Chapter 10
Isa had grown accustomed to wearing rougher fabrics, her hair wrapped tightly in a coil atop her head, her feet bound with woolen socks and trapped inside worn leather boots. When she slipped the silken fabric over her head for the first time it was a strange, suffocating sensation.
In the past, Isa would have worn finely woven pieces—firm fibers shaped into a form fitted encasement. Such things were made by villagers at Nesreet, a port along Dwyer's northern coast. Those at Nesreet were pleased to weave for the royal families of the nation. That was in strange contrast to the moment: standing dressed in materials shaped and fitted by those who would rather she rot. It was the meaning behind it all, the sign of being Masen and not Dwyer that irritated her as did playing the courtesan and the light color itself. Ladies of Masen often wore white, peach, pink, salmon, cream. Beautiful, but it took far more time and effort to keep clean. Isa had quickly gone from admiring the hues of Masen to loathing them.
And against her darker skin, the contrast was more vivid. She lifted her hands, turning them over to see her palms. Calluses near the crook of each forefinger and along the girth of each palm were evidence of carrying heavy items day after day.
Essica clasped her hands. "Never you mind that. No one cares."
"I can't do this."
"It's a game, Isa. A game of dolls." With a smile set on her lips, Essica stacked the last of the firewood in the far corner of the room. "Like when you were younger."
"I only played with husk dolls."
"Well now you're a porcelain doll."
Isa gave her a questioning look. Though she was a countryman from Dwyer, Essica had come into some unique concepts and words that were unfamiliar.
"A fancy doll," Essica explained.
Isa straightened herself, forcing her hands to rest by her sides. "Did he do what he promised?"
Essica poked at the fire, flames crackled and sparked. "He did. We have oil lamps in the halls, rugs in each room. Soon, more blankets for winter."
"Good." Isa fussed with the front of her bodice unnecessarily. "This is silly. I feel like a trollop."
A small log tumbled loose from the stack of firewood. Isa stepped quickly to retrieve it.
"No," Essica scolded. "Don't you dare."
Stepping back, Isa gave a frustrated sigh. "I'll never get used to this. It's so strange. I don't think I like you waiting on me."
"This isn't a time to doubt yourself and entertain regrets. This is a time to embrace the opportunity. Then you can see to what needs to be done."
"And what is that?" Isa asked, turning sideways as to see herself more clearly in the mirror, realizing how much she preferred her old clothes from home and even her servant's dress. It didn't present a false front . . . or back.
A knock on the door echoed in the room. Isa looked over her shoulder, dreading the moment that door would open. It made everything more official, permanent. Public.
"Almost time, m'Lady." Essica grinned, her cheeks turning a brilliant red.
"You sound like Angel. I'm Isa, not m'Lady," she mocked Essica's deeper voice while swiping one hand over her neckline to brush off a piece of fluff.
"Stop worrying. You have to be introduced properly to the court. They know who you are and where you come from, but it's necessary for them to see you in your new station. It's no different than the many events you've attended in your life, I'm sure."
As Essica spoke her voice took on a matronly tone that reminded Isa of home. Kind hearted Melaire; her gray hair bundled with a hand woven blue scarf, coming to the home to bring a basket of bread pudding, checking in on her, Ruben, and Wheant. Isa's hand found its way to her heart and clenched the fabric there.
"You sound so much like Melaire. My father admired her for her tenacity and cooking skills. She must have passed it on to you."
Essica's eyes darkened with emotion and she nodded before leaving.
ooo
Isa's hands shook, but the billows of peach fabric at her hips helped to hide it. She imagined that the King would greet her at the door, perhaps talk to her outside the Gallery before entering with her, maybe give a kiss, but she made her way down the cavernous corridor alone. He did not greet her, no one did.
Two guards, armed with long swords, their hats topped with bristled plumes, barely nodded in greeting as they opened the doors. A clatter of dishware, a sea of indecipherable voices, the scent of poached and fried foods, and a single peal of laughter filled the grand room. She stood, frozen, cursing herself for agreeing. This all for sex? Things seemed so much simpler before with a bucket and sop cloth in her hand. The lack of something to do make her feel naked as did the silence that fell on the room when she slowly entered.
She knew that dropping her eyes would be the wrong thing to do. Instead, she mustered a slight smile and stepped forward, carefully.
A harsh glare met her eyes—a sneering lip, a furrowed brow. She knew it was going to be odd, seeing as how she was a vestige of a fallen enemy. Her history was no secret, but still.
Then, finally, she came to the one face that was pleased to see her. With a pleasant surprise she found she could look at him squarely without that sharpness in her temple.
The King smiled as she had never seen him smile before. Fully, deep, it touched his eyes and lit up his face. Dressed in his plush red and purple robe with fur lining his neck, his dress sword slung underneath his robe, his hand resting on the hilt, feet spread slightly apart—he belonged here.
The King extended his hand in invite. Adverting her eyes from the judgmental stares, Isa made her way to him. The room was silent; her footsteps echoed softly, muted by the bell of fabric that spread out around her. It didn't escape her notice that she was the only female in the room. This was the first time for her to attend any such gathering, and now she wondered if this was held only for the court to become acquainted with her. Maybe they would have been more receptive if she were in the stark.
Sue's stern advice, "Don't speak unless spoken to . . . don't sigh or make other loud noises . . . don't . . . don't . . . don't," rushed through Isa's head. She had huffed at Sue earlier in the day, irritated, but now in the moment she felt that if Sue hadn't stressed so many rules with her she wouldn't know what to do.
Walk forward, eyes wide, friendly expression.
She arrived at the King's hand without tripping, without meeting any harsh glares. She clasped his proffered hand and he brought her knuckles to his mouth for a kiss. His eyes lit brightly, his cheeks tightened. He seemed wholly different in this moment, so enthralled and buoyant, that heat rushed to her cheeks.
"Lady Isa," someone announced.
Her forehead puckered with a scowl at the title—Didn't they know she served the wine?—but she smoothed it away quickly, curtsying slightly as Sue had instructed.
"Your Majesty." She never had to address him as such before and doing so made her crack a smile.