Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

“Good.”

I step down from the wooden stair she brought and walk over to the full length mirror that sits against the wall in my dressing room. The sight of my reflection fills me with a quiet sort of vindication, the kind that simmers just on the surface of still waters.

I turn to glance at the back of the new gown with pointed assessment before facing front again, running my hands down the skirts. “This will do.”

My handmaidens share another look.

“You may go,” I say to the dressmaker.

She bites her lip, getting to her feet, old knees cracking as she straightens. She’s the oldest dressmaker in Highbell, but her age is a boon rather than a downfall, because she worked for my mother when I was just a girl. She’s the only tailor left who remembers the clothes of my old court.

“Your Majesty, if I may... The king decreed that all clothes in his court be gold,” the old crone says, as if this rule somehow slipped my mind. As if it ever could when the gaudy color is everywhere.

“I’m quite aware of all the king has decreed,” I say coolly, fingering the velvet buttons at my chest. The entire ensemble is perfect. Just the way I remember my mother’s gowns looking. White with a trim of fur at the sleeves and collar, ice-blue threading embellished in rosettes that perfectly match my eyes.

It suits me far better than any of the golden dresses I’ve worn these last ten years.

“You’ll have the rest of the gowns and coats finished by the end of the fortnight?” I confirm.

“I will, Your Majesty,” she answers.

“Good. You are dismissed.”

The woman quickly gathers her things, knobby hands flipping the wooden stair over to use like a bucket as she dumps her measuring chain, spare needles, fabric strips, and shears inside before bowing low and retreating out the door.

“My queen, shall I do your hair?”

I look over at my handmaiden, the apples of her cheeks rouged with glimmering gold powder. It’s a fashion statement for all the women—and some of the men—who reside in Highbell. But on her, the yellow of the gold dusting just makes her look sickly. Another thing I need to change.

After all, appearance makes up more than half of an opinion.

“Yes,” I answer before walking over to the vanity and sitting down.

When I see the girl reach for the box of gold glitter to dust over my white hair, I shake my head. “No. Nothing gold. Not anymore.”

Her hand freezes in surprise, but by now, my intentions must be more than clear. She recovers quickly, grabbing the comb, brushing out my tresses with a gentle touch.

I scrutinize everything she does, directing her every move as she fashions my hair. She plaits a single braid starting at my right temple, no bigger than the width of my finger, and curves it around to end below my left ear. A waterfall effect of my sleek white hair, as if rapids froze on the way to their plummet.

Instead of having her finish with golden pins or ribbons, I say, “Just the crown.”

She nods, turning to head for the case where I keep my royal jewels and crowns at the back of the room, but I stop her. “Nothing from there. I’ll wear this.”

She hesitates, unable to keep the confused frown from appearing on her face. “Your Majesty?”

I reach for the silver box that I’d set out on my vanity earlier. It’s heavy, the metal dull, but my fingers trace the delicate filigree adorning the case, my touch nothing less than reverent.

“This was my mother’s,” I say quietly, my eyes following the direction of my finger as I trail along the outline of the bell, an icicle hanging from its hollow middle. I can almost hear the sound it would make, a cold, clear call to echo through the frozen mountains.

My handmaiden approaches as I open the box, revealing the crown inside. It’s made entirely of white opal, sculpted from a single gemstone. It must have been the size of five hand spans, a glistening stone pulled from a roughshod mine.

The weak gray sunlight coming in through the window reveals only the barest hint of the delicate prism of colors held within the crown’s depths. It’s sturdy, but not nearly as heavy as the gold crown Tyndall has me wear. Just another thing to weigh me down.

The design itself is simple, carved to look like icicles jutting up from the top—dainty, yet sharp. I place it on my head, centering it perfectly, and for the first time in years, I finally feel like myself.

I am Queen Malina Colier Midas, and I was born to rule.

White gown, white hair, white crown—and not a hint of gold anywhere. This is how it should’ve been. This is how it will be.