Page 125 of Prince of Masks
It takes three servants to remove it ever so delicately from its box. No garment bag, a literal box that opens like a case.
Movements are slow and careful on the gown, hands are gloved and touching only the hanger. The servants hoist it onto the hook—and I sigh at the reminder of the gown’s weight.
Mother supervises the management of my dress. Her arms are folded, a rare stance for her, and the firm set of her jaw tells of her foul mood.
She’s been run ragged since we arrived here at Versailles, but my pity doesn’t stretch very far beyond myself, and so I have taken to avoiding her as best as I can.
Amelia, on the other hand, walks the length of the room, back and forth, her chin raised, and her aristocratic stare flicking from one debutante to another. She evaluates us, the makeup, the hair, assessing the styles with the rules of the ball.
Then she stops at a debutante down the way, one I can’t see since I am unable to turn my head even an inch as the makeup artists paints my face.
Still, I hear Amelia, her sharp voice made from diamonds, “The regulations are clear. No colour anywhere but the lips. Ah-ah,” she cuts off whatever argument was brewing. “Do you want to be disqualified? I imagined not.”
The breath I loosen is lengthy and bored.
I consider all the gowns.
What else am I to do while I sit here on the golden chair, a stylist combing through my hair, a beautician at my feet glossing my toenails, and no other view to distract me from the worms writhing in my belly?
If I let myself sink into that anxiety, it will consume me, whole.
So I focus on the dresses.
Some are nowhere near as decadent as mine, but rather plain in their stark white shades, dresses cut along the midriff (Mother lingers a distasteful look over those more modern fashions), others with ruffled necks, a few are simple and flowy—but the only four to match the extravagance of my gown are the two on either side of mine, and one down the way.
I consider the farthest gown, a stark white that would be ghastly if it wasn’t for the literal diamonds encrusted onto the bodice, and sparkling down the tulle skirt. That gown is more than my dowry—and I suspect it belongs to the debutante of the Eun family, from the Coven of Asia, a witching family with much the same advantages as the Cravens,alchemy.
I flick my gaze away from the startling gown, then consider the ones that border mine.
To my left, Serena’s gown is being meddled with by the seamstress who crouches at the hem and smooths out any creases.
It is stunning.
Couture, like mine, but hand-pressed with crystals all over the bodice and the skirt. The outer layer is sheer, and so it has a cloudy effect to it, a glittering sky.
And on my right, Asta’s gown is as decedent as the Palace of Versailles itself, a splendid marble white, weaved and threaded with gold, and a train that stretches out the length of a cathedral.
I wonder about Asta’s extravagance.
The Ströms are aristos, and not just any old aristos family, but one of the Coven of Europe. Yet since I was young, I have known of their money troubles.
Adults speak too freely around children. And I heard all sorts of whispers about their failing investments, the bankruptcy of their companies, the hits they have taken time and time again. Now, they teeter on gentry, like the Barlows do.
So I suspect that the gown hung up for Asta is more than the Ströms can afford, and I wonder… a quick thought…
Did Dray buy it for her?
They were, after all, betrothed while the plans for the ball were underway, and the preparations began.
When Mother first commissioned my gown, Dray and Asta were solid in their promise to one another.
It doesn’t strike me as unlikely that he would spend on her debutante dress, just so he is matched in the appearance of wealth at the ball.
I release the thought and tense against the urge to squirm. I’m getting restless now, too restless.
Not anxious, not nervous, not anymore. Just agitated but this statuesque stillness I’ve been forced into for too long.
Each debutante of this season is basically shackled to a golden chair, staring right ahead at the dress we will soon be sewn into, all while we suffer the attacks of hairstylists, manicurists, makeup artists.
