by Sally Laces
"Your Grace," says the Lady, folding her arms over her waist. "Let me explain fully how I've come to be in your lovely presence."
"Seems simple enough. You snuck past my guards."
Lady Armitage glances over her shoulder. "Well, I'd hardly call it 'sneaking...'"
"Guards. Dismissed."
With a wave of my hand the men in green uniforms and traditional helmets make their way off to more important tasks, like making sure the cake is decorated or that no unapproved journalists sneak in. It dawns on me just how much wedding preparation has gone on without my knowledge or input. Of course, I know what the day will look like; this is a traditional Femnosi wedding, which means it's more or less drawn from the most lavish affairs, an aping of various other royal weddings throughout history. Only gaudier.
With Lady Armitage here, at least there's one aspect I can control - if I can figure out what she wants first.
"My Queen," she says, then lifts an extended palm to her cheek in a put-on look of shock. "Oh dear, forgive me if I'm too bold! You won't be the Queen until tomorrow, I know... but surely you feel the nobility of your title already, I'm sure?"
"Somewhat," I have to admit, hiding a delighted smile behind a scratch at my cheek. She knows damn well that no one has called me 'Queen' yet. I'm still getting used to 'Princess,' a title I adore, yet once wed to Prince Toras I'll move up in rank. We'll be the King and Queen of Dominar.
I'll give it to Lady Armitage; she knows how to play the royals.
"You've done work for royal families before, haven't you?" I ask, while Ellory continues to peer at the woman, as scrutinizing with her look as I am with my questions.
"Some, your grace. Mostly I work for noble families... but oh! How the Armitages once doted on your predecessors!" The woman sits at the side edge of my bed and pulls her book it in her lap. Curiosity has me crawling over to glance down at the black-and-white pictures.
"Of course we were there after the war, ready to supply your family with all the fabric and designs coming out of Europe." She lays a thick finger on the scrapbook's second page, where a black-and-white photo shows an older relative of mine marrying a European prince. In the grainy photograph it's hard to make out the particular designs, yet as she turns the pages the photos grow sharper and more defined, revealing the elaborate designs of our Femnosi dresses, one after the other, the evolution of style brought to life through these mementos.
"Right up until your beloved Grandmother, your Grace. A Queen so beloved, with daughters so lovely, and now a granddaughter no less desired." She shuts the book, but not before I can place my hand between the sheafs.
"One moment," I murmur.
The photograph shows my grandmother in her standard royal blue dress seated at the throne, surrounded on both sides by her daughters. My mother looks stunning as always, so bright and cheerful as she was before she passed, yet for once it's not her I'm looking at. It's my Aunt Ilsa, now a private citizen in America, barely a year older than me, and wearing the same yellow dress I donned the night before.
I slowly withdraw my hand, rubbing it against the blanket.
"Your Queenship," Lady Armitage says. "I will not delay my request any longer. I am well aware you have a full itinerary for your wedding's eve."
"Got that right," Ellory mumbles, impatiently tapping her foot. Lady Armitage ignores my handmaiden, or else she doesn't hear her.
"Yet I would be remiss," she continues, putting her hand on my thigh, "if I did not request this most egregious honor. Please - let me design your dress for tomorrow's wedding." Her hand suddenly grips my knee tightly, her nails nearly digging in through the fabric. "I know this is unusual, yet with the hastened schedule I must simply insist: the dresses I have available are superior to whatever you've been given."
“The dress I've been given,” I say, mouth hanging slightly open. “Right.” I wait a moment, then pat Lady Armitage on the hand. Some of the tension dissipates from my knee.
“Would I be too bold as to inquire as to the designer of your current dress?”
“You would be,” Ellory states. “Very much too bold.”
I set my lips at a line, saying nothing. Better to not involve myself in a conversation about my current choice of wedding dress.
Because it doesn’t exist.
Lady Armitage doesn’t know that, although Ellory senses my trepidation to admit this. A professional seamstress and designer such as herself would expect a bride - what’s more, a ROYAL bride - to have chosen her dress months ago. Fittings and alterations and the like should have been carried out far, far earlier. I didn’t have that opportunity, seeing as how I didn’t even expect to wear a dress to my wedding.
She doesn’t know it, but this lady is my only way out of what could easily become a national scandal. What sort of princess would I be without a memorable dress?
“I suppose,” I say, trying to add my best ‘if you insist’ sigh, “that I could spare a moment to at least see your dresses.”
“A fitting would be most appropriate.”
“Well, let’s not get our hopes up,” I add.
“Of course, of course,” she replies, waving her hands in the air like this is no big deal. I can see a bead of sweat forming on her brow. “I’ll have my assistants bring over several of our finest dresses. When you choose one -”
“If,” Ellory corrects. “If she chooses one.”
“Mhm. When, if, you choose one, I’ll have the alterations made immediately, for wear tomorrow.” She stands up, smoothing down her own elaborate dress. “And you have my word - whatever you choose will be of the highest quality. No one, Femnosi or foreign, will soon forget Princess Anya’s stunning bridal gown.”
I let a smile widen across my face. I know I should keep up the hard-sell act, but it’s difficult when you know you’re dealing with the best. The dresses she showed me in the scrapbook, all worn by my older relatives in the past, fulfilled every girl’s dream of eliciting envy across the land. I’ll be no different, once I decide on a gown.
“I can’t wait to wear it,” I finally admit, as Ellory moves to shepherd Lady Armitage back to her dresses.
My final day as a bachelorette has begun in earnest.
Chapter 16
Toras
“Well I definitely can’t wait to wear it.”
Isaac adjusts his black silk bowtie in front of the closet mirror, then turns his shoulders and head toward his good side. He gives his reflection the best gussied-up look he can manage, then flexes his bicep in the tight sleeve.
“Yeah. That’ll do.”
The elderly Reginald Olstead, chief tailor to the Femnos Royal Family for the past six (!) decades, shuffles forward to stretch a length of measuring tape down my best friend’s arm. The ancient professional murmurs something that I may or may not have been meant to hear. Except for the occasions where he unexpectedly shouts, the wizened wizard of cloth speaks at a decibel count in the low teens.
“Quite, my good man,” Isaac replies to Olstead's unknown statement, still tugging at the ends of his bowtie. He looks dapper, like an extra from a spy movie. Not the star, of course - that role’s reserved for me, the groom, the King.
My suit looks more or less the same as Isaac’s. Groomsmen’s outfits don’t look a whole lot different from the groom’s. It’s not like the bride, who’ll differentiate herself from her handmaidens' dresses with a stunning white bridal gown.
Isaac steps aside for me to scan my own reflection. Femnosi cut their suits differently from us Dominari. They prefer a slimmer fit that works on their lither frames. On me, I can see every curve of my biceps, the full expanse of my chest, and the many threads of my jacket buttons straining to keep themselves connected across my chest.
“Are you sure it’s not too tight?” I ask, flexing my arm. The shimmering fabric, undeniably rich and well-tailored, conforms to my body like a wetsuit.
Reginald mumbles something in response. I tug the cufflink of my shirt up, then turn to him
with a polite smile.
“Pardon?”
Reginald stretches up his wrinkled neck.
“The design,” he shouts, “is meant to attract the eye. Millions of people shall watch you wed our Princess, your grace, and if you are not properly suited," - He brushes a hand along my shoulders - “you will not attract the attention a KING deserves.”
I consider this while I rub the tinnitus out of my ear, the old man taking a step back to let his suit become my focus. In this new light - quite literally, as he turns the room lamp up - I can see every stitch and fabric in what’s been tailor made for me.
Up on the stand next to my bride, I think I’d look quite good.
“I’ll take it,” I decide, turning toward the man with a won-over smile. He keeps the perennial hang-dog look, yet I swear I can see something twitching at the corner of his mouth. He should be proud - I don’t think a Femnosi has ever designed a suit for a Dominari royal.
This entire weekend should be one of celebration. For the countries that can see the centuries-old tradition continued, for the King and Queen who’ll know our foreign relations will continue unabated, and for the servants and workers who make the day go smoothly, and earn their Royally-blessed vacation.
And for us - the Prince and Princess, soon to become King Toras of Dominar and Queen Anya of Femnos.
“You uh… You feeling okay about this?” Isaac points with his eyes to the door, and the various unknown ears listening outside. “The suit, I mean.”
“Right. The suit.” I’m still looking at my outfit in the mirror, yet my mind is completely on her. Anya, my princess, my bride. The girl who said she’d do anything for me - and seems to have proven it.
“It fits,” I reply, unbuttoning my jest to take the stool and begin unlacing these dress shoes. “Much better than I expected.”
“Better than a Dominari suit?”
“I believe so.”
“Good. Me too.”
Me too?
Who’s he marrying?
“I was thinking,” Isaac says, standing rigid in his new suit. “Considering what you said earlier.”
“Yes?”
“That I… Well…” Isaac comes to put a hand on my shoulder. I look up at him, then watch as he pulls his own stool over.
“Your grace… King.”
“Isaac. It’s still just Toras.”
That easy half-smirk of his materializes on his face. “Nah. It Never really was, but we did good at pretending. You’re still Toras to me, bro. But all this stuff here - the fancy dinners, the endless gossip, the 80,000 dollar suits?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t think they cost that much.”
“I asked around.”
I purse my lips, not even sure how much a suit should cost. When your net worth is technically your country’s GDP you tend to lose track of expenses.
“You’re great at this, man. I watch you look the King in the eye and talk to him like an equal and think… what the fuck am I doing here?”
He breaks off with a disbelieving laugh, and I can’t help but join him. He’s right, of course. I may have grown up in these castles and come back to play Prince for the necessary functions but more often than not, I was out there in the world. Bars, nightclubs, parties, you name it. I spent like a King and lived like a sailor. The castle will be my port of call.
“Where will that leave you, Isaac?” I ask, hearing mutters from outdoors. Someone must have heard him swear - in the castle, in front of the King - and now the rumor of a foul-mouthed American ruffian doing harm to the Kingdom is beginning to spread. Isaac is clearly ready to go.
“Never mind. We’ll discuss this later.” I tap Isaac on the shoulder and move to stand. “You’ll always be my friend, Isaac. Whatever goals you choose to pursue, know that you’ll have my backing and my blessing.”
“Oh, uh… Thanks, man.” Isaac sticks one foot behind the other and lifts his hands to the side while bending his knees.
“What are you - was that a curtsey?”
“Is that not what people do?”
I shake my head. “You’re going to do great out there in the real world.”
Before we can move to the door, someone knocks. This isn’t the languorous tap-tap of Reginald’s hand or the quick jolts from a castle maid. Whoever’s on the other side sounds like they want to break the door down.
“MESSENGER BOY!”
Isaac takes a step back, allowing me to answer. He’s not my Royal Servant anymore - he’s his own man, and I’ll be keen to see where he goes.
Standing in the doorway is a man without a head. Alternatively, he does have a head, carried on massive shoulders covered by dinner-plate epaulettes. I’d go with the latter but there’s no proof until he ducks down to meet my eyes.
“Messenger boy,” he intones deeply. “Come to deliver a message from the Queen Regent Annabelle of Dominar.”
“Yes? What is it?”
The giant scratches his cheek. “Uh, she says… Tell him to meet me here.”
“Ah. A literal message.” I turn toward Isaac and offer my hand. “Good luck, Isaac. I trust I’ll see you on my next trip stateside?”
“Actually,” he says, placing both hands on my palm as he shakes, “I was thinking I could stay in Femnos.”
“That could be done.”
“If I had a visa.”
I smirk. “Shouldn’t be hard. You know people in government.”
——————
I recall passing by the Royal Gardens on my first night here, turning my tired eyes toward the enormous stained glass panels behind which grew a menagerie of trees. Today the foliage has been joined with a shower of royal goods. The sacred altar sits at the far end of the room, a stained & chipped granite obelisk carved nearly a millenia ago by the first King of Femnos (or his stonemason, at least). Above it hang twin shields cast in gold and silver, the Dominari & Femnos emblems engraved into either. The rest is chrysanthemums, and daisies, and daffodils - the native flowers of our region.
“Do you still remember the symbolism?”
Annabelle sits in one of the roughly 300 white-washed chairs arranged on the grass, up front and to the farthest right, nearest the low wall overlooking the river. I take a seat next to her, both our eyes forward on the altar and the flowers.
“Daffodils, for loyalty,” I begin. “A promise to keep. Daisies for trust, the belief in the goodness of our people. Chrysanthemums, for honor. And fidelity.” I stretch my back against the chair. “Good enough for the tutor?”
Annabelle allows a pleased look to pass her visage, one that surprises me. “Yes, I think the governess will be impressed. You were better than before, even. You used to call them ‘Chrysanthumumums.’”
Her impression of my childhood mispronunciation is uncanny. “I remember,” I chuckle. “Flowers, insignias, oaths, dances - I wanted to know them all.”
“You were quite the King-to-be.”
“Perhaps I was.”
“And now?”
A flicker of irritation jolts across my face. “Why does it matter? I’m King tomorrow, simple as that.”
“You will be, yes. If you so choose.”
I turn to Annabelle just to make sure it’s really her I’m seeing. This does not sound like the step-mother who spent the past six months hounding me about my Royal Duty. She still won’t look at me, her grey eyes staring forward at the altar and beyond.
“There were roses at their wedding, you know.”
The skin tingles on the back of my neck. “Whose.”
“You know.” Annabelle turns her head toward me, her shoulders remaining forward. “Your parents.”
My knees twitch, willing me to stand, willing me to leave this garden. I stay in my seat, for now. “So,” I rasp.
“I was there. I knew every flower and their meaning, azalea to zinnias. I knew what they all meant, and the roses were my favorite by far. Little did I know I’d have none at my own wedding - or that I’d marry the groom 20 y
ears later.”
Annabelle isn’t old by royal standards. When she finishes the memory, her voice still sounds decades past that of the girl she was when she saw my parents wed.
“I asked him, days before he passed,” she says, looking down at her bunched hands on her thighs. “If he removed the roses from our wedding flower arrangement. If he asked the gardeners to remove the roses from the trellis, or if it was mere coincidence. And do you know what he said?” She doesn’t give me time to ask. “‘What roses.’”
There’s not a laugh bitter enough for the typical story of my father's uncaring nature.
“Your father was a great leader. Great leaders often do not make great husbands. I knew his flaws before I wed. I made my choice.”
“Annabelle,” I snap, turning toward her. “What are you talking about? You never had a choice.”
“Toras,” she chides. “Listen to me. You’ll make a fine ruler. A great one, even, if you can learn one thing - there’s always a choice. Your path as a leader is not one led by black and white decisions. They are always grey.” Annabelle touches the fabric of my sleeve, inspecting it. “Which is why your suit should be grey as well, although this Femnosi fashion is acceptable.”
“I’m so glad you think so,” I reply sarcastically. The advice, however, rings true. I’ve been looking at my marriage in only two ways - wed, and forever be bound to someone I barely know, or reject the union and cast doubt in our Kingdoms. Could there be another way?
“Every Dominar before me has wed.” I clench my hands on my lap. “Even if not all of them remained faithful.”
“Yes. But they all had a choice.” Annabelle straightens her back, taking my hand and squeezing my open palm. “Your grandmother offered me mine the day before I wed, in the rose garden at Dominar castle. If I so wished, she said, I could postpone the wedding.”