Most of the talk Celaena had overheard yesterday was immensely dull, and she didn’t expect much as the women neared. They wore fine dresses, though the one in the middle—the raven-haired one—wore the finest. The red skirts were the size of a tent, and her bodice was so tightly bound that Celaena wondered if her waist were any more than sixteen inches. The other women were blondes dressed in pale blue, their matching gowns suggesting their rank as ladies-in-waiting. Celaena backed away from the ledge as they stopped at the nearby fountain.
From her place at the back of the balcony, Celaena could still see as the woman in red brushed a hand down the front of her skirts. “I should have worn my white dress,” she said loudly enough for everyone in Rifthold to hear. “Dorian likes white.” She adjusted a pleat in her skirt. “But I’ll wager that everyone’s wearing white.”
“Shall we go change, milady?” asked one of the blondes.
“No,” snapped the woman. “This dress is fine. Old and shabby as it is.”
“But—” said the other blonde, then stopped as her mistress’s head whipped around. Celaena approached the rail again and peered over. The dress hardly looked old.
“It won’t take long for Dorian to ask me for a private audience.” Celaena now leaned over the edge of the balcony. The guards watched the three girls, rapt for another reason entirely. “Though I worry how much Perrington’s courting will interfere; but I do adore the man for inviting me to Rifthold. My mother must be writhing in her grave!” She paused, and then said: “I wonder who she is.”
“Your mother, milady?”
“The girl the prince brought into Rifthold. I heard he traveled all over Erilea to find her, and that she rode into the city on the Captain of the Guard’s horse. I’ve heard nothing else about her. Not even her name.” The two women lagged behind their mistress and exchanged exasperated looks that informed the assassin this conversation had been held many times before. “I don’t need to worry,” the woman mused. “The prince’s harlot won’t be well-received.”
His what?
The ladies in waiting stopped beneath the balcony, batting their eyelashes at the guards. “I need my pipe,” the woman murmured, rubbing her temples. “I feel a headache coming on.” Celaena’s brows rose. “Regardless,” the woman continued, striding away, “I shall have to watch my back. I might even have to—”
CRASH!
The women screamed, the guards whirled with their crossbows pointed, and Celaena looked skyward as she retreated from the rail and into the shadows of the balcony doorway. The flowerpot had missed. This time.
The woman cursed so colorfully that Celaena clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. The servants cooed, wiping mud from the woman’s skirts and suede shoes. “Be quiet!” the woman hissed. The guards, wisely, didn’t let their amusement show. “Be quiet and let’s go!”
The women hurried off as the prince’s harlot strode into her chambers and called for her servants to dress her in the finest gown they could find.
Chapter 9
Celaena stood before the rosewood mirror, smiling.
She ran a hand down her gown. Sea-foam white lace bloomed from the sweeping neckline, washing upon her breast from the powder-green ocean of silk that made up the dress. A red sash covered the waist, forming an inverted peak that separated the bodice from the explosion of skirts beneath. Patterns of clear green beads were embroidered in whorls and vines across the whole of it, and bone-colored stitching stretched along the ribs. Tucked inside her bodice was the small makeshift hairpin dagger, though it poked mercilessly at her chest. She lifted her hands to touch her curled and pinned hair.
She didn’t know what she planned to do now that she was dressed, especially if she’d probably have to change before the competition started, but—
Skirts rustled from the doorway, and Celaena raised her eyes in the reflection to see Philippa enter behind her. The assassin tried not to preen—and failed miserably. “It’s such a pity you are who you are,” Philippa said, turning Celaena to face her. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you managed to ensnare some lord into marriage. Maybe even His Highness, if you were charming enough.” She adjusted the green folds of Celaena’s dress before kneeling down to brush the assassin’s ruby-colored slippers.
“Well, it seems rumor has already suggested that. I overheard a girl saying that the Crown Prince brought me here to woo me. I thought the entire court knew about this stupid competition.”
Philippa rose. “Whatever the rumors are, it’ll all be forgotten in a week—just you wait. Let him find a new woman he likes and you’ll vanish from the whisperings of the court.” Celaena straightened as Philippa fixed a stray curl. “Oh, it’s not meant as an offense, poppet. Beautiful ladies are always associated with the Crown Prince—you should be flattered that you’re attractive enough to be considered his lover.”
“I’d rather not be seen that way at all.”
“Better than as an assassin, I’d wager.”
She looked at Philippa and then laughed.
Philippa shook her head. “Your face is much more pretty when you smile. Girlish, even. Far better than that frown you always have.”
“Yes,” Celaena admitted, “you might be right.” She made to sit down upon the mauve ottoman.