A petite, dark-haired girl takes a wire comb through my hair. She is silent while she fingers through the curls and pins them up in into a sort of elegant nest on the crown of my head. Small white flowers are threaded through, tickling my neck and forehead. I try not to pull them out.
The gown they give me is a pale purple, corset with sheaths of sheer fabric for sleeves and skirt. It is the prettiest thing I have seen in months. What a shame it is tainted with the blood of the townspeople.
I am practically slicked with shimmery lavender oil, barefoot, feathery light gold chains wrapping around my toes and calves. While I am sickened with the indulgence, my eyes are still seduced by the beauty of it all: milk baths, gold spirits, an abyss of food. One never gets sick of those things. It is too easy slide into this dress and be a princess again. I will only hear compliments and encouragements, never what I need to hear. I laugh, amused at the idea of the court seeing me like this, then watching me transform into a winged wolf – ripping apart their towers and estates, executing my final wrath. Silly little nobles bleeding out their debt.
I wonder if Geralt is bathing now, or he is sleeping off the tire from dragging me through the forest. My stomach twinges when I remember how difficult I made things for him. All the curious contempt I harbored faded quickly into respect. He has done his work, however. And now I must do mine.
I am early to court, peeking my head around a massive marble pillar. I watch them finish the décor, stringing vines across the room, lighting hundreds of candles. My teenage heart is delighted. Celebrations were littered with such mystery and debauchery.
"Wonderful to be home, is it not?"
My father almost sounds kind. I turn and he is there, smiling. I cock my head, noticing all the new wrinkles he has acquired in my absence. The months have been hard for him. I can see grays peeking out behind his neck. Poor father.
"Fuck you." I walk past him, adjusting my embroidered corset to allow my lungs to expand heavily and then collapse like thunder. I may have had time to rapport before. I used to indulge my father in spats to watch him seethe and steam.
"Leyiana," he booms, his voice reaching down the hallways. When I was a child I imagined it shook the tapestries, but now I see they are still. I head to Geralt's room.