Rosa's mother laces her into her corset with enough force to leave her gasping.
She holds tight to the frame of her bed, knuckles white, sucking her guts in as tight as she dares. With each pull of the laces, her waist moves further in. Her organs shift to accommodate the squeeze. Her lungs burn, aching for a deep breath of air.
"Everything has to be perfect," her mother says. "There can't be a hair out of place, Rosalinda. Do you understand?"
"Yes, madre."
"You will be perfect."
"Yes, madre."
She brushes Rosa's hair away from her shoulders, thick brown locks tumbling down by her cheek.
"You're going to be queen." Hands cup Rosa's cheeks. "This is more than I could've ever hoped for you."
The hands slip away. Rosa's mother retrieves a brilliant yellow-gold dress from the bed. She slips it over Rosa's head, careful not to disturb her jewelry.
"Go take a look at yourself."
Rosa nods and straightens, taking in a shallow breath. Small steps lead her to the full-length mirror in the corner of her room, the wood of the frame the same deep brown as her hair. The yellow dress fits her like a second skin, precisely tailored to the shape of her, cut an inch above her collarbone. The gossamer sleeves billow out at her sides like wings.
"Perfect," she says.
Her mother stands behind her, hair pale for an Edeiran's and nearly white-blonde; she's a distant cousin of the late King Diego, whose mother had been a Rubio. Somewhere in her lineage, Rosa's related to the king. Her betrothed.
She's been trying not to think about the details.
"Finally, another Edeiran queen." Rosa's mother folds her arms. "I was sick to death of the Wilshorian one."
"Father says Queen Tamsin was effective."
Her mother scoffs. "Effective? Is that what he calls her?"
"He says she was kind."
"You think kindness is all there is?" Her mother clasps her fingers together.
"I don't understand."
"Think of it this way, child. If His Majesty loved her kindness so much, why is he looking to replace her?"
Rosa presses her lips together. She stares at herself in the mirror again, pink-cheeked and pale-faced. What a question to ask. She's been hard-pressed to find the answer to that query since this whole debacle began. The king could've chosen anyone, but he chose her.
At least, that's what her father says- although he's been notoriously tight-lipped on the subject, which leaves Rosa with more questions and no answers, not as of yet.
"I have no idea," Rosa ends up replying, smoothing down the folds in her dress. "I'm not sure why a man like him would want a girl like me."
Her mother's nails dig into the skin at her shoulders. Sometimes Rosa thinks that there's not a matronly bone in her birthgiver's body.
"You should be happy that he wants you. Happy that he chose you over so many others. Happy that for once in your life, you have a purpose." The gleam in her mother's blue eyes is telling. "The privilege of becoming a queen is never extended lightly."
"Then," Rosa says, "should it be given away lightly? People loved Queen Tamsin."
The gleam is gone. "Why should you concern yourself with love, out of all things?"
"Because-" Rosa pauses, thinking of all the books she used to read as a child, ones with vivid illustrations and declarations of eternal devotion.
"You're just like your father," her mother remarks, lips curling. "Love. Devotion. They're the musings of children."
Rosa whispers, "But I am a child."
Her mother casts her a lingering look. "Not for long."
*
Rosa awaits the king in front of the only home she's ever known. The Silva manor towers overhead, brick and mortar absorbing the high summer heat. Around her is her family; her four sisters stand to her left, all younger and more Rubio than Silva. Her mother and father take their place at her right. Behind her, her cousins- and behind them, a contingent of vassals keep their heads down in the presence of the all-powerful Silva family. The long road that winds through the city of Covigo and up the hill to the manor is empty, although the massive wrought-iron gates that protect the property have been thrown open in expectation.
"His Majesty's telegram said that he'd be here by sunset." Rosa glances at the sun, dipping low to the horizon. A droplet of sweat trails its way down the back of her neck. "Where is he?"
"It won't be long now," Mateo de Silva replies. Her father. His smile is indulgent, but his brown eyes aren't humouring her. His dark, thick curls are rife with sweat. "His Sentinels need to be sure that the area is clear. I'm sure he's anxious to meet you, mija."
"What's he like?" one of Rosa's sisters pipes up. She's as blonde as their mother, with the same frigid blue eyes.
"Lucia," their mother snaps.
"It's alright," says their father. "His Majesty is... reserved, most often."
"Does he look anything like his brother?" another of Rosa's sisters- Elena- asks.
Rosa imagines that the effort her father must be putting into that smile of his is sapping him of the rest of his energy. His tanned skin is growing pale, and he reaches into his breast pocket for his handkerchief, dabbing at the beads of perspiration on his forehead.
"The late Crown Prince," he begins, putting emphasis on those words, "and King Miguel don't look much alike."
"I know what that means," Elena mutters, leaning in towards Rosa, pink lips curling into a mocking grin. "That means you're going to marry an ugly old man. Congratulations, Rosa."
"At least she's getting married, Elena," Bianca- Rosa's youngest sister- squeaks.
That mocking grin turns ugly. "Bite me, pequeñita." Tiny.
The sister closest to Rosa- Claudia- finally makes herself heard. "She'd rot her pretty teeth."
"Girls." Their father's smile is twitching at the edges. "Please."
Elena scoffs and turns away. Rosa gives another glance to the sun and the cloudless sky, hands itching in her lace gloves. What if the king doesn't come? What if he never comes? What if the train derailed, or what if he was attacked on the way? What if all of this planning will be worthless? And if that's the case-
"There he is!" someone cries.
Sure enough, the king's procession has appeared at the top of the hill. His carriage crests downwards with every passing moment. Even from here, the deep blue of the carriage exterior is hard to miss. Sentinels in blue and silver surround him on horseback; nine to the back and sides of the carriage, and two bringing up the front.
"Gods," Rosa breathes. "H-how do I look?"
"Wonderful," comes her mother's flat reply.
"Father?"
That indulgent smile is back full force. "Beautiful as always, mi amor."
The carriage draws closer.
Avert your eyes when he comes, she tells herself. Curtsey. Don't forget to look demure.
Elena leans in, speaking out of the corner of her mouth. "In case you wanted my opinion, I think you look like a pig out for slaughter. Just look at all that sweat."
"What?" Rosa dabs at her forehead with her lace gloves. "You little liar!"
Elena's giggles barely mask the clopping of the horses' hooves. Up close, they're beautiful beasts, white and shiny coats coupled with platinum manes and intricate silver blinders. The Sentinels that steer the horses forward, decked from head to toe in their blue-and-silver regalia, don't mesh well with the earth and the grass. Their colours are cold. Bitter.
Rosa's gaze flits to the carriage. The seal that's stamped on its doors is just as cold in hue; it's the same blue and silver, perfectly capturing the look of an eagle in flight.
As the carriage rolls through the manor's gate, Rosa's back starts to cave in. Her hands tremble when the Sentinels dismount from their horses and stand in one unbroken line by the carriage door. The one closest to it extends a white-gloved hand to open it.
It swings out, and Rosa holds her breath.
A man's hand grasps the edge of the doorway, the colour of washed-out silt. A russet head of hair pokes out next. Then feet hit the ground, stirring up dust.
She saw him once, as a child. She'd journeyed to the capital for a boy's ninth birthday party, and not just any boy. He was the nephew of Queen Tamsin, a black-haired Casillis whose strikingly blue eyes followed a Borja girl around the room. And, being that he was the nephew of the queen, the king was in attendance.
His Majesty was younger than thirty at the time, tall and auburn-haired and clutching a cup of the country's finest wine. He'd donned three rings for the occasion, but they were too big for his knuckles. He pushed them up his fingers when he thought no one was looking, and no one had been, not really.
No one except Rosa.
She recognizes him now. He has the same dark red hair, the same tall, stringy figure. His moss green eyes are wide and ever-watchful, the twist of his thin lips contemplative. He smiles when he sees her parents, spreading his arms to embrace her father.
"Mi Primo!" he exclaims. My cousin, though Rosa's father and the king aren't closely related. "It's good to see you again."
Her father, still smiling his gracefully indulgent smile, returns the king's embrace. "My king. I trust that your journey was a good one."
"It was a luxury. I have you and your sound investments in transportation to thank." The king's attention slides to Rosa's mother. "And mi Parienta! You look as lovely as ever."
Her mother visibly bristles at the address. She's a cousin, but not nearly as important as her husband. After all these years, no one can forget that she's a Rubio. That she married up, not down, and yet still can't rid herself of her lesser noble status.
Rosa's mother plasters on a big smile anyway. "Thank you, my king."
Finally, the king looks to Rosa. Now that he's staring her way, she has nowhere else to put her gaze. He really hasn't changed. Not even the slightest wrinkle has creased his face.
"When I last saw you, Doña Rosalinda, you were no taller than my hip."
Rosa meets his eyes and promptly turns slightly away, berating herself. She dips into a curtsey, cheeks heating.
Without warning, the king puts a finger under her chin, tilting her head up. His head's haloed by the waning sun, his hair redder than earlier.
"There's no need for that," he tells her.
Rosa swallows, slowly rising to her full height. His finger slips away. No rings this time.
After a moment's silence, he moves to greet each of her sisters in turn. Rosa throws a panicked glance at her mother, who directs a barely concealed scowl her way.
"Shall we head inside, mi primo?" the king inquires.
Rosa's father inclines his head. "Of course, my king. Whatever most pleases you."
As the servants hurry to open the doors to the manor, King Miguel gives Rosa one last look. There's an abrupt hunger in his gaze that nearly stops her heart. Rosa's lips part- to speak, to squeak, to make a noise of surprise- but the look is gone as quickly as it came, and King Miguel turns away, laughing with her father as he disappears into the manor's foyer.
Elena pauses beside her, rubbing at an invisible spot of dirt on her powder-blue dress.
"I pity you, sister," she announces.
Rosa scoffs. "Shut up. Can't you pick another day to be bitter?"
"You mean you don't pity yourself?" Elena's face is surprisingly stony.
"Of course I don't."
Elena shrugs, following everyone else into the manor. Rosa takes in a massive breath of air, more than her corset can allow. Not all of it finds her lungs.
"Doña Rosalinda?"
She puts a hand over her heart, startled. "Yes?"
King Miguel extends an arm to her. "Won't you join us inside?"
She contemplates running. Hiding. Burrowing into the dirt and refusing to emerge again.
But in the end she takes his arm, the manor doors shutting behind her.