My heart starts to pound, and my stomach turns. “He has a woman waiting for him at home,” I whisper. The words physically hurt.
“She might be waiting for him, but I don’t think he is waiting for her. Maybe he was before he went to Faodara, but not anymore.” She vigorously scrubs the bloomers and then rinses them and wrings them out. Without a thought for modesty, she hangs them up on top of one of the blankets forming the walls to my outdoor room, where the whole camp can see them. When she sees my stricken face, she laughs. “What, Princess? Every woman dreams of wearing lace bloomers on her honeymoon, and every man dreams of seeing his wife in a pair. Only, lace costs a fortune, so we don’t have that pleasure. Let’s give my people something to fantasize about!”
“Since you know who we are, are you going to try to kill us?” I say try because I won’t go down without a fight, and neither will Golmarr.
She studies me for a moment. “Not today,” she says, and then she dunks me under the water again and rinses the soap from my hair.
When my hair is clean, I run the bar of soap over my body and cringe as I scrub my ribs. They stick out like I am a half-starved peasant.
When I am done bathing, Melisande wraps me in a scratchy wool blanket and hurries me, dripping and embarrassed, through the bustling camp. Everyone stops what they are doing to stare wide-eyed at me. “I know you’ve never seen a princess before—especially a naked one,” Melisande howls, “but for the sake of all that is virtuous in this world, will you at least wait until she is dressed to gawk at her?” No one stops staring, and Melisande throws her arms up. “Ignore me, then.”
We enter the big wagon I was carried to earlier, and Melisande rifles through the drawers of a wooden chest until she finds a long purple skirt, a yellow shirt, a red camisole, and a pair of soft red leather shoes. Without asking, she dresses me, and I do not protest. I wouldn’t know how to lace the skirt up the back without her help. She pulls the camisole over my head before the yellow shirt and then shows me how to weave the leather laces up the front to close it enough that the red camisole still shows.
When I am dressed, she holds a wide, worn leather belt out to me. I wrinkle my nose at it and do not take it from her. Aside from shoes, leather clothing is for peasants, barbarians, and warriors. “This is for your knife,” she explains. “So you don’t have to tuck it in your waistband.” I still don’t take it from her. Melisande rolls her eyes and wraps it around my waist, cinching it tight just below my ribs. She thrusts the sheathed hunting knife into a loop on the side and glares at me.
With no gentleness whatsoever, she yanks a comb through my hair until it is smooth, and then braids it at the nape of my neck and ties the end with a red ribbon, like a commoner. She hands me a gold-framed mirror. “What do you think of yourself?”
I peer at my face and turn it from side to side. It is thinner than it was on my sixteenth birthday. My eyes are solemn and guarded, and through them I can see the weight of the dragon’s treasure. Nothing about me looks like a princess, except for my long neck. I nod and force a smile to my lips. “Thank you.”
Someone knocks at the wagon door, and I spin around, hoping to see Golmarr. “Enter,” Melisande calls. The door swings wide, and Edemond strides in. My heart sinks. A moment later Golmarr steps inside. His hair is cut even shorter than before and is still wet from his bath. His face is clean-shaven, and he is wearing the brown garb of the Satari men—a loose light brown tunic that laces only halfway up his chest, leaving a bold V of naked skin exposed beneath his neck, with a pair of plain brown trousers. He stops in the doorway, and his gaze moves over every inch of my body, pausing on the leather belt. “You look more at home in Satari clothing than you did in Faodarian gowns,” he says with a smile.
I blush and catch my bottom lip in my teeth, and the smile leaves Golmarr’s face as he studies my mouth. He wets his lips with his tongue and looks away. “Would you mind feeding us once more, Edemond? We need to leave as soon as possible. Before the glass dragon comes back.”
“Of course,” Edemond says, running his thumb and finger over his goatee. “It is a rare honor to bestow food on a prince and a princess, and we are in your debt. But I warn you, our food is simple.”
“Thank you, Edemond. Simple food is a feast to a starving soul,” Golmarr says humbly, and then he touches his forehead and crosses his fingers. Edemond chuckles and nods. He puts his hands on Melisande’s shoulders, and they leave.