“Well, if you didn’t, it makes it all the more peculiar,” the Eastern servant continued. “Prince Baldair has never ordered one of his common women to be prepared for a formal function. It’s all on the wrong side of the sheet, hush between the pillows. You’re the first he’s ever brought out in public.”

“But, I, this is not...” Vhalla wished she had something to quench her dry throat. Her and Prince Baldair? Was there more than she had previously thought?

“So, we want to show all those stuck up nobles that we’re just as good as they are.” The woman who had previously been working on Vhalla’s hair went over to a large wardrobe. The doors thrown open, Vhalla saw a single garment: a long black gown with a bustier top, capped sleeves, and a skirt of endless draping.

“Is that mine?” Vhalla barely heard her own words, the wonder of it sounded like a chorus in her ears.

“A Chater original,” the girl affirmed with a nod.

Vhalla said nothing during the process of getting into the dress. Her ribcage was squished into the most frustrating garment that she had never even seen before. It was laced in the back and tightened to accentuate her figure. The servants called it a corset, but Vhalla could think of a handful of other colorful words to use.

They painted her face and applied lotion to her whole body. Vhalla was like a living doll and equally clueless. So she sat, mostly silent, and allowed the servants to accomplish their tasks.

The dress fit her perfectly. The bustier top was silk with velvet sleeves and skirt. Vhalla shamelessly ran her palms over the fabric. It felt soft, like what she imagined clouds felt like.

By the time the girls pulled the last curler from her hair, the sun hung low in the sky. They touched up her curls with a rod stoked over coals, after much assuring to Vhalla that it would not burn her hair. Skeptical by the steam and scent that her hair gave as they wrapped locks around the poker, Vhalla obliged them.

Eventually, the servants took a step back and assessed their work. They would touch up this or that before reassessing. With a final nod, they pulled her to her feet.

“Are you ready?” The Easterner helped her slip her feet into heels. Vhalla’s ankles wobbled unsteadily.

“Am I?” Vhalla asked, thankful the young woman had not yet let go.

“There’s a mirror behind you,” she said with a small smile. There was a wistful longing on her cheeks, and Vhalla felt a twinge of guilt for having this opportunity. She turned in the direction of the mirror. Awkward in the tall shoes, she tripped on her skirt—almost toppling forward were it not for the Eastern servant’s support. The young woman laughed loudly. “You need to work on that, Miss Lady.”

Vhalla didn’t even hear the jest. Staring back at her in the mirror was a woman who Vhalla could not recognize. Frizzy and untamable hair had been curled, falling in brown, almost ringlets, over her shoulders. In the black gown, her yellow-hued skin almost seemed to glow golden. The hazel of her eyes lit with the touch of smoky shadow upon her lids, enhanced by a dark liner. Vhalla took another step closer.

It wasn’t like her palm mirror in her room. She didn’t have to bob her head around to attempt to see her whole face. Vhalla could see her whole body, and she stared in awe. Her arms were scrawny and her chest wasn’t much to speak of, even with the help of the corset. But her waist was small and her neck looked long and regal. She looked—

Vhalla couldn’t bring herself to even think it.

“You’re beautiful.” The woman who had done her hair filled in the word for her.

“Thank you,” Vhalla whispered. There wasn’t anything else she could say, but it wasn’t nearly enough for what these people had given her. She looked like a lady, a real lady.

“Let’s practice walking in those shoes before we turn you over to the hounds of polite society.” The Easterner took her hand and began to lead her around the room.

Vhalla walked around the guest rooms, hand in hand with each of the young woman. Like children learning their first steps, it was a slow process but Vhalla eventually took to it. By the time they called for a servant to escort her to the Gala, Vhalla hadn’t tripped in over a fifty steps.

“Will Prince Baldair be escorting me?” she asked the servant who led her down a small side hall.

“He is already greeting the Gala’s attendees.” The servant kept his eyes forward.

“Am I late?” Vhalla wondered if her walking practice had gotten her into trouble.

“No, my lady, you are on time,” the servant responded.

Vhalla wondered how she could be on time if the prince had already arrived to greet others, but she kept her ignorant questions to herself.

Eventually the hallway merged with a major hall of the palace. On one end two doors stood open wide. Vhalla saw the fabled glittering chandeliers of the Mirror Ballroom hanging from the ceiling before its second story entrance. The servant who escorted her gave a nod to a different man positioned at the door before turning away without a word.

“Wait, where are you going?” Vhalla asked, suddenly aware of how alone she was.

“You didn’t think I’d walk in with you, did you?” The man turned with a chuckle. “Good luck, Lady of the Common Folk.”

Vhalla stood dumbly watching the man walk away. She listened to the sounds drifting up through the doors. It sounded like half the city was in that bright and mysterious ballroom. Vhalla looked down the opposite end of the hall. A few people were making their way up, but nothing would stop her from turning and running back to her room.

Taking a step away from the doors, she looked at where the servant had disappeared. This wasn’t her. She wasn’t some lady from a foreign land. She was Vhalla Yarl, the farmer’s daughter whom no one expected to be able to read or write. Her feet stopped.

That wasn’t all she was. Vhalla turned and started for the doors before her resolve failed her. She already had secrets. She was the first Windwalker. She was something the crown prince had claimed he would protect. Vhalla’s toes stopped at the edge of the light in the doorframe. She didn’t yet know what she was about to blossom into, but it was far greater than a library girl.

“Are you ready?” the servant asked softly.

“Yes. No.” Vhalla swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

“Listen to the name I say.” He took a step out into the light, drawing a deep breath. “Presenting, Lady Rose.”

Vhalla stepped out into the light and was almost blinded. If one full-length mirror had been overwhelming, the walls of the mirror ballroom were enough to make her feel dizzy. A long stairway challenged her footing, and Vhalla descended, trying to keep a smile on her face.

The room was reduced to hushed whispers, even though the ambient music continued. People were multiplied by the reflective walls and Vhalla began to feel her resolve diminish under all the prying eyes. Why had Baldair chosen the name Rose? It clearly was a fake name. Who was actually named after a flower?

She walked slowly, determined not to fall, her eyes darting throughout the room as she tried to hear the hushed words from the crowd.

They were not whispering about the name, Vhalla quickly realized. It looked as though all the colors of the library’s stained glass ceiling had come to life. Vibrant hues dotted the large dance floor waiting beneath her. Southern blue seemed to be the preferred shade, with a few reds of the West; there were even purples of the East sprinkled in. There were no other dark colors.