Page 21 of When Sorrows Come

He glanced quickly around, as if reassuring himself that all the people in earshot were people he knew and trusted—and whoknew who he really was—before he said, voice low and tight, “Something’s wrong with Nessa. I don’t know what it is, but she’s not acting right.”

“And you couldn’t say anything before because you’re supposed to be meeting her for the first time,” I said. “I was wondering about the way they trained the courtiers here. Do you think she’s dangerous?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to hope not, but...” He shook his head. “This would be easier if I could talk to the High King.”

“Lucky for you, Icantalk to the High King,” I said, and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll ask him what’s up after dinner.”

“Discreetly, please?”

“Am I ever anything other than discreet?”

Quentin snorted and started hauling my suitcases toward the bed. He was barely halfway there when the door to what would be his room burst open, disgorging a frantic Stacy.

“Mom!” exclaimed Cassandra.

“Can’t talk, fashion emergency in progress,” said Stacy, and kept running until she was close enough to grab my wrist and yank me into the room. She didn’t stop there, continuing to drag me toward the squire’s quarters, which she had apparently co-opted at some point.

Tybalt didn’t try to grab me back or defend me. He actually laughed. Traitor. “Mistress Brown,” he said, inclining his head to Stacy, who was wearing a floor-length linen dress the color of her name, albeit a delicate and flattering shade of same. It was trimmed in white so bright that any dentist would have envied it, with laces in the same color. Simple, elegant, and remarkably practical—just like Stacy herself.

“Sir Cat,” she said, voice tightly clipped. “The rest of you need to be getting readynow,” she snarled, before yanking me into her purloined dressing room and slamming the door.

Inside, the room looked like an explosion in a vintage clothing store. Dresses, corsets, undergarments, and accessories covered every surface of what had been a pleasant if not palatial chamber suited for your ordinary squire—and this answered the question, quite handily, of whether Nessa had been aware that I was going to be bringing the Crown Prince with me; she would have made it nicer if she’d known it was going to be Quentin—turning it into a closet-slash-dressing room.

Apparently taking my shellshocked expression as criticism, Stacy scoffed.

“Quentin was going to be sneaking off to his boyfriend’s room as soon as the lights went down for the day and you know it,” she said dismissively. “At least this way he doesn’t have to sneak back in to get his toothbrush.”

I opened my mouth to argue, paused, and closed it again, shrugging. She was right. There was no real point in pretending she wasn’t. “When did you get here?” I asked.

“Long enough ago to know how important it is that we get you ready and presentable ASAP. Kerry could only promise me twenty minutes.” Stacy grabbed the bottom of my shirt and tugged. “Off with this abysmal rag. Quick now, and we’ll see if you can’t keep your bra.”

I blinked at her as I pulled my shirt off over my head, leaving my stick-straight hair ruffled and jutting up in all directions, like I’d gotten overly amorous with a light socket. Then I scowled. “I’mkeepingmy bra.”

“One nice thing about pureblood fashion grinding to a halt somewhere around the start of World War I, most of the dresses I have here either come with built-in stays or have matching corsets,” said Stacy serenely, taking a step back and eyeing me thoughtfully. I lowered my arms, forcing myself to keep them by my sides. If I tried to cover myself, she’d just yank my hands down and snap at me for getting in her way, and it wasn’t like I had anything she hadn’t seen before. We’d been getting naked around each other since we were skinny-dipping in the pond between Shadowed Hills and my mother’s knowe.

“Hmm,” she said finally. “You know, your mother did you no favors with your coloring.”

“Um, thanks?” I said.

“Not your fault, I know, but she could have given you more pigment than your average baby bird,” she said. “I’ve seen your wedding dress, so we don’t want to go with anything too light, but if we go too strong, we can wash you out easy.”

I resisted the urge to ask her what I was going to be wearing to my wedding. Knowing Stacy, she wouldn’t tell me anyway.

After almost a minute of studying me, she nodded decisively, said, “Lose the bra,” and stomped over to the door, wrenching it open and shouting, “She’s wearing the black ombre,” into the roombefore slamming the door again and returning her attention to me. I hadn’t moved, and her eyes narrowed at the sight of my bra.

“You asked me to be your lady’s maid for the duration of this trip,” she said. “I distinctly remember a two pm phone call where you wailed about how you thought Tybalt was going to make you do something big and fancy and you had no idea how to do your hair. Do you remember that?”

“I do,” I said slowly. “But that doesn’t mean you have to dress me the whole time we’re here.”

Stacy looked at me flatly, her expression saying several unflattering things about my intelligence. “Bra, off, now,” she said.

I removed my bra.

“Good girl.” She dug her hands into the pile of undergarments, digging down through the pile of fabric and lacings, until she produced a lightweight corset in a modern enough style that I was sure it wasn’t meant to be seen. My suspicions were confirmed a second later when she beckoned me forward, and said, “Let’s get you laced up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Fighting wasn’t going to do me any good. Stacy has been one of my best friends since childhood—she held the title unchallenged until May came along and had taken her sudden rival with the impeccable good grace I loved about her. She knew where all my buttons were, and how best to push them, since she’d been there when many of them were being installed. Fighting with her was never as easy, or as successful, as I wanted it to be.

She had taken her demotion from the assumed position of maid of honor to head bridesmaid with incredibly good grace—one of the only decisions I’d made myself, which may have helped. She’d always expected to stand beside me for whatever nightmare of a ceremony I would put together when left to my own devices, and to smile through a puce bridesmaid’s dress while we served pizza at the reception. This was a demotion and a reprieve at the same time.

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