Agnë muttered, before rushing to add, “But you are without a doubt more beautiful than any of those hefty, square-jawed milkmaids.”
“He really didn’t seem to think so.” Exhaling, I scrutinized my appearance in a nearby gilded mirror.
I’d always taken pride in my appearance, and been told that I possessed a rare beauty due to the uncommon mixture of my heritage. I also never thought of myself as small or skinny. Even without the comparison to my shorter handmaidens, I was taller than average, and as slim and graceful as a girl in an Arborean court was expected to be.
Now I tried to examine myself from the perspective of someone who held other standards of beauty. Björn was clearly used to big, boisterous blondes, while I was a refined and reserved brunette. He probably didn’t think my dark-brown hair that fell in big waves down my back, was the treasure my mother insisted it was. He seemed to take one look at my long, delicate neck, slim shoulders, and elegant limbs and thought me fragile. But what if he saw my face?
No. I bet my high cheekbones, sharp jawline, and small, thin nose would only reinforce his opinion. As for my pronounced brow ridge, which made my dark, dense brows arch higher, along with my pouty lips and heavy-lidded almond eyes, I supposed he’d think I looked cold, haughty—unapproachable. Everything I didn’t want to be while fishing for a declaration of love from a man in order to save my life.
The one trait he’d complimented me on, when he’d shoved a lamp in my face to examine my mask, was the color of my eyes. That bright turquoise, like the precious stone I was named after, appealed to everyone. Not that it had been enough to spark his interest, and it hadn’t even registered in Hippolytus’s self-absorbed vanity.
I blew out another sigh of resignation. “Which one’s next?”
Agnë browsed the room, then pointed at a man wearing a gilded cloak. “Kyrillos of Chrysopolis. I hear he claims to be a demigod.”
Meira burst out laughing. “And I’m Queen Isolda of Winter!”
Agnë’s usual smile froze. In the mirror, I saw Meira’s eyes bulge, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just said.
“Who’s Queen Isolda?” I asked.
Agnë laughed nervously, waving the question off. “Oh, you know, a character in a folktale where we come from.”
I frowned down at her. “I thought you two came from different lands.”
I had never seen them agree on anything. Right now, they mirrored each other’s expression of horrified dismay.
I nudged each with an elbow. “Why are you two looking like I caught you with your hands in my jewelry box?”
Agnë’s giggle did nothing to lessen her impression of a cornered rabbit. “Oh, you know how stories travel! What happens in Orestia goes up to the Northlands through trade routes and whatnot.”
I held her flustered gaze, my confusion intensifying. “Isolda sounds more like a Northlander name, not the other way around.”
Agnë seemed at a loss until Meira clapped her hands, ending the strangely tense moment. “And that’s a story for another time! Now off to your meeting with that semi-divine boy before he gets bored and ascends to the heavens or something!”
Both handmaidens urgently herded me towards the refreshments table where Kyrillos was hovering. He had his mask set on top of his head as he sampled the variety of offered drinks, so I could see his face in detail, which I’d previously seen from afar.
He shared a lot of traits with Hippolytus, with features leaning towards pretty, rather than handsome. But unlike him, Kyrillos’s halo of curls was sun-bleached, and his shining, tanned skin was from outdoor exposure, not a natural complexion with a beautifying layer of body oil.
Also unlike Hippolytus, he had the decency to notice my approach and greet me. His sedate handshake was almost a letdown after Björn’s enthusiastically suffocating bear hug. His palm was rough, with a callous here and there. They made me question more than his supposed divinity.
My nose wrinkled under my mask at the notion that this man might not be noble enough, or even of good breeding. Why else would he be tanned and calloused, if he didn’t toil in the sun like some field worker, or work with his hands like a carpenter?
I shook my misgivings away when he introduced himself and asked for my name.
With a curtsey, I introduced myself with the name I was going with tonight, “Zafira.”