Page 130 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

“This works in our favor,” she declares, sorting through my collection of petticoats. “I am well overdue in sorting through your things. You’ve had some of these clothes since you were twelve years old.”

We spend the afternoon dividing the clothes into separate piles. Clothes that need adjustments made, clothes that are too small, clothes that both of us hate and should never have been purchased in the first place. Rahk comes once to retrieve hisollea. His eyes go wide at the sight of his room covered in gowns, lace, and enough trimmings to rig a ship.

“You might have to sleep in your study tonight,” I say absently as I toss aside well-worn undergarments that are due for retirement.

Mary shoots me a look.

“That is,” I add quickly, “we will be sure to have everything cleaned up before supper.”

One of his eyebrows twitches slightly. “Then do not let me distract you.”

He leaves and I’ve sorted through half of the pile on my lap before I look up and find Mary staring at me. “What?”

“Do you always talk to him that way?”

I hesitantly place the next undergarment in the proper pile. “What way?”

“So . . .casuallyand flippantly?”

“I havetriedto be respectful and demure!” I shoot back. “My tongue just blurts things out and I have no control over it!”

“Don’t give me those excuses. You know as well as I that impulses can be restrained, but they won’t be if you won’tpracticerestraining them! You ought to be glad he seems to like it. No other master—and not manyhusbands, either, for that matter—would enjoy being talked to so.”

“He has been very good to me,” I admit. “Better than I deserve.”

Mary huffs as she closely inspects a petticoat. “For that, I am glad. I do not doubt you gave him more than ample opportunity to dismiss you.”

“I did often deserve dismissal,” I agree.

She gives me a look—a funny sort of look that I cannot interpret. It embarrasses me enough that I bend my head and focus on the task at hand.

By mid-afternoon, we realize we need to increase the pace of our work if we are to have any hope of finishing before supper. My back is sore by the time we finish, and I have no desire to switch into one of my own gowns, but Mary will not be put off.

“Youcannothave supper with the master in your servant’s clothes. I will not allow it. And, tolerant of you as he is, he won’t be pleased. You know he won’t be pleased.”

I sigh. “Fine.”

Mary helps me put on a proper dress—one that is cream trimmed in blue lace. She pulls out the false bun and secures it to my scalp with an ungodly amount of pins.

“He knows my hair is cut,” I protest.

“This isn’t about deception. This is about presentation. You will wear this bun until your hair has grown out, understood?”

I send a stream of air out through my nose, blowing the loose strands near my face that are too short to be pinned back. Mary curls these as a final touch, which will not last more than an hour at best. She fusses again over the tiny scars surrounding my temple and applies a little powder to conceal them.

“I’ve done what I can,” she says at last, stepping back.

I look at myself in the mirror, and it’s like looking at my old self before I ran away from home. “What if he doesn’t like me this way?” I mouth under my breath at my reflection.

Rahk is waiting for me in the dining room, standing behind his chair. He gives a bow of acknowledgement when I enter. The gesture strikes me as uncomfortably formal, especially with me in this gown. When he rises, his eyes quickly flick over me before returning to my face and giving not a single indication in his features of whether he is pleased or not by my appearance. He pulls my chair out for me and pushes it into the table after I’m seated. Then he nods at Mrs. Banks, who begins serving the meal. It is an exquisite spread of a roasted turkey, buttered rolls, deviled quail eggs, savory meat pies, and a medley of honey-glazed root vegetables. Charity must have worked so hard to make this meal special.

We eat in silence for several minutes before Rahk asks, “Have you and Mary successfully accomplished your redecoration of my room?”

“Indeed. We have repapered the walls with my petticoats,” I say.

A high-pitched sound comes from the back of Mrs. Banks’s throat as she brings out a leek and herb soup.

“What I meant to say,” I correct, sitting up straighter, “is yes, we finished, and your room is as it was before. Except your wardrobe door is harder to close now.”

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