Page 13 of The Faceless Mage

“This is not quite”—she searched for the right word—“as subtle as my usual style.” An understatement. “I typically prefer towearmy clothes, and I fear this gown may be wearingme.” Leisa offered a hesitant, if insincere smile, but the maids only continued to tuck and fluff. As if the dress required any help to make it bigger—it was wider than a hay wagon as it was.

“It’s the court fashion, Your Highness,” one of the maids finally informed her. “All of the titled ladies will be wearing flounces, and a princess should be wearing the most of all.”

Good heavens, a flounce contest?

“I see,” Leisa murmured, swallowing her more colorful responses as she tried to focus past the lingering headache from her earlier collision with the marble floor.

Tonight would be a far sterner test than her initial introduction. So many people to greet, though fortunately not too many curtsies to remember. A princess would only curtsy to other royalty.

But she would have to remember how to eat, and that was almost worse than the curtsies. Not to mention, there would probably be dancing. She would only be forced to dance with princes and dukes—and, divinity willing, there would not be more than a few of those in attendance—but even one was too many when she’d only learned to dance a few weeks before.

Leisa fully planned to take King Soren at his word and blame either clumsiness or indisposition when she inevitably crushed a few toes. After her two previous catastrophes, no one was likely to doubt her if she told them she was a terrible dancer.

A knock echoed through the suite, and one of the maids ceased fussing long enough to answer it. Or at least she tried.

The visitor didn’t wait for an invitation, merely strolled in as though he owned the room. Which, it turned out, he more or less did.

“I am here to escort my lovely princess to the festivities,” Prince Vaniell announced, in that smooth drawl that set Leisa’s back up and made her teeth clench until they ached. “And I thought perhaps I ought to ensure that our ensembles complemented one another, as a statement of our future intent to bind our kingdoms together.”

He smiled, and Leisa barely resisted the temptation to shield her eyes from his… er, magnificence.

His outfit was blinding. Whiter than white, spangled with hundreds of tiny crystals, it caught the light and threw it back, magnified a thousand times. Even the buckles on his golden-heeled boots seemed crusted in gems, while every finger bore multiple rings.

He did not, she realized sourly, want to ensure that they matched. He wanted to ensure that he wouldn’t be outshone. Small chance of that. His mother had provided the dress, and there was no possible way she would allow the princess of a backwoods principality to overshadow her precious son.

“You look quite…” Polite words failed her, as she’d warned King Soren they would. Diplomacy was not exactly one of her talents.

“Speechlessness was exactly the effect I was striving for, thank you,” Prince Vaniell said, relieving her of the need to say anything at all. It was probably the sort of husband he would make—one who never required his wife to praise him because he was only too happy to do it himself.

But whether that was an asset or a detriment, Leisa didn’t feel qualified to determine.

“Is it time for us to go?” She did her best to sound meek, which wasn’t one of her talents either. But she thought she at least managed to appear overwhelmed, as she had no doubt Evaraine herself would have felt under such circumstances.

“I suppose that depends on your theory of entrances,” the prince said, winking at her. “Does it confer more power to be the first one in the room, presiding over it as all others enter, or to be the last, fully secure in the knowledge that the party is pointless until you arrive?”

When he paused and actually seemed to be awaiting an answer, Leisa almost panicked. What would Princess Evaraine say?

“I would mostly prefer not to enter at all,” was what she finally replied—the truth, for both Evaraine and herself.

Prince Vaniell threw back his head and laughed heartily.

Really, would it be so bad if she simply slapped him?

“I can see that I was right.” He smiled down at her. “Our court can be rather intimidating, and you’re much too shy to field the sort of interest you’re bound to attract. I must have Father assign you a guard who can accompany you at all times.”

“Oh, but I assure you…”

Her assurances were brushed aside as the prince took her hand and rested it on his arm. She somehow managed not to pull away.

“No, my dear, you must allow that I know my own court, and I am certain you would find it most distressing without a bit of a… shall we say, buffer. Never fear.” He patted Leisa’s hand in the most patronizing way possible. “I’ll see to it personally.”

Again, she swallowed her biting remarks and followed as he led her out the door—not without a tug when her skirts proved wider than the doorway—and down the hall.

“As it happens,” Vaniell said comfortably, not seeming to realize or care that he was treating his future bride like a none-too-bright child, “I typically prefer to arrive last so that my latest fashion creation can have its full effect. But I believe that on this occasion, as it is in celebration of our potential engagement, I can bring myself to bend to propriety and greet the court as a royal host.”

“Truly, your magnanimity knows no bounds,” Leisa murmured, allowing herself that tiny moment of rebellion. It was that or burst.

“What was that?”

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