The fabric shimmered, the heavy silk woven with some starry silver bits that punctuated the extraordinary blue of the background.
“It is such a glorious color.” I breathed at last, putting out a fingertip to touch the folds of the skirt. I trailed down to a silver sequin. A rope of these had been stitched around the base of the skirt, edging the train as well as the neckline.
“It is Alpenwalder blue,” she told me. “The color reserved for our royalty as it most closely mimics that of the heavens above our country.”
Her face shone with pride as she helped me into the gown, drawing it carefully over my undergarments and lacing it tightly into place.
As she finished knotting the ribbons, she paused, peering intently at my upper arm. “What is this?” she demanded.
She put a fingertip to my flesh, pointing out the small gathering of fresh scars scattered over my arm like a constellation.
“Battle scars, I am afraid,” I told her. “I was shot.”
She reared back in astonishment. “Shot? With a firearm? By whom?”
“My uncle,” I replied truthfully.
The baroness stifled a gasp of horror. “Tell me no more. But this is a noticeable flaw, Fraulein, and it will mark you as different to the princess to anyone with sharp eyes. We must have a remedy . . .” She trailed off as she went to the dressing table, rummaging through the drawers until she emerged, triumphant. She held a wide ribbon of silver satin, which she tied firmly about my upper arm, securing the ends in a bow.
She stepped back to survey the effort, frowning. “What do you think?”
“Rather dashing,” I assured her. “And who knows? If anyone does remark upon it, I may find myself in the fashion papers as an innovator.”
She did not return my smile. She merely gave a grunt and stooped to help me into my shoes, court shoes of velvet in the same shade as the gown, and presented a long velvet mantle furred with a curious silver pelt.
“The Geistenfuch,” she explained. “The ghost fox—a small silver fox that lives in the mountains. Very rare and very beautiful.”
I wondered how many of the poor little beasts had been sacrificed for the robe, but it would be the rankest hypocrisy not to acknowledge that I was glad of the warmth. She draped and pinned a wide riband of white watered taffeta across my chest, securing it with a remarkably ugly brooch of considerable age. It was set with heavy, old-fashioned stones depicting a jeweled otter rampant.
“The order of St. Otthild,” she informed me. “The otter is her badge, and this order is one of great antiquity. The lesser degrees feature the flower of St. Otthild’s wort, but of course the princess is a member of the first degree,” she said proudly.
Then she pulled on my kid gloves, thin and tight as a second-skin, buttoning them past my elbows. She clasped the bracelets of the parure over them, then positioned the mantle atop everything, handing me a matching muff of silver fox before stepping back to view her efforts.
“Will I pass muster?” I asked lightly. But I was conscious even as I uttered the words of a rather desperate desire for her approval. It suddenly seemed quite important to me that I do this well, for reasons I dared not even contemplate.
She regarded me a long time, sweeping her gaze from the tips of my evening slippers—embroidered with sequins and silver thread—to the tiara atop my crown of false hair. After an agonizing wait, she gave a slow nod. “You will do.”
And I knew that faint praise held a wealth of emotion for her. She swallowed hard as she looked at me, no doubt missing her vanished princess. It was clear the baroness had great affection for her mistress, no matter how wayward she could be. Before I could offer some comfort, she turned away, briskly.
“I must go and make my own toilette,” she told me. “You must not crease.”
“I should not dream of it,” I promised her. “I will sit here until you return.”
“Sit!” The word was nearly a shriek. “You cannot sit! You must stand. Right there. Do not move. Pretend you are a waxwork from that Madame Tussaud until I return,” she instructed.
She left me then, earrings quivering in indignation that I might be foolish enough to do anything as abjectly stupid as sit. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, suddenly acutely conscious of how very awkward it was to simply stand.