Whatever rebuttal Corrin was lining up dies on her pursed lips.
“Formfitting.” Dagny scratches her chin. “I don’t suppose I know what ya mean by that?”
“May I?” I hold out my hand toward the rudimentary pencil in her grasp.
She obliges with a curious frown.
I pause for a moment to marvel at the pencil’s design—the graphite wrapped in stiff string to keep markings off fingers—before quickly sketching a silhouette on the sheet of paper on the coffee table, the long strokes of my hand a comforting routine from my old life. If only I had paper and pencil to occupy my time. “Something like that?”
Dagny’s head cocks as she studies it. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. Do they have gowns like this in Ybaris?”
I have no idea, and in any case, Princess Romeria wouldn’t remember, but it’s clear Dagny isn’t within the trusted circle. “Just an idea I had,” I say instead. A dress that “fell off the truck” with the help of Korsakov’s men. I adored it but passed it over for fear it was too opulent and flashy to wear in a place where I needed to go unnoticed. But it would fit well with the dress styles I’ve seen here so far, and this gauzy material Dagny brought would be perfect for its design.
“May I take this with me?” Dagny holds the sketch as if it’s a prized possession.
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll see what I can do. And I promise, the king won’t see those ghastly marks.”
I don’t care what the king cares to see or not see, but I bite my tongue and watch with fascination as Dagny measures and fills a page with scribbled numbers, all while prattling on about her husband Albe and her son Dagnar—I assume, named after her. When she’s done, she curtsies four times, gathers her bolt of fabric, and rushes out, all while humming to herself.
The room feels uncomfortably quiet once she’s gone.
“What are caco claws?” I ask.
Corrin collects the dress I wore today, smoothing the skirt with a forceful hand. “A weapon they use in Seacadore, made to look like a beast’s talons.”
How appropriate. “Did the king say he didn’t want to see my scars?” I can’t be the only one in Cirilea to have them. Abarrane wore hers proudly. I assume she earned it in battle. Well, so did I, in a way.
Her eyes flash to me. “It isn’t about vanity, if that’s what you’re asking. Both Wendeline and the king feel that the fewer people who know you survived a daaknar attack, the better. Information is a commodity, and anyone with too much can become a danger. Besides, you’ll garner more sympathies painted a victim of your own mother than you will as an immortal who has defied certain death twice.”
Corrin knows far more than she has previously let on. Who is this human to Zander that he would trust her so? Clearly someone who knows the inner workings of the court and how to survive.
She marches into a small room off my bedchamber while still talking. “Dagny is a rare talent as a seamstress, but she’s also an insatiable gossip. It works to our benefit on this day. She will spread that version of the story through the castle faster than a family of rats finding their way to a barrel of grain. Of course, no one with half a brain in their head will believe those scars were caused by caco claws, even ones forged from merth. But we will cover them as best we can to hide the fact that you were injured by something far worse. Soon, the gossip will focus on more important things. Like your nuptials.”
She emerges with a black dress. “I had your full closet transferred here. Most of it isn’t sufficient, but Dagny will make a few capelets for you. This should work for today.”
“Wait—he doesn’t actually expect me to marry him, does he?” This is supposed to be an act to lure my accomplices.
“Why don’t you question him? The king would love to explain himself to you,” Corrin parrots my earlier snipe nearly word for word, capping it off with a triumphant smirk. “Come. I will draw you a bath and then you will begin to learn how to behave less like a peasant and more like a future queen.”
A firm knock sounds on the door to the sitting room moments after the bell gongs five times.
I frown from my spot on the settee. My only visitors since I’ve been imprisoned have been Corrin, Wendeline, and Annika, and they’ve never knocked before entering.
“Come in!” I holler.
The door creaks open and Zander strolls through. “Your manners are impeccable,” he says dryly.
A flutter of nerves stirs in my stomach at the sight of him. I stand and take a deep breath, reminding myself that we’re now temperate allies.
He looks fresh and clean in a black-on-black embroidered jacket. How many of those does he have? I’m sure at least as many as there are gowns in my dressing room. Princess Romeria traveled here with a wagon full of luxurious outfits for her role as queen.
The heels of his boots click against the marble as he approaches, his attention on adjusting the cuffs of his jacket and not on me. “Where is Corrin?”
“She said she had things to do in the kitchen.” I add under my breath, “Thank God.” She made me stand before the mirror in my bedchamber and practice my curtsy for a half hour straight, calling me everything from lout to heathen until she was satisfied I could pass for regal.
“Is her help not appreciated?”