Page 4
“Keep straight, Elara,” she instructs softly, a small chuckle leaving her. The familiar comfort of her clove perfume fails to ease Elara's mind now, as the earthy bitterness of the medicinal tincture lingering on Walker’s clothes has been troubling her since the moment her caregiver approached.
Elara’s eyes widen at the sharp smell, but she forces her concern aside as a faint laugh escapes her. “You are exactly like Mother,” she whispers, the admission carrying more warmth than expected.
The remaining length of hair falls freely over Elara’s shoulders, the soft waves framing her face before cascading down her back as the style is nearly finished.
“Your mother was far better, my dear,” Walker says, a second, shorter chuckle following her words. “There has to be someone reminding you to care for yourself.”
A flush spreads across Elara’s cheeks. “I do remember to take care of myself,” Elara grumbles, picking at the bedclothes.
Moments like these, when they speak of her mother or remind one another of older memories, warm her heart enough to make this otherwise stifling ritual feel worthwhile. It is all for Walker.
“I honestly do not see any resemblance between myself and your mother,” Walker admits, those trembling hands continuing their work. “You remind me of Her Majesty. The same kindness, the same features, and even your voices possesses a similar melody.”
Rather than warming, Elara’s heart sinks. Her gaze drops to the golden heart pendant resting against her collarbone. She thumbs the pendant, caressing the intricate design and the cool, unyielding gold surface. An image bursts into the forefront of her mind, revealing her mother dancing in the garden with this same necklace glinting in the sunlight.
Walker’s thumbs caress her shoulders. “Do not be saddened.”
“I am not sad,” Elara whispers, though a heavy breath betrays the lie. “It is only that I truly do not resemble her. It has always been… my wish to become like her.” She swallows, lowering her gaze to the floor.
“Then,” Walker murmurs, “your wish has already been granted. You simply do not see it.”
The tension in her muscles eases as warmth steals through her chest. With Walker’s exquisite gift for language, Elara knows the woman possesses no capacity for deceit. The compliment settles within her, allowing her to believe, if only for this single moment, that perhaps she carries more of her mother's spirit than she thought.
“Thank you,” is all she can manage before the final arrangements of her strands are complete. Elara rises, careful to keep her eyes from drifting toward the mirror. “The floral beige dress,” she murmurs. “It is a pleasant color.”
An agreeing nod sends Walker toward the wardrobe. Ornate wooden chests stand alongside low vanities holding velvet-lined compartments for jewelry. As Walker lifts the gown from the wardrobe, Elara lets the towel fall away. As always, she presses her hands to her thighs to hide the silver scars etched in her skin. They were the remnants of a habit born at sixteen, a desperate attempt to turn her internal pain outward, though the physical ache had never truly taken the sorrow away. Forcing the thought down, she focuses on the fabric and steps forward to dress.
Elara attempts to shield the scars by pressing her palms against her thighs, fingers sealed tightly together over the silver lines.
Walker returns with the dress. From a distance, the fabric resembles a gentle sweep of light, featuring a bodice smoothly sculpted without harsh embellishment and sleeves that drape softly along the arms. The wide skirt falls in layered folds, glimmering as if brushed with something closer to powdered starlight than true sparkle. She laces Elara into the gown, pulling the ribbons tighter than normal. The fabric hangs looser than before against a thinning frame, an observation upon which neither woman offers a comment.
Retrieving a small velvet pouch of slender silver pins, Walker adjusts the gown. The fabric rests against the smooth surface of her cotton chemise, the tight lacing pressing against Elara’s ribs as Walker finishes pinning the remaining folds into place.
She takes a deep breath, dreading the next part of the ritual. A golden box, smooth and unadorned, is brought forward. Walker opens the lid, revealing the crown within. Elara dips her head down, allowing her caregiver to place the metal onto her hair. Straightening again, she already feels an ache coming on with the added weight.
Walker reaches out to pat her cheek reassuringly, offering a silent comfort before stepping back. “Eat well for breakfast this time, dear. And make sure you eat enough fruits.”
A soft murmur of gratitude follows before she steps out into the corridor, anxiety pulsing beneath her skin at the prospect of another day and another performance. Passing her father’s closed doors, she descends the marble steps toward two knights standing below, their golden armor catching the morning sun. Light spills through a tall window beside them, scattering across the white walls in shifting rays.
At the sound of her footsteps, they turn in unison and bow. “Good morning, Your Highness.”
She gives a polite nod. “Good morning,” she says, pausing to pick at her nails. When one of the guards notices the gesture, she quickly clasps her hands behind her back to stop the nervous movement. “Has Father come down yet?”
The knights exchange a fleeting look before one speaks, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “Yes, Your Highness. His Majesty is in the dining chamber.”
Elara’s heart sinks. “I see. Thank you.”
Turning right, she continues toward the dining hall. Pausing by the doorway, she spots her father standing with his back turned, deep in conversation with a knight. His velvet beige cape drapes heavily to the floor, and a golden crown glimmers atop short hair streaked with a mixture of white and dark brown.
“I need you to spread the news to the kingdom exactly as written on this paper,” the King commands, his voice carrying through the space. “I will grant you the funds to send to Raelith, and my men will scribe as many copies as necessary. The kingdom must be informed of the upcoming wedding, and of Elara’s departure after her marriage.”
The words land heavily in the silence, stealing the air from her lungs. Instinctively, her hand flies to the pendant resting on her collarbone, her eyes widening as a sudden weakness gives way in her knees. Turning swiftly, she presses her back against the cool wall outside the hall to maintain some semblance of composure.
Marriage.
III
AN UNWANTED FATE
