The Queen's Assassin (Queen's Secret #1) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,26

give me lessons in court life and outfit me for the times when I am called to join my mother. I’m not surprised she’s here since I’m supposed to leave for the palace so soon.

I wipe off my hands and reluctantly join them in the sitting room.

Missus Kingstone is plump, with a plain, but kind, face and frizzy gray hair tucked under a white cap. She wears simple clothing of high quality. The stitching is immaculate. Her skirt falls almost to the floor, neither too long nor too short, swishing perfectly as she walks, and her sleeves gather into small stiff ruffles at the wrist without any drooping. If anyone needed proof of her skill or her exacting standards, it’s evident in her own clothing.

“Hello, Shadow! How are you, my sweet? Let’s get to it, shall we?” she says to me, clapping her hands together. “We don’t have a moment to waste!” She puts her large basket on the floor and begins taking various instruments out of it, including a small square of wood.

“Missus Kingstone is going to make your new gowns,” Aunt Moriah tells me. “For the palace.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Stand on this, would you?” the seamstress orders, pointing to the wood block. I step onto it, feeling somewhat ridiculous, as I do every time I am called for a fitting.

But time passes quickly. Missus Kingstone is swift and efficient. Maybe a bit too efficient. She pushes and tugs at me like I’m a doll. Measurements are taken for every single part of my body, even my fingers, to make new gowns and precisely fitted elbow-length gloves.

Every piece of clothing she puts on me—samples that she pins and re-pins endlessly—starts to feel like another layer of confinement, piling on top of me to weigh me down and keep me from being able to flee. She stuffs me into a mock-up corset as well.

“A satin one, lined in whalebone, was ordered for you,” she says.

“I hope it’s not like this one. It’s laced far too tight,” I tell her as I attempt to pull it away from my body in order to breathe. She looks at me as if I’ve spoken utter nonsense and doesn’t reply or loosen it.

Fabric swatches are brought in too. They’re pinned onto parchment pages in a heavy massive book: red like a shiny apple, a matte mauve taffeta, deep blues, and light pinks.

“Which colors do you prefer, dear?” Missus Kingstone asks me, holding up the book. From her friendly tone, I know she assumes I must be thrilled about the silks and laces, but I can barely muster an opinion. Mostly I give her a tight smile, point at one or the other. She pats my leg. “Nervous, are you, dearie? Don’t be, you’ll be perfect,” she says, more to my aunts than to me.

My aunts match the woman’s cheer and fuss over the beautiful material, but I can tell it’s forced. Their exclamations are high-pitched and overdone; a show. “Oh!” they coo. “Would you look at this one, Shadow? Absolutely exquisite!” They never speak that way. It’s as if they’re lying to my face. I’d rather they say, “Shadow, we know this isn’t what you wanted, but there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s out of our hands. So just pick the fabrics and get this over and done.”

When the seamstress finally packs up her cart and heads back into town to begin making my fancy, unwanted finery, I help my aunts clear the table. Aunt Moriah tries to initiate conversation. “I adore that blue on the tea gown. It was a good choice. Reminds me of winter nights, when the moon is full—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap. From the corner of my eye, I see her exchange a knowing look with Aunt Mesha, who opens her mouth to speak but shuts it when Aunt Moriah shakes her head slightly.

“I’m going outside,” I tell them. Neither responds.

I stomp down the pebble path away from the cottage. I sense a hare chewing on bark before he sees me coming. They’re always out here trying to get into the vegetable garden. Usually, I slow down so as not to scare