“Everyone’s a fraud, you idiot. You’ll be same as the rest of ’em. You just put one foot in front of the other and ’opefully not in yer mouth. Now ’urry up cuz I’m missin’ my dinner.”
But when Breck pulls out the dress I’m to wear, I know I won’t be the same as the rest of them. Not even close. It’s soft and filmy with odd-angled layers sweeping one beneath the other like the morning ocean tides. And blue. Like my eyes. What was Adora thinking putting me in this? Breck helps slide it on and pins it so tight I can hardly breathe. It pushes my chest up so it’s near hanging out and barely cuts in high enough along the collar to hide the tattoos swirling round my shoulders. “I’m going to suffocate,” I gasp.
Breck just yanks the buttons tighter and tells me to “stop talkin’.” She fastens up the sleeves like she’s tying me into a cloth coffin. But surprisingly, when she’s done, the soft material melds into my skin and I don’t rip the thing when I bend down to slip on its matching blue slippers. I turn to the mirror and the full skirt swishes around me, light and foamy, like the sound of the ocean. My breath catches because I look almost beautiful, but it’s followed by a groan of guilt because I shouldn’t look anything other than a slave.
Then I see my eyes. Standing out like sea sirens—clear, salty, ice blue. I don’t even look good enough to be a slave. I look like a curse.
“You ’ave fun tonight and tell my brother to keep his ’ands off you.”
“Breck, I can’t wear this,” I whisper. My eyes are too much. Too blue. They’ll know. I don’t care that Adora picked this out. Eogan will be furious.
But she’s already left, shutting the door behind her.
I’m tempted to lock myself in the room, but Adora would be up in flames.
I tug a swag of bangs in front of my eyes. A little better.
But not much.
Before ducking out, I pull my knife from its hiding spot beneath the floorboards and, with a slash to the inside lining of the sea-foam dress, take a thin strip of its material and tie the blade to the outside of my thigh. Just in case.
The vedic harpies are singing so loud when I reach Adora’s ballroom side door that I almost miss Colin’s whistle behind me. “Hello, sea nymph.” His eyes shimmer, as if assessing me. He brushes my bangs from my face.
I shove them right back, and then the trumpets are blasting and the king’s being announced, and I’m simultaneously stressed to go in and grateful because I can’t have Colin looking at me the way he is. It makes my stomach hurt. He takes my arm and pushes me through the door, and suddenly I’m terrified and wishing I had a squatty pot to throw up in.
The room is crowded. Beyond crowded. The place is unbearable. Everyone is squishing together like sea walruses, all facing the same direction in expectation that the king might glance his or her way. I try to strain a peek over their heads, but most of the men are taller and keep blocking us as Colin shoves me through, telling me to aim for the front.
I turn to argue, but then the music stops and we’re standing near the entry, smack across from Adora in her peacock plumes. She’s fawning in front of a young man with sandy-brown hair and broad shoulders whom I can only presume is the king based upon the facts that his attire is very kingish and he’s not old enough to have accumulated the layers of arrogance the rest of his entourage has.
I tuck my misshapen hand into a fist and slide it among my dress folds. Colin yanks me down on my knees before Adora drags her eyes our direction. Her jovial gaze turns to hoarfrost when she sees me, but before I can wonder what error I’ve made, she’s plastered on a smile and extended a long hand indicating us to the king.
My mouth falls open. He’s not just young—he’s very young. Maybe the age of Colin, maybe a year older, with a brave face and kind eyes that should be laughing. Except he looks too tired, like he’s got the weight of the three kingdoms resting in his hands. Which, I suppose, he does. His crown and velvet red clothes fit his stately frame exactly as people would want for their king, but there’s a shocking lack of glitter and jewels. Compared to him, Adora and half the guests look downright garish in their indulgence. I find myself approving of this boy-king.
He beckons us to rise as Adora says, “Your Highness, I don’t believe you’ve officially met my nephew, Colin. And allow me to introduce my niece, Nymia. Twice removed.”
Right. Because we look so much alike.
“The poor things were orphaned by the war with Bron,” Adora’s saying in a bleating voice. “So of course, what could I do but offer them my home?”
I expect Colin to snicker at this as we stand, but he’s trembling just as hard as me.