Page 67 of Alien Prince's Fake Bride
“Not long. A few days, or it will seem suspicious. Then there will be some kind of war crisis only I can deal with, and we can leave. That part will not be hard. There are always crises.” He stares into the air for a while. "The court is tricky, Umbra. People will smile but try to trip you up, ensnare you in your own words. They want to find your weak spots. When they talk fancy, just say simple, honest things, even if it sounds like you don't know much. If they give you anything — drinks, gifts, compliments, say thanks but don't promise anything. Don’t touch the drinks,though. Look at their faces, not just what they say. A quick look, a tight mouth — that tells you more. Stay close to me. A look, a touch, shows they can't mess with you. Most of all, listen more than you talk. If you wait, they'll show what they really want."
“Sounds like high school,” I mutter. “And I did survive that. Not unscathed, but in one piece.”
“What?” Mareliux is staring at the screen, where more precise formations are passing by.
“Umbra’s making a reference to her experience in school during her teenage years,”Bellatriz explains. “She’s implying that the Imperial court can’t be worse than that.”
“That may be true,” Mareliux says as he gets up and straightens his sword belt. “But I would guess that fewer murders are carried out in her school than at the Court. Let’s see what they have sent us.”
The transport has delivered several boxes with clothing, all so accurately made they fit me perfectly.
“This is luxurious,” I comment, holding up a pantsuit made from hundreds of circular patches of fabric, each a subtly different shade of green, sewn together in an artful way that makes them look like waves on an ocean. “It must be hyper expensive.”
“A princess never asks about price,” Mareliux says absent-mindedly as he picks out a new pair of pants for himself, one that looks just like his current one but is less stained by alien worlds and battles. “She just says ‘thank you’ and looks wonderful.”
Several shimmering garments are presented to me by the serving robots, now repurposed as dressing room attendants. The outfits are made of fabrics I’ve never seen before — someripple like liquid moonlight, others hold stiff, geometric shapes. One is covered in millions of tiny, subtly blinking lights, another feels and looks like fine silk against my fingertips, being so sheer it would be absolutely scandalous to wear it without leggings and a top underneath.
I run my hand over a gown the color of a deep ocean sunset, the material flowing and soft. It has delicate silver embroidery that reminds me of the golden veins in Mareliux’s skin. It feels right. It’s elegant without being fussy, and the color makes me feel a little less like I’m trying too hard to look like a Khavgren woman.
“How is this one?” I hold it up.
“Good,” Mareliux says, barely looking at it. “It should be somewhat formal.”
“It would be nice to know what is expected at the Imperial court.” I look through the selection of shoes and boots in the shipment. They all have high heels, and I sense Sigise’s hand in it all, wanting me to look taller so the contrast between my eight-feet-tall fake husband and me won’t be too striking.
Mareliux just grunts.
I pick out a pair of black shoes that echo the boots I’m still wearing while still being formal, clearly also selected by Sigise. They have a subtle military cut to them.
There’s a bundle of fine ribbons and scarves that seem to be meant as accessories. I pick some of them and experiment with using them in my hair.
“Bellatriz, I’ll ask you instead since our prince seems to be busy,” I say tersely. “Is this appropriate attire for me seeing the Emperor under these circumstances?”
“That dress and those shoes are perfectly appropriate,”the sword AI says. “Demure, elegant, and yet obviously extremely fine. The Khavgrens will be very interested in your hair, which is an alien feature. I would recommend tying something around it for emphasis.”
I go to my cabin, stand under the small, splashing waterfall that is the Khavgren version of a shower, and put on my new outfit. When I return to the control room, Mareliux looks much the same as ever, and Caret’ax doesn’t seem to have left the room.
“Do I get a weapon?” I ask. “A small gun, maybe? You’re both carrying swords.”
“Everyone will have to leave their weapons behind when we see the Emperor,” Mareliux says. “Married women who are not in uniform are not expected to carry weapons. They are expected to trust their husbands to keep them safe. I will carry Bellatriz, because the Emperor likes her.”
“A small knife,” I suggest. “Something I can hide under the clothes. Just so I have something. It would make me feel safer.”
“I wonder what gave you the impression that the Imperial court in Khav is full of people who will murder you with knives,” Mareliux says, not looking at me. “It has happened, I’m not denying that. In centuries past, the dagger was a popular assassination weapon. But any danger to you will be much more subtle. But just as deadly. A princess being armed will open you to difficult questions, if it were revealed.”
“I’m a soldier,” I remind him. “I’m used to being armed. That is a good enough answer to those questions, I think.”
“We must avoid any risk of exposing you to suspicion that our marriage isn’t real,” the prince says with finality. “No weapons.”
His tone is dismissive, and it prickles me.Trust me. Famous last words, probably.
I cross my arms over the chosen gown. The soft fabric suddenly feels like a flimsy shield.
"So, I just stand there and look… loved?" The word feels weird on my tongue, a ridiculous concept given the icy atmosphere between us right now.
He finally turns his cool gaze to me. "You observe, you listen, you react appropriately. You are the adoring spouse, impressed by my brilliance, secure in my protection. Small, admiring glances. A gentle touch on my arm. Perhaps a demure inclination of your head when I speak. Think a well-trained pet, devoted and slightly awestruck."
My jaw tightens. He really knows how to charm a girl. "Right. Got it. Adoring rube. Devoted pet. Anything else I should practice? Fetching your slippers? Barking on command?" I glance at Caret’ax for support, but he’s very carefully staring at nothing in particular.
