“Besides,” she says, still smirking at my feet. I wiggle a toe in her direction. “You have your own things to worry about, and a much busier schedule than I do. I don’t envy you your meetings,” she adds, nodding to the messy pile of papers at my bedside.
I fell asleep reading the overview of the delegation arrangements and agenda, my head spinning with details on Montfort trade, Scarlet Guard movements, the Nortan reconstruction, and the inner workings of the alliance. I try not to think about it now. I don’t need a headache this early in the day, though I’ll certainly have one by the end of the first meeting this morning.
“Leave the clothing and moving arrangements to the rest of us.” Gisa gestures to the apartment at large. Her message is clear. The Barrows will take care of everything they can here and give me the space I need to get through the next few days unscathed.
Little does she know the worst has already begun.
With a sweater half over my head, I pull my sister into a tight hug. She fights it weakly, grinning.
“Can we trade?” I whine. “I’ll make shirts and you suffer through hours of debate?”
“Absolutely not,” she snaps, pushing away from me. “Now try and dress yourself properly. Farley’s waiting for you out in the sitting room, by the way. She’s got a uniform on and everything.”
“Fat chance of that.” I pull on a pair of dark pants instead, not even bothering to hunt for whatever uniform might be buried in our closet. My memories of tight, stiff red fabric are punishment enough. Not to mention, I think I looked downright stupid in it. Hardly what I want to be wearing when I come face to face with Cal again. If he even wants to see me at all.
Gisa isn’t a mind reader, but my thoughts aren’t difficult to discern. She looks me over with an eyebrow raised, then waves me forward. “No, no, no. The premier left you some clothes precisely so you wouldn’t go back to looking like a river rat.”
I bark a laugh, knowing exactly what a river rat actually looks like. I am far from that girl now. “Gisa, this sweater doesn’t even have any holes in it!”
She doesn’t bat an eye, pulling garments from our shared closet with swirling motion. To my relief, the outfits are plainer than I expected, and there are no dresses in sight. While I’m excited to dress up for a gala, spending all day in meetings while squeezed into a ball gown certainly isn’t something I care to suffer.
Gisa peruses the clothing with a seamstress’s eye, looking over ensembles in dark shades of red, green, blue, purple, and gray. When she chooses for me, I wonder if my sister wouldn’t also be suited to politics.
“Purple is neutral,” she says, handing over the corresponding outfit. “Shows you’re allied to everyone, and you belong to none.”
It’s the perfect selection. Though I’m still oathed to the Scarlet Guard, I have cause to support both Montfort and the Nortan States. My new home and the old.
Pride for my sister swells in my chest. I run a finger over the soft velvet of the long purple jacket edged in gold. “I have a history with this color,” I mumble, remembering Mareena Titanos and the mask of a Silver house.
Gisa nods, her eyes darting between me and the clothes. “Well, it’s a good thing it suits you.”
My sister works quickly, helping me into the tailored velvet pants, boots, and high-collared shirt before slipping the jacket onto my arms. She tsks at the length of the sleeves, a bit too long for my frame, but otherwise finds no other flaw. Finally, she brushes out and braids my hair into a long plait that fades from brown to purple and gray.
When she licks her thumbs and smooths my eyebrows, I have to jump back.
“Okay, I think you’ve done all you can do, Gisa,” I tell her, putting a hand between us. Gisa isn’t as bad as what the Nortan court used to demand, but she isn’t pleasant either. Especially when I feel like I might vibrate out of my skin with nerves and fear.
She pouts, holding out a palette of colored powders. “No makeup?”
“Is Farley wearing any?” I sigh, crossing my arms in defense.
Gisa doesn’t miss a beat. “Does Farley need any?”
“No—” I start, remembering how pretty she is, until the implication hits me. “Hey!”
Gisa doesn’t flinch and simply points to the bedroom door. She must be eager to get me out of her hair. “Fine, get moving. You’re already late.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be if you allowed me to dress myself,” I snipe, darting around her.
She leers after me. “What kind of sister would I be if I let you face down an abdicated king looking like Stilts alley trash?”
With a hand on the doorknob, I feel a familiar tug in my stomach. “Our lives would be very different if he didn’t secretly like Stilts alley trash,” I shoot back without thinking.
But he didn’t say a word.
My face falls. Luckily Gisa misses it, too busy smothering her laughter.
In the sitting room, Farley jumps to her feet, one hand tugging her uniform into place. She still hates it, favoring body armor over tight collars.
“We’re late,” she clips, her first words to me since we went north. She’s written plenty of letters, but this is our first time seeing each other since we left. To my delight, her cold manner doesn’t reach her eyes, which crinkle with a hidden smile. “Or are you trying to skip out on what will prove to be a riveting and relaxing day?”
I cross to her in a few short strides and she stretches her arms out to embrace me. Her grip is firm and strong, a comfort as much as anything in this world. I lean into her a little, drawing resolve from her dogged strength.
“Is skipping an option?” I ask when I pull back, running my eyes over the young general. She looks the same as I remember, beautiful and fierce. Maybe even more determined than usual.
“I’m sure you could beg off if you wanted,” she replies, calling my bluff. “But I doubt you do.”
I flush. She’s right, of course. A wild bison couldn’t keep me from the delegation meetings.
Her hair is long enough now for a single braid that runs tight across her scalp, like a crown. It makes her look softer, but no less intimidating. As Gisa said, she doesn’t bother with makeup, nor does she need to. Diana Farley cuts a striking figure, on the battlefield and in my sitting room.
“No Clara today?” I ask, looking around her for my niece. My heart sinks a little when I see neither hide nor hair of the little girl.
“I would have carted her to the meetings, but I doubt even I’ll stay awake through them, let alone a baby. Besides, your parents would gut me if I didn’t hand her off. They took her down to the gardens after breakfast.”
“Good.” My body floods with warmth at the thought of my parents playing with Shade’s daughter. Leading her through the autumn trees, letting her rip up Carmadon’s meticulous flower beds.
“The Colonel is with them too, I think,” Farley adds, her voice quiet. But also firm. That is as much as she’s willing to say.
And it isn’t my place to push. Her relationship with her father is not my business until she wants it to be. He must be making a monumental effort, that much is clear, if he’s choosing time with his granddaughter over the delegation meetings.