The Cold Prince

8

Word Count: 1896

~Avila

The fabric around my waist is pulled tighter, pressing the breath from my lungs.

"Ow," I yelp as a needle pokes my skin, leaving a stinging sensation in its wake.

I look ridiculous. I'm standing in front of a large mirror, staring back at a version of me I don't recgonise.

Since my memory has returned to me, I've struggled to relate to the person I see in the mirror. Coming to terms with the fact that this is me has been harder than I anticipated.

"Apologies Princess, the needle is awfully sharp," the seamstress murmurs, securing the fabric in place with her safety pin.

I stare at the dress she is working on. The fabric, on the outside, is light and flowy, but the structure of the dress is suffocating as it pulls at my rubs and presses into my lungs.

"Stop flinching, dear, and the seamstress won't poke you," Crimson exclaims, brushing my hair back over my shoulder so she can admire the sweeping neckline.

"This is very uncomfortable," I grit out.

When Roel isn't around, Crimson doesn't hesitate to fit me back into a schedule made for a Princess. Apparently my old closet isn't good enough for the new me, with today being only one of the many days ahead of me where my body will be poked and prodded at.

I have suspicions that Crimson is looking for any detail of my body that isn't what it once was, like I'm decomposing before her very eyes...

"We need the perfect dress for you announcement back as Princess," she exclaims, running her fingers along the fabric of the skirt, fluffing it up a bit.

"When will that be?"

"Soon." Her gaze flits up to examine my face. "Ideally you and Vade would be married, so the news would go down better. Unfortunately, despite my limited staff, rumours are floating around about your survival."

The seamstress stiffens, before quickly resuming her work. I would laugh, if I didn't feel so bad for her. It seems everyone around here fears Crimson.

"How are you going to reconcile my death with the Kingdom?" I question. People will want answers that even we don't have.

A girl rising from the dead isn't exactly palatable.

"It won't be simple," Crimson admits stiffly. "They will learn that you were sick, that we had you sent away to stop the spread of the infectious disease. Now, you have returned, healthier than ever."

I flatten my hands against my stomach, feeling the hard bones of the corset. I'm starting to feel lightheaded, and I can't tell if it's from this insufferable dress, or from the lie I will have to tell the people I am meant to rule over one day.

"Why would you tell them I was dead if I were just ill?"

Crimson tucks her dark hair behind her ear, her silver earrings jangling. "Perhaps you slipped into a long sleep. We didn't think you would wake."

"At least there's some truth to that story," I mutter.

The seamstress continues despite this strange conversation, although her eyes are slightly wide. I wonder if she thinks dark magic is involved, like my mother seems to believe.

Crimson draws in a breath, her smile tight. "Ivory is beautiful on you. You look like the Angel you are."

It's clear she is using this dress to send a message to the people. She doesn't want to think of me as a monster having emerged from a tomb. She wants them to see me as blessed, as lucky to have survived some terrible illness.