Page 4 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Nurse is the only person who truly cares about me, even if it’s her job to do so, and part of me is pleased that Father even noticed what I’ve been wearing.

I can’t blame her for burning the frock, for wanting to avoid punishment or dismissal for my misdeeds.

I suddenly feel very guilty for all the trouble I’ve caused Nurse over the years.

She’s served me every year of my two and twenty.

When she first took charge of me, Nurse was likely younger than I am now.

I step fully into the tub, and sigh as I ease myself into the warm water, cloudy with milk and generously scented with lilac and night jasmine. “I’m sorry,” I say softly, not sure I want her to hear me.

“A princess does not apologize to a nurse.” The legs of a wooden stool scrape across the stone floor, as she takes a seat behind me.

Nurse gently lifts my long, pink hair from the water, draping it forward over my chest, and I shift away from the back of the tub so she can get the hogs-hair brush between the copper and my body, rubbing my skin through the linen shift.

“Look at the grey color of this water already. Tsk. Tsk. To prepare ye for tonight, I must venture under your shift?” Her voice rises, asking my permission.

I adjust my position, letting the shift’s fabric float more loosely around me, so she can slide her brush under the garment.

I close my eyes against the rough sting of the hogs’ hair, knowing that the end result will be worth it.

As much as I protested as a child, I always feel better after a good scrub.

And it’s all the more satisfying when I start the bath very soiled.

It’s a luxury to bathe whenever I wish—every night if it suits me—and counting my blessings fills my heart with contentment.

I may have no power. I may have no purpose or use.

I may have no ability to control my fate, but I’m very, very grateful for all that I do have.

My young brothers are kind. They never told Father how I listened in on their classes, nor how I took part in their archery and sword fighting training.

When Master of Swords threatened to put a stop to my antics, Alfryd unexpectedly stood up for me, saying he’d have him dismissed, if he didn’t allow me to train.

Father inevitably found out anyway, walking past one day while we were training, but all he did was shake his head in disappointment.

My unworthiness in the King’s eyes began the instant the midwife announced what was—or rather wasn’t—between my legs. Over the years, Father’s disinterest grew deeper. For the past ten or more years, he’s so rarely glanced my direction that I no longer feel the sting.

I can’t remember my mother’s face. If it weren’t for her few portraits, I’d have no idea. Even when she lived, I saw her but once a day, only when Nurse presented me for inspection.

The woman who raised me moves on to scrub my neck and my arms, and I realize my memories of childhood may be faulty. Perhaps the Queen did gather me into her arms once or twice. I much prefer to believe that she did.

I let my mind travel inside my imagined past, while Nurse continues to bathe me, scrubbing all the dirt lodged in my skin and from under my nails. Then she washes all the evidence of nature from my hair.

By the time Nurse has dried me, I feel so clean and new I expect I sparkle like freshly polished silver.

Dressers enter the room, and soon two battle together to yank the laces of my corset.

“Could you loosen that, please?” I ask, my voice tight—constricted.

“Your father wants to see you especially beautiful tonight.” The dressers giggle as they tug the laces even tighter.

I grunt in protest. “Does he want to see me alive? Because I fear a rib bone just punctured my lung.”

Dresser slightly loosens the ties, but relief comes only in contrast to the ridiculous extent of the initial constriction.

I once found a book in the library about the fauna of Nathia, containing an illustration of a snake native to the jungles there.

A snake capable of killing a man by encircling his body to crush his bones and organs.

After reading that book, I had nightmares for months.

‘That’s what happens when lasses read,’ Nurse said when she threatened to lock me out of the library for good. After that, I never repeated my fears of constrictor snakes or other dangers in faraway kingdoms.

Eventually my nightmares lessened. I’ll never face dangers like that. It’s not like I’ll ever get the chance to explore or escape my controlled and sheltered life here.

My mind again drifts to the mysterious stranger, wishing he’d held me against him longer. Wishing I could have ridden away with him. Did he call himself Saxon? The word was lost on the wind.

Gown on, I’m shuffled to a padded bench in front of a silvered glass, and Hairdresser starts to work on my hair.

Her apprentice rubs rouge on my lips and my cheeks, even though they’re already quite red—both from the bath and from memories of the stranger’s heat penetrating my body as he held me against him.

Hairdresser and her apprentice pull and twist my long pink locks, and I ignore the pain as they jab long pins to hold it in place.

I close my eyes, and memories flood back so strongly I can smell the stranger’s scent, feel his fiery heat and sense the power housed in his form.

As he looked down at me from beneath the shadow of his hooded cloak, I barely glimpsed the man’s features, but I felt the intensity of his penetrating eyes, as if his gaze had pushed directly inside me.

As my servants prepare my hair, I drift to places even more exotic, even more dangerous than the other Kingdoms of Light. A world where I see not only the stranger’s face, but also his body. A world where I’m able to touch his skin and feel the heat of his hands on mine.

Primped and ready, I stand in front of the silvered glass. A full gaggle of servants is gathered behind me now, looking proud of their handiwork.

I’m an object they created, not a real person. And while I don’t want to take away from their labors, I felt far more myself when I was out on my ride and dressed in my simple frock, now rendered into ash in the fireplace.

“Thank you,” I say with as much sincerity as I can. “Also, please thank Seamstress. This new gown is particularly beautiful.”

I run my hands over the ornately patterned silk brocade that forms the gown’s bodice.

The base fabric is a fine violet silk the color of a summer sky, and the soft color is highlighted with threads spun from silver and gold.

The gown is undeniably beautiful, even though the corset beneath it binds me like a cage—as do the slippers pinching my feet.

The precariously high heels make me feel unbalanced, even as I do no more than stand.

Walking will be a challenge, and I can forget about anything close to running.

Why is it the custom for females to be hobbled by their garments? And why must my paps be pressed up to the point of pain, my corset exaggerating my bosom’s shape and size as the tops of my paps bulge over my bodice.

Female servants don’t wear such constricting garments. Nor do my brothers. It doesn’t seem fair.

But Head Dresser distracts me as she drapes a neck piece of diamonds and rubies over my décolletage, and gratitude once again quashes my petty gripes and resentments. This is the first time I’ve been allowed to wear any of Mother’s jewels.

I don’t enjoy tight dresses, nor having my hair twisted into elaborate shapes on my head, but now that my servant’s work is complete, even I must admit that the results are objectively beautiful—at least as well as I can see myself in the clouded silvered glass.

“Come,” says Nurse. “The Crown Prince has arrived to escort ye to the evening feast.”

Surprised, I turn as she opens the door to my bedchamber.

Looking forward to a chat with Alfryd, I totter toward the door. Perhaps the older of my twin brothers will carry me on his back. That way I won’t have to shuffle in these torture contraptions Dresser misleadingly called slippers.