keep scanning the crowd, hoping that I haven’t escaped just as Hazel accepted a dance with someone else.
Since I have to look like I’m going somewhere, I head toward the bar, where a server in a tuxedo is standing in front of an enormous fountain pumping pink champagne punch. The thing is hundreds of years old and so gaudy it must have embarrassed even my ancestors, but it’s present at every formal event in this palace.
By the time I walk up, he’s already poured a champagne glass full of the punch, and he hands it to me, dipping his head.
“Your highness,” he says.
I nod back.
“Is that who you are?” says a familiar voice behind me, and I turn.
“Miss Sung,” I say, as formally as I can.
“Konstantin Grigorovich,” she says. “I assume, anyway, with the mask and everything.”
I hold out my right hand, and she takes it like we’re about to shake hands on a business deal, but I bring it to my lips and kiss her knuckles longer than I should, her skin cool and soft under my hand.
Her eyes flick to my knuckles. They’re almost healed, just ugly shades of yellow and blue now.
“Can I offer you a glass of punch?” I ask. “It’s an ancient family recipe.”
“Thank you,” she says.
I take the glass of pink liquid from the server. Hazel thanks him, and we step away to stand beside a cocktail table. We’re surrounded by people on all sides, and I know for a fact that anywhere I go in this ball people are looking at me, watching what the prince does.
Maybe that’s why I like the dark so much. I can do what I want.
“Is it appropriate to toast with pink punch?” she asks, looking into her glass.
“Vodka is preferable, of course,” I say. “Though this is mostly vodka.”
“I thought this was champagne punch,” she says, twirling the glass in her hand.
“We rarely pass up a chance to add vodka to something,” I say.
She looks down at her drink, and even though the mask makes it hard to tell, I think she’s smiling a little.
“Thanks for the warning,” she says. “I’ll try not to make another spectacle of myself.”
I hold the glass up, just slightly.
“To my father, may he live to be an old man,” I say. It’s a very correct first toast.
“Nah zdrovya,” says Hazel. We both take a sip.
“And to bunkers,” I say, lowering my voice.
Hazel swallows, and her bottom lip twitches, like she’s trying not to smile.
“To bunkers and desks and office chairs,” she says, and we both drink.
“Are you enjoying the masquerade?” I ask. I feel like an idiot, trying to make pointless small talk with Hazel, but I have to act like we’re friendly acquaintances at best.
“It’s quite a spectacle,” she says. “I feel a little like a pigeon in a flock of peacocks, to be honest.”
I look at her, then let my eyes travel slowly down her body, making sure she sees me do it.
“You’re a lovely pigeon,” I say, already desperately fighting an erection. God, I should have taped my dick down or something.
She laughs, but under her mask she’s turning pink.
“Thank you,” she says. “Maybe pigeon was the wrong bird. Maybe I’m more of a duck.”
Her eyes are sparkling behind her lace mask.
So this is how we’re going to do it, I think.
“Or a shark,” I say.
“Why would I compare a shark to a peacock?” she asks, tilting her head like it’s an innocent question. “Sharks aren’t even birds.”
“Peacocks are barely birds,” I say. “The pretty ones can’t even fly. Better to be a duck. Then it doesn’t matter if you get a little wet.”
I swear I feel a prickle on the side of my neck, and I try to ignore it.
Hazel laughs and looks away briefly, like she’s trying not to be embarrassed.
“I shouldn’t have started talking about birds in the middle of the ball,” she says, and takes a sip of champagne. “How dull.”
“I disagree,” I say, trying not to smile. “I find ducks fascinating.”
“Now you’re making fun of me,” she says.
“Only because it’s my turn at last,” I say.
There’s a pause. We both take a deep breath and look down, because this has gone quickly from small talk between acquaintances to something much more familiar.
“Are you enjoying the ball?” she asks.
I want to say I am now that you’re here, but I don’t.
“Of course,” I say. “I always enjoy hosting formal events.”
My neck prickles again, and this time I can’t help but look.
My father’s glaring at me from clear across the room. I turn my head back to Hazel, tamping down my anger.
“You do seem suited to it,” she says, and I know she’s making fun of me again, but I can’t say anything.
“Thank you,” I say, and drain my glass of pink punch, setting it on the table. “I should return to my date, I’m afraid I’ve left her alone for too long.”
“Of course,” she says, her tone suddenly stiff and formal.
“Give me your hand,” I say, my voice as quiet as I can make it.
She does, and I kiss it again, only letting my lips
brush her knuckles.
“You’d better save me a dance,” I say to her hand, then straighten.
“You’d better behave yourself,” she says, fighting a smile again.
Then I walk back to Yelena’s side, my father’s eyes tracking me the entire time.
Once the dancing starts in earnest, I’m in hell. Since Hazel doesn’t have a date to the masquerade, every dirty old man in the whole place asks the American girl to dance.
I dance with Yelena, I dance with her friends, I dance with a whole slew of pretty, unmemorable girls with rich fathers, and I watch other men get to put their hands on Hazel’s bare back while I have to pretend like I can’t even see her.
We switch partners. Hazel dances with Niko and I dance with his girlfriend Marina.
“I heard you got caught the other night,” she says. “Niko told me.”
“Someone recognized me,” I say.
“It’s a real drag, being the prince,” she says, totally deadpan.
“Tell Niko to go back to his dirt farm and abandon his dreams,” I say.
We keep chatting. The dance ends, and I start leading Marina over to Niko and Hazel. I can propose we swap partners and not set off any alarms.
She gives me a look that makes my toes tingle. Then someone touches her shoulder and she turns toward him, accepting the next dance.
I almost growl.
Marina dances with someone else, and I’m about to stand on the sidelines and simply watch when my mother comes over and looks at me.
Then she clears her throat.
“Mother, would you like to dance?” I ask, humoring her.
“As long as you’re asking,” she says.
I hold out my hand, she takes it, and we start moving around the floor again.
“Your father’s not going to change his mind, you know,” she says suddenly.
“About what?” I ask.
“About anything,” she says. “He’s a strong willed bastard, Kostya, and you know it.”
I just look at her, taken aback. I’ve never heard my mother say bastard before, but she just gives me an oh, please look.
“He’s not the only one,” I say.
“You don’t have to win,” she says. “You just have to ride it out. Trust me.”