The dress was torture. Lace dug into flesh. Satin coiled, a slow compression from waist to throat. Below, swaths of pallid pink crested atop roiling waves. Raega was drowning. She tried to remain steady, eyes fixed on the mirrored wall before her, but she was drowning and today she could not hide it. Atop the fitting box she stood, hands fisted by her sides. She’d force her fingers into a more natural pose, but each time they would slowly curl back and betray her anger. Her eyes weren’t any help either: large and red rimmed within a face tensed from holding back rage. Two tailor’s assistants working below her didn’t care to notice, but Haimler did.
He was a man nearing sixty, but still in the prime of health. A strong presence in this room full of fluff. Raega watched his reflection as he watched her. She waited for her Master of Wardrobe to speak.
“Is the dress not to your satisfaction, Lady?”
“No, Haimler. It is not.”
The assistants paused in their work. Raega felt the air thicken. It was as if someone had placed a wad of cotton over the room, muting all of her senses. Raega wanted to scream. She wanted to claw at the lace on her neck and gasp for air. Instead, she maintained her stiff posture. She studied the emotion unraveling across her face. Haimler stepped forward. She could not bring herself to meet his gaze.
“This was your mother’s top choice, but I do have other samples for you to consider.”
Haimler clicked his fingers, and the assistants all but sprinted from the room.
Raega fought the urge to scramble after them. She kept her eyes fixed to the mirror and the bloated pile of fluff she had been transformed into. She knew this had been her mother’s choice. Her mother’s choices were as suffocating as the dress Raega now wore. Raega didn’t want to go to The Club, and she didn’t want to liaise with the other young nobles. Yet, she had been going, if only to please her mother and to keep the peace. She was willing to sacrifice one evening each month to uncomfortable dresses and even less comfortable company, but she was not willing to sacrifice herself.
“You need to be more approachable.”
“The young men find you difficult to talk to. You glare too much. Smile. Be more… feminine.”
Haimler cleared his throat, startling Raega out of her remembered conversation. He motioned toward a rack of dresses and held out his hand to help her from the fitting box. She lifted her skirts and stepped down, but before she could make her way toward the rack, Hailmer leaned in close.
“Lady Raegalynn, in my personal opinion, it would not be a bad thing for you to take a more decisive role in your choice of clothing. I am, after all, your Master of Wardrobe.”
And then he stepped back, leaving Raega to wonder if his words had been true, or only imagined. The dresses Raega’s mother insisted she wear, the dresses all the noble ladies wore, existed in the realm of washed-out pinks and blues, sickly things that had been drained of their life. The dresses on this rack were different, the fabrics dipped into a much darker colour range. One of the dresses was a deep plum; another, a soft forest green. The necklines varied in their placement, and not all of them were as heavy in the skirt.
Raega trailed her fingers down the sleeve of the deep plum gown. She followed the bumps and grooves as the floral design swirled down the arm. These dresses would no doubt cause a stir at The Club, but they still existed within that realm of fluff and lace. It still felt like they had been designed to smooth over the sharp edges. They would still render the wearer soft and approachable.
Haimler stepped forward, “Are these dresses more to your liking, Lady?”
Raega trailed her fingers down the curve of one of the lower necklines. “They’re very pretty Haimler.”
“But I don’t want to look pretty.”
“And how is it, that you would like to look?”
Raega turned to her Master of Wardrobe. A smile twitched across her lips.