I found I quite liked journeying to town. Seeing people running about doing their daily work gave me a very content feeling. It was a stark contrast to the days when my grandfather was king—when no one could afford a second meal, let alone start a small business. Even as a small child, I felt something was wrong. I would constantly ask my mother why we weren't giving the people outside the castle any food. I was too young to grasp the concept of rich or poor, but it was obvious—even to a child of four or five—that whatever was happening wasn't right.
The carriage came to a stop, pulling me from the memory. We'd reached the modiste: Madame Alexandra Shippensburg. She had once belonged to a noble family, back in my grandfather's reign. But she'd rebelled against her father's rigid world, married a man of humble birth, and paid dearly for it. When the revolution broke out, her father saw it as a chance to reclaim control. He had her husband killed. Not long after, the revolutionaries turned their blades on him, too.
Now Alexandra ran the most sought-after dress shop in the country, sewing gowns for everyone from wealthy merchants to the wives of councilmen. The dresses Kaelen had provided me lately were all from her hand.
"Welcome!" came a vibrant voice as I stepped through the door. "Ah, look at you—the most beautiful Queen of the Northern continent!"
Madame Alexandra swept across the floor in a whirl of fuchsia skirts, her arms outstretched like a performer greeting a roaring crowd. Her silver hair was piled high, woven with ribbons and a single bright peacock feather.
"Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd get the pleasure of dressing a Starwyn!" she exclaimed, her voice rich with theatrical glee.
"Hello, Madame Alexandra," I replied with a polite smile. "I've heard great things about you."
"Oh, who, me?" she gasped, placing a hand dramatically over her chest. "The runaway who became a seamstress? I'm old news, darling. You're the talk of the town!"
She grabbed my hand and gave it a quick, warm squeeze. "And don't be so formal. Call me Alex. All my best clients do." She winked. "Now, let's see what we shall do about this coronation dress?"
I followed her into the heart of the shop, where the walls glittered with a sea of fabrics—silks, velvets, gauze, and lace in every hue imaginable. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, making the threads sparkle like spun gold.
"We'll need drama," Alex declared, snatching a bolt of midnight blue silk and holding it up to my shoulder. "But not too much drama. You're not seducing the court. You're conquering it."
I raised an eyebrow. "You do realize I'm marrying the man who helped overthrow my family?"
"Darling," she said, twirling in a circle and letting the silk ripple in the air, "every great gown is stitched with a little tragedy."
I couldn't help but laugh—just a little. It felt strange. Like something long asleep stretching its limbs.
Alex guided me onto a raised platform, the space ringed with ornate mirrors. "Posture!" she called. "Chin up, back straight. You must look like you command storms, not like you've barely survived one."
I adjusted. She nodded with exaggerated approval.
"Much better. You've got presence, my dear. The kind you can't sew into a hem."
Two young assistants appeared, summoned by a snap of Alex's fingers. They carried armfuls of swatches and sketches. "Fetch the frost-lace and the sun-thread," she ordered. "And bring the dusk satin. We're dressing a queen, not a debutante."
As the girls scattered, she leaned close and lowered her voice. "We're going to make you unforgettable."
"Is that necessary?" I asked.
"Oh, absolutely. You see, people forget pretty. They forget polite. But they never forget power wrapped in silk." She placed a hand over her heart. "And my gowns? They make people remember."
She began draping different fabrics over me—some too pale, some too bold. She rejected one gown sketch with a hiss and declared another "insulting to my scissors."
"No red," she muttered. "Too much blood in your past. White? No. You'll look like a sacrifice. Gold? Too rich—it shouts wealth, not strength. No, no, no…"
She froze in front of a bolt of fabric tucked in the corner. "Ah." Her voice dropped to a whisper. She unfurled it slowly, revealing a smoky blue satin laced with silver threading.
"This," she breathed. "The color of dusk before a storm breaks. The moment when everyone holds their breath."
She held it up beside my face and stared at the mirror.
"I see it now," she murmured. "This is your coronation."
I studied the reflection. The fabric shimmered like mist. Cool, calm… but hiding a quiet intensity. A storm behind still waters.
"I feel something," I admitted.
"Good. That means the dress will wear you just as well as you wear it."
She turned and shouted, "Cut the pattern! We're doing the star collar, the thistle bodice, and that dramatic train I keep being told is 'too much.'" She glanced at me. "Is it too much?"
"No," I said. "It's just enough."
Alex clapped her hands like a delighted child. "A queen with taste!"
She moved faster after that, sketching lines, marking pin points, muttering to herself in bursts of half-English, half-curse. At one point, she said, "Your mother once wore plum velvet to a winter ball. I remember it like yesterday. She silenced an entire room just by walking in."
"She had a way of doing that," I said quietly.
Alex looked up, gentler now. "So do you."
I swallowed down the ache in my throat.
"I'll make you a gown that doesn't just make them look," she said, her voice rich with promise. "I'll make them listen. I'll make them remember."
I nodded. "Then let's begin."
I make my way upstairs. It had taken longer than expected at Madame Alexander's—choosing the right fabric, the gown's cut, the drape, the lace... and of course, we spent far too long debating the perfect shade of silver.
I'm about to turn toward the bedroom suites when I hear voices coming from Kaelen's official chambers. I hesitate. Eavesdropping feels rude—but curiosity, as always, gets the better of me.
"Bidwina is perfect for you, nephew. Please, reconsider your decision," I hear Lady Darwyn say.
"I've already told you—I have a wife. I'm not interested in taking on a mistress," Kaelen replies, his voice clipped and cold.
My jaw clenches. A flush of heat creeps up my neck.
"That Starwyn girl? Oh, please. You're a virile young man. That stuck-up loyalist could never quench your thirst."
"May I remind you," Kaelen snaps, "you're speaking of my wife. And your queen."
I should walk away. Truly, I should. Why should I care if Kaelen keeps a mistress? It doesn't concern me.
But somehow, my feet move forward of their own accord. I make no effort to soften my steps.
"My apologies, nephew, but—" Lady Darwyn falls silent as she hears me approach.
"Kaelen, there you are," I say, wearing a too-sweet smile. "And Lady Darwyn—what a pleasant surprise."
"Nyriane, you're back," Kaelen says, eyes narrowing. He notices the shift in my tone at once. "Did you decide on your coronation gown?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" I reply, voice silky. "Your nephew is far too curious for his own good," I add, turning to Lady Darwyn. "But I'm not falling for any games, sweetheart. I won't ruin the surprise."
A flicker of amusement crosses Kaelen's face. "You can't blame a man for trying."
He reaches for my hand, lifting it to his lips. But instead of the usual polite kiss on the knuckles, his mouth brushes the inside of my hand. It's a small gesture—likely meant for show—but it sends a sharp jolt down my spine. I feel it everywhere, from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes.
"Ahem."
Lady Darwyn clears her throat pointedly.
"Newlyweds are so sweet to watch," she says with a cloying coo. "Ah, the honeymoon phase—such a shame it ends so quickly. I'll leave you two alone…"
She pauses, then adds under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear, "For now."
The moment she disappears down the hall, the air between Kaelen and me shifts.
I pull my hand from his grasp.
"I need to discuss something with you. Immediately."