Alethea stood in the middle of the floor, scowling, with two fistfuls of cloth in her hands, curlers in her hair, and exasperation in her heart. This room – her old room, from before – was familiar and comfortable and helped mitigate the anxiety she felt returning to the castle. Tristan’s men had returned it nearly exactly as it had been, excavating tapestries and rugs from gods-only-knew-where, replacing draperies, and cleaning every surface until it sparkled. Thea had been full of nostalgia, walking back into the space.
But it had not grown with her, and it had not grown with her wardrobe.
Gowns were everywhere. They hung from the curtain rods, the bed posts, the door frames, the sides of her mirror. They were spread out on the bed, draped over the backs of chairs, discarded into angry heaps on the floor. It looked like an animal stampede had gone through a boutique. There was barely enough room to step around them without tripping. And yet, somehow, having them all out had not made her decision any easier.
It was an impossible choice: she needed to look glamorous and demure and interesting and interested…but not too interested. She could not wear blue, though it suited her so well, and she could not wear green, because that would be too obvious. White was too bridal (desperate!) black too mournful (tone-deaf!) red too reminiscent of what she’d worn on the island, and with Gawain there…
(Slut!)
“You are not a slut,” Leto interjected from where she stood beside the mirror. “You don’t even know that anything happened.”
Alethea groaned. “Not knowing is worse.” And “anything” was a stretch; the question wasn’t whether something happened, the question was how much. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought. The task at hand was what mattered; the coronation party was carrying too much symbolic weight to be distracted by memories. Mistakes, she reminded herself. Though it hadn’t felt like a mistake at the time.
Gods, it was one thing to have a type and another to have…whatever this was.
She laid one of the dresses she held on top of the bed pile, and held the remaining one against her body as she peered at the mirror. This one was promising; she was starting to imagine how she might do her hair when there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she muttered, too quietly to be heard. When a moment passed and nobody appeared, it occurred to her that servants and guards no longer attended her at odd hours. She frowned. “Who could it be?” The question may have been for Leto, or merely thinking out loud, as she walked across the room to open the door.
To her complete shock, she found Bryar waiting there.
Alethea did not know Bryar very well, but what she did know, she liked; the girl was dauntless, always spoke her own mind, cared nothing for what anyone thought, and seemed to do whatever she wanted. In short, she was practically nothing like herself. It was impossible for Thea to imagine a world in which she did not consider everyone else’s feelings before making even the most mundane decision. Being liked had been such a pressing concern for so long, it was a challenge to begin to discard it…even after all the consequences she’d experienced for letting it go too far. Which is all to say, Bryar’s appearance at her door was a surprise, but not an unwelcome one.
“Oh! Hello–” she began, but was cut off before she could finish. She smiled a little, blinking. It seemed Bryar had come on a mission, and was…well, not exactly getting around to it, but starting straight in on the exposition. “Thank…you?” she interjected softly, thinking she detected something like a compliment in the thought-jumble. By the time Bryar had finished, Thea’s head was spinning, trying to piece together whether this was a long-winded observation or a request. It was a second shock when it appeared to be the latter. Her mouth opened a bit, then shut.
“Um. Yes, of course,” she answered, holding the door open and standing aside for Bryar to enter, “but as you can see, it is not a very straightforward process.” Her eyes met Leto’s across the room, a shade of embarrassment passing between them. Perhaps this was a typical scenario for two young women to find themselves in, but Thea had never had the pleasure – her clothes had practically been picked for her while she attended to the former queen, and dressing Gaiane had been a political process, involving herself and several other ladies. Even her friendship with Gaiane had been political. Not that she didn’t like her on her own, but…
This was different. She retied the sash of her robe, as if that might make her ineptitude less obvious.
“I’ve, ah, never done this before,” she admitted sheepishly, looking Bryar over. Where to begin? There were some things in her closet that she had not yet pulled out; things for a smaller body, less breast; things that no longer (or never) fit her. Thea bit her lip, thinking over the inventory. “Maybe emerald? Or violet…” Turning back toward the open wardrobe, she rifled through the remaining gowns, picking out a handful that would flatter Bryar’s coloring. “Why don’t I pull out some things and you can tell me what you like?” she suggested, turning back with her arms laden, and a shy smile on her lips. “If you hate all of it, we can always go into town.”
With that, she held out the first dress on her stack, and gestured toward the dressing screen with her chin.
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