The thump of the sprite flying into my closed window makes me jump. Before letting it in from the cold, I rush a few steps away to lock my bedroom door. One side of my hair hangs down in tight waves, the other side is still trapped up in golden pins. The color makes me think of him and I flinch back from my reflection in the vanity as I head to the window. The red beads of dried blood on my neck, nearly behind my ear, are why I've had to keep it loose and wild since returning a couple days prior. The sprite keeps hitting against the glass as I fight with the remnants of nightly frost to force the window open.
"Sorry, sorry, I know," I whisper when I finally get it open and the circular puff of light darts inside.
It flies past me without a word and pauses beside the fireplace. I apologize again from a distance as it bobs around before the flames. The palm-sized leather satchel hanging from it makes my pulse uneven with expectations. The stone-colored sleeve of a sweater sticks out from under my bed and I kick it back into hiding while I wait for the sprite to acknowledge me.
Sufficiently warmed, the sprite flies back over to me where I stand next to my nightstand. The violet-pink glow is so bright I can barely make out the lithe, alabaster limbs that emerge from the center of it, the rest of the creature's body hidden in the epicenter. My heart stops as it tugs the satchel open and tips it over the nightstand. Coins clatter out onto the wooden surface.
"No recipient for message," the tiny voice recites, "Half-payment returned in accordance with our contract."
"No..." I stumble back a step, the words making my head ring like a physical strike, "recipient?"
"There is only one building fit for centaurs in the central forest. The inside was dark and there was no answer to knocks on the windows or the door. Do you have another address for the message? We're currently having a deal on roundtrip bundles of-"
"No," I interrupt hoarsely, "I don't have any other address for him. Thank you for trying."
The sprite wiggles in the air, as if it is shivering at the thought of going back out into the cold. It's gone by the time I think to offer it a place near the fire for a bit longer. The colorful glow reflects on the white veil draped over a dress form in the corner of my room as it zips by. The sight of it makes my stomach sink. Saliva floods my mouth, warning me that I may soon be sick. Again.
.
A cloud fogs my vision as I let out a tired, solemn sigh.. People on the street are hustling into restaurants and shops to escape the chill in the misleading afternoon sun. I secretly wring my hands inside the fur muff held in front of my dark wool dress.
Another day of snipping at that innocent tailor weighs down on my mood. I've lost count of how many times I've lied. And I'm starting to become numb to feeling bad about it. Each time they reveal another alteration to the wedding dress, I block the sight of it with my hand in disgust and pronounce it to be all wrong. I'm running out of creative ways to describe what I supposedly want and then act like it meant something else days later. I had hoped it would make Claudius stop wanting me. But he keeps paying them. They keep setting fitting appointments. My father keeps expecting me to go to them.
I reach up to feel for the healed bite mark, struggling to find any evidence of it. Any evidence that he has ever touched me. Or that he ever existed. I wish I had stolen that soap.
A comforting puff of warm air ruffles my hair as the door to a cafe opens beside me. I squeeze past the trio of girls that are leaving. One turns back to smile at me, I wave in return without pausing my entry. An acquaintance more than a friend. Someone I've danced and gossiped with a handful of times at otherwise painfully dull, stuffy parties. But I don't need to have this conversation again. I don't want to hear how lucky I am to be marrying Claudius. Or have her grab my hand and gush about the ring shackling my finger. A ring that I would happily force onto someone else's hand, if only someone would take it from me.
Happy voices chat all around me at the small, round tables. The warm smell of tea, coffee, and pastries offers me some reprieve from the cold and my gloomy thoughts. Normally I'd buy my weight in buttery sweets. But normally my stomach doesn't feel full of lead. The lone, stout mug of chamomile tea I order warms my hands as I turn to search for an empty seat.
"Flora."
I flinch so hard a bit of tea splashes out and burns my hand as Claudius approaches me. My breath freezes in my lungs and I slowly retreat until I feel my backside pressed against the curved glass of the display case. The broadness of his muscular form blocks the thin path between the small tables and the entryway. The door that feels a hundred miles away now that he's between me and it.
"I need to talk to you," He says in an uncharacteristically quiet way.
I reach back to set down the tea cup and hear it shatter on the stone floor when I miss. All the chatter stops around us at the sound. His hand shoots out and grips the muff slid up over one forearm as I turn to escape him. The intensity of his blue-grey eyes being focused down at me makes me feel sick with fear.
"Flora, we-"
I bolt the opposite way, leaving the muff in his hand when I straighten my arm. I nearly collide with a waiter as I run behind the counter. The woman at the front calls out that I can't be back here, but I'm already past her. Someone yelps and jumps out of my way as I sprint through the small, cramped kitchen space. The backdoor is unlocked and I slam it open without stopping, coming out in a shadowy alleyway. I look back only long enough to check that he hasn't followed me before pulling the door shut behind myself.
.
"Wrong," I say flatly.
The tailor's hopeful expression deflates. His assistant pulls out a notebook and plucks a pencil from behind her ear, sighing loudly enough that I know she means for me to hear it. The tailor pushes a hand over the top of his head as if he's brushing his hair back, even though he only has hair on the sides. He turns the dress form and gestures to the deep drapery of the silk and the layers of pearls hanging across the empty space.
"I said mother-of-pearl. Not pearl."
"My notes very specifically say pearl," the assistant says in a quiet, cautious voice.
"Hm," I snip out the sound and look down to toy with the ring on my finger, "You must have written wrong."
"Without the pearls filling the empty space," the tailor adds, "I worry it will be a bit more... scandalous than your fiance would prefer."
"Sounds like a him problem," I say without looking up, feeling whatever remains of my acting skills being exhausted beyond function.
"I don't know if we have enough mother-of-pearl to fashion that many beads," the man says in a tired tone, "And I think the cream color would actually look better on your tone-"
"I'll wait." I interrupt.
The tailor and his assistant look at the dress like it's their own personal purgatory. I leave a stack of coins as a lavish tip on the counter as I walk away. But I can already hear them mumbling about me. And I can't even blame them. I feel like such a bitch.
