“If it is a silly tradition and nothing more, why do we still do it?”
“We do it for two reasons. To keep peace between Faodara and Anthar, and just to be safe; if the dragon is still down there, we don’t want to risk setting him free.” With nimble fingers, Diamanta ties the corset laces. She looks at my reflection in the mirror and grins as she runs her hands down both sides of my ribs. “Look how tiny your waist is now.” Her grin turns to a frown and her hand pauses just above my hip. “What is this lump?”
I smile and say, “It is my dagger, dear sister.” Diamanta’s eyebrows creep up her forehead and for a moment fear darkens her eyes. I know she is thinking of my fate blessing, thinking something like, Is Sorrow going to kill herself with her own hand to avoid an arranged marriage? “I’m not going to kill myself!” I bellow, rolling my eyes.
“Then why are you wearing a dagger to dine with the horse king and his sons? To cut your food?”
“It is the dagger the wizard Melchior gave me when I turned eight. He told me to always wear a weapon for protection, so I do. If you think I should take it off, undo my corset and I will,” I say, my voice taunting.
“Melchior gave that to you? After what he predicted at your birth, that’s a pretty sadistic gift. Maybe he didn’t vanish. Maybe Mother found out about that knife and had him secretly beheaded.” Diamanta puts her hands on her hips and smirks. “You don’t need to wear that dagger because you won’t need to protect yourself. That is what the guards are for.” A gleam flashes in her blue eyes. “And it’s not like you’re going to be able to use it without undressing first. I can see it now. Please don’t try to kill me yet! I have to strip so that I can get my dagger and defend myself!” She puts a hand to her chest and starts giggling.
I shrug and try to sigh, but I can’t get enough air into my lungs. “And if I die from lack of oxygen? Nona didn’t get my corset nearly this tight yesterday.”
Diamanta smiles her perfect, practiced smile. “Nona is too lenient with you. That is why Mother sent me to dress you. That is why I volunteered to dress you when Mother asked Gloriana and me for help.” Her smile turns from perfect to devious as she examines me.
I look into the mirror and study myself. The dress beneath the corset is bright, sunset red, and goes up to my neck. The corset is a deep bloodred velvet with black stitching. If I look hard enough I can barely make out the bulge of the dagger above my hip. Diamanta steps up to me and places a tiny diamond tiara atop my head. It nearly disappears in the brown curls. “Well. You look surprisingly good for your first ball ever,” she says. “And if you don’t return to Anthar as a bride, you get to start looking for a Faodarian husband. Shall we go down to the dining hall and consort with the horse lords and the nobles?”
All three of my sisters were married to handsome young noblemen shortly after they turned sixteen and were refused by the horse clan. I have never even spoken to a boy close to my age.
We step out into the corridor. The air is slightly moist and heavy with the smells of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. As we approach the great hall, Diamanta asks, “Are you ready for your big debut?” I shake my head and she laughs. “I was counting the days until I was old enough to be out in society. Once you get past your first-ball jitters, you’ll love having a social life.”
When we get to the great hall, my steps slow. Inside of the door, they stop altogether. Candles burn in the chandeliers, and garlands of flowers held together with ruby-red ribbons have been hung on the stark gray stone walls. I have never seen the hall look so beautiful. The leather-clad Antharians are easy to spot. They stand out like peasants among the flamboyantly dressed Faodarian nobles. The women, dressed in brown leather vests, with hunting knives belted above their bright skirts, look as barbaric as the men. And the way they laugh—mouths wide open and their heads thrown back, with no regard for manners or sophistication—has me gaping at them.
Someone steps up to me and holds out his arm. “Princess Sorrowlynn,” he says, and I can feel his eyes on me. His voice is deep and has a slight accent. I stare at his glossy leather vest and the white shirt beneath it, which is unbuttoned enough to show a bit of golden chest, and my knees threaten to buckle. Is this my possible future husband Ingvar? My body freezes, and I cannot find the courage to look at his face.
“Don’t be rude,” Diamanta whispers into my ear, poking my ribs. “Take his arm!”