I am growing increasingly desperate. While I don’t know how much time has passed in the mortal realm, I know that my wedding date draws ever closer. Not that the Folk give much attention to dates—they move with the ebb and flow of the seasons. Once all the details are decided, and everything is ready, we will be married, and everything is almost ready. Folk are gathering from every corner of the king’s realm to witness our nuptials, and the palace rings with laughter and music at all hours of the day and night.
But I have one more idea to try. I wish that I could think of something other than flight—a way of limiting this vicious winter into which he has plunged the land—but the truth is, my mind grows more and more muddled as the days pass. I know that I have to find a way to undo what the king has done—what I have done—but I also know that if I remain here much longer, I will lose myself entirely.
30th January
That is the date.
I know the date. I feel as if I have touched solid ground for the first time after years at sea.
When the dressmakers announced themselves this morning, after the king and I had breakfasted and he had left me with a chaste kiss, I put my plan into motion.
I had observed that, unlike the servants who trail after me at all times, the craftspeople sent to construct my absurd wedding are not of the palace. They come from far and wide—some are not even from the Ljosland mainland, but remote Arctic islands off the ice-choked northern coast. These Folk are smaller and speak with strange accents. Given that they are not part of the palace and its many enchantments, I thought perhaps there was a way one of them could get me out.
“You are not from the king’s court?” I asked.
“Not at all, my lady,” the tailor replied. “We are—far too humble for that.”
There were two of them, but only one spoke—the man, who now bent to measure my feet. He was small with overlarge black eyes and a sharp face, his hair the colour of dust and his fingers many-jointed and far too long. His companion, an oafish sort of woman whose perpetual mien was an odd mixture of embarrassment and moroseness, handed him a pair of silver shoes. I kicked them aside.
“Her Highness makes it difficult to determine her size,” the tailor said in a dry voice.
“Her Highness has a request to make,” I replied coldly.
“Indeed? Well, Her Highness need not concern herself with requests, but only demands, which surely she is accustomed to.”
As he spoke, he motioned for my servants, who were hovering as usual, to help the mute woman bring in yards upon yards of fabric. He selected a bolt, which—thank God—was neither black nor blue-white, but evergreen with black-and-white brocade.
“I desire a very particular veil,” I said, “I wish it to be woven from the white fur of a hare that I have shot with my own hands. You will weave it for me there in the forest, while the blood is still fresh on my hands, for I wish to make of my veil an offering to my dear husband.”
Now, I had calculated my request carefully, and knew it to be a sensible one for the Folk, who are given to such gruesome predilections. But the tailor only looked at me in silence, his sharp face unreadable.
“Well?” I demanded. “Is this beyond your capabilities?”
“No, my lady.”
“Then take me to the forest. I wish to hunt now.” I tried for an approximation of my fiancé’s thoughtless imperiousness, though I did not have his good humour to pair it with.
The tailor glanced briefly at my servants, who had removed a yard of fabric for his inspection. He took it and began pinning it to my chemise.
“His Highness cherishes my lady dearly,” he said, moving behind me to add more pins. “And what is cherished must be guarded closely, and protected with enchantments like golden chains.”
My chest tightened, and I reached out to the bedpost to steady myself. I understood the tailor’s careful words, though he would not speak openly, in case it were interpreted as criticism of the king.
The king had used his magic to shut me away in the palace. Each time I had tried to escape, I had found myself thwarted, and if I tried again, the results would be no different.
“If my lady would forgive her humble servant’s temerity,” the tailor said, “I have another proposition.”
“What is that?” I was barely listening. The room seemed to have grown cold and dreamlike, like the years stretching out before me, shut away in that ice palace.
“His Highness has declared tomorrow a day of gift-giving.” The tailor’s sewing needle flashed in the light as he added a sleeve to the gown, impossibly quickly. “Folk and mortals both have been invited from far and wide to pay their respects to the king and his new bride. I would like to offer you a veil patterned after one that my mother wore on her own wedding night. I believe you will like it better.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I began to say, then stopped. The sewing needle was unusually small and delicate, forged of a very pure silver that darted in and out of the fabric like a fish through a stream.
I gave a sudden, involuntary jerk, and my arm jabbed into the needle. I gave a hiss of pain. When I did, the other faerie tailor, who had been holding her companion’s sewing kit and scissors in woebegone silence, let out a growl.
“Shut up, you brainless mongrel,” the tailor hissed at her. “It was just a little prick. She’s fine.”
My faerie servants hadn’t noticed this bizarre exchange. They continued to hover, mostly unhelpfully, unrolling more fabric from the bolt so that it dragged on the ground and gathered unsightly wrinkles. I turned to them.
“Leave us,” I commanded in my best imitation of queenly arrogance. They exchanged puzzled glances and backed away a few paces.
The tailor looked at the ceiling, and then he turned to the attendants with a smile that somehow managed to be charming, despite his ugliness. “Her Highness is modest,” he said. “I must undress her now, and she’d rather we have some privacy.”
Oh, God. If I hadn’t known it was Bambleby before, I did now. Even through my shock and confusion, I couldn’t help glaring at him.
The servants tittered and drifted out, all but the senior of them, who said in a show of loyalty, “I must remain, for the king has decreed that my lady must at all times have someone to fulfil her every desire.”
“As thoughtful as that is,” the tailor said, “our lady’s desires are frequently nonsensical, and right now, she desires you not to fulfil them.”
He passed his hand over the servant’s face, and her expression grew dreamy and unfocused. With a sigh, she tumbled backwards onto the bed.
“Wendell!” I exclaimed, rushing forward. “You can’t murder my servants! The king will—”
“Much as I missed being berated by you, Em,” he said, “she is only asleep. We needn’t worry about your king’s wrath.”
I found the servant as he had said, drowsing with her eyes half closed. I was so relieved and happy and stunned, a rush of feelings all together, that I could have thrown my arms around him. Indeed, I almost did, but for some perverse reason, I found myself needing to argue with him instead. Truly, I sometimes wonder if some enchantment is at work to render him as disagreeable as possible. “He is not my king,” I said.