Page 113 of A Broken Throne of Bronze

Every feeling I would have had leading up to this day was silenced the last time Viridian spoke to me. The day I sentenced us to a lifetime of unhappiness.

“You will never, ever love me.”

I’ve failed to show him otherwise. To prove to him that I could love him.

That maybe, I already do.

The knock at the door does little to pull me from my thoughts. When I don’t answer, the door opens slightly.

Tiffy pokes her head in, wearing a long face when she sees me.

I’m sitting on the floor, supporting my back against the footboard of my bed. I balance a sketchbook on my lap, lightly pressing a charcoal stick to the page. I think of the colored wax that sits abandoned in my studio. Lately, I’ve opted for black-and-white instead.

“Miss,” Tiffy says, gently, as if not to startle me. “It’s time for your fitting.”

“Fitting?” I ask, briefly looking up at her.

“For your wedding gown,” she answers.

“Ah.” I nod slowly. That is today, I remember.

“Shall I tell them to come back another time?” I hate the pity I hear in her voice.

“No,” I tell her, standing. I place my sketchbook and charcoal stick onto my bed, careful to place the charcoal on the page and not my bedding. “I’m ready.”

Tiffy eyes me like she doesn’t believe me. I avoid looking at her.

“Onward.” I gesture to the door.

Tiffy just presses her lips together, in what seems like an effort not to frown. She leads me out of my chamber, through the halls until we reach a sitting room.

Inside, there are three women—whom I assume to be seamstresses—fussing over a gown they’ve laid out on a divan. The women’s rounded ears tell me they’re human.

Some time ago, it would have been nice to be in the company of humans.

Some time ago, it would have helped me feel less alone.

But now, nothing can soothe the bite of loneliness. There is only one person whose company I care to share. Only, that person doesn’t want to see me.

Tears sting my eyes, and I shut them to keep the waterworks at bay.

When I open them again, I catch Tiffy staring at me before she diverts her attention elsewhere. I force a smile and look at the seamstresses. Though, I don’t reach their eyes.

“Good afternoon, Miss,” the one closest to me says with a curtsy. Her graying hair tells me she’s the oldest of the three, and the air of authority surrounding her tells me she’s the one in charge. She sweeps her hand toward a round wooden platform. “If you could step up here, please.”

I nod, and pick up my skirts to step forward, onto the platform.

Tiffy moves forward to untie my corset. Once it’s loosened, she pulls my dress down and helps me step out of it. Then the seamstresses guide me into the gown they brought—my wedding dress, I realize—and pull it up until the sleeves reach my shoulders. They fasten the bodice around me and fluff out the skirt.

Tiffy moves a cheval mirror, placing it in front of me, but I turn my face away.

The seamstresses mutter amongst themselves, sticking pins into the skirt and in some places along my waist. One holds some fabric in place while the other two make adjustments, armed with sewing needles and small spools of delicate, white thread.

I feel as if I am merely a doll, standing in place. My mind is clear of thoughts, and I can’t seem to summon any. If one of the seamstresses were to prick me with a needle, I doubt I would feel it.

I don’t feel anything.

Not a single thing.

---