Rametta may have been Alvar’s nursemaid, but it was obvious she was fond of Gavril, and Moria was grateful that she’d not spoken against him.
Moria rose from her cushions and set her book aside. “Lord Gavril, to what do I owe…”
She trailed off as Rametta lifted the bundle of fabric, straightening and smoothing. It was a dress. Not a simple dress, but the many layers of a formal gown.
When Moria saw it, ice trickled down the back of her neck. She found her voice and said, “That’s a truly lovely dress, Lord Gavril, and while I cannot say that I appreciate gowns as much as I ought, I do appreciate the gesture. However, I’m not sure it goes with my cell. Perhaps something in a shade of blue?”
“There is a reception tonight,” Gavril said. “My father is entertaining several warlords who are considering joining us. Two of them are particularly pious men, and I made the mistake of suggesting we not mention that we’ve taken a Keeper hostage. My father pointed out that they’ve likely heard the rumor. My strategy was to deny it. My father wishes to embrace it.”
“Embrace…?”
“To let them know that we have the Keeper of Edgewood, and that she has joined our cause.”
Moria laughed – a long, sputtering laugh that nearly toppled her to the floor. “Lord Gavril, I did not realize you had a sense of humor. And such a sharp one. I am truly impressed by your many hidden qualities —”
“Enough.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice, though Rametta and the guard could clearly hear. “We have a predicament here, Keeper, and mocking me is not going to solve it. My father’s idea is preposterous. And dangerous. But he insists. You will join the reception as my guest.”
She wanted to laugh again. It was indeed preposterous. And yet…
She was to be allowed out of her cell. At night, with Gavril, who would be preoccupied with his hosting duties. A reception meant music and feasting and drinking – in a word, chaos. Lots of happy, drunken chaos.
“If your father insists…” she said.
Gavril gave her a hard look. “If you do not behave, you’ll be returned to the dungeon. Behaving includes ‘not attempting to escape.’ I should also warn you that the dungeon guards are comrades of Halmond. He is doing poorly. His friends are not pleased with you.”
“I understand. I have no intention of attempting —”
He cut her short with a look. “If you are sent back there, I’ll not help you, Keeper. I’ll not.”
Now her look was dead serious as she met his gaze. “I have no doubt of that, my lord.”
“Good. Now, I will leave you to bathe and dress under Rametta’s care. Then I will return to explain your role for the evening.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Escorted by two guards, Rametta took Moria clear across to the next building, where she had a proper bath with a proper hair washing, followed by a thorough scrubbing, waxing, and plucking. Or… not completely thorough, at least not when it came to the waxing and plucking. Moria knew that was the custom in the imperial court, but even with the language barrier she was able to tell Rametta that there was no need for her body to be completely without hair.
While Alvar Kitsune was not empire-born, he was adhering to the customs and practices of the empire. Moria supposed that made sense. To do otherwise would only remind people that his heritage lay elsewhere. He intended to rule the empire, not conquer it.
The reception, then, would be court style, one that hearkened back a decade. A message that said that the empire’s golden age had passed with Alvar Kitsune’s exile.
While the current custom was for ornate, upswept hair styles, the previous one called for long, straight hair on women. The longer the better. In both cases, extensions were often employed, but Moria – who as Keeper was not permitted to do more than trim her nearly waist-length hair – needed none. Nor, she would argue, should she need to apply rice powder paste to whiten her face. Rametta agreed, after trying it and frowning at the effect, and settled for a dusting of powder instead.
Next came the makeup. Charcoal for her eyes and brows. Red dye to make a “rosebud” of her lips with honey glaze to add shine – a small pot of which was to be tucked into her dress to reapply after eating and drinking, though Rametta seemed wise enough to realize the chance of Moria actually doing this was about equal to the chance of the sun consuming the earth.
Finally the dress. First the under-robe. Then the split skirt, with a short train. Then silk, silk, and more silk. Ten layers in all, each brightly colored or brocaded. Finally the most ornate layer of all, in the finest silk, covered in gemstones and iron. A warrior’s heaviest leather scale armor did not weigh nearly so much. Moria wondered why Gavril had bothered to warn her against escape – her outfit would hold her as fast as metal shackles.
At least there were a few beauty customs that had disappeared from fashion long enough ago that Alvar didn’t see fit to resurrect them. Foot binding had gone out of style in the last age. More recently, but before Emperor Tatsu’s reign, there’d been the custom of teeth-blackening. One problem with whitening women’s faces was that it made their teeth appear yellow. The solution, back then, had been to black them out altogether, leaving a dark hole of a mouth, which Moria was sure had been a lovely sight.
Once Moria had the dress on, the serving girl returned heaving a large looking glass, which Rametta made her prop in the corner.
Moria walked over, glanced at her reflection, grunted, and stepped away. Rametta scolded Moria like a chattering squirrel. Moria sighed. She stood in front of the looking glass. Then she glanced through it at Rametta, beaming behind her.