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Polistea braces herself, yet still yelps when her mother pulls the lace. Tears pearl in the corners of her eyes before her body adjusts, her lungs accepting their limited capacity. The corset gives her the desired figure, and so it must be endured.
“Are you going to mewl like that every time?” her mother scolds and slaps the back of her head. Polistea grits her teeth so as not to offend again. “Stupid girl. This is for your own good. No man will want you if you show your pudgy stomach.”
Polistea digs her fingernails into her soft palms, the sting of pain distracting her from the biting response ready to leap out of her throat. Her mother grabs another section of the laces. No ‘mewl’ comes—she learns fast.
The torture is nothing new; only the latest in her mother’s quest to mold her into the perfect porcelain doll. When she turns of age, years from now, she will grace the stage as a contestant for the coveted title of Domina Garlea. In the meantime, each waking hour is spent practicing. Honing her voice with patriotic songs, her manners with endless roleplay scenarios, her posture by balancing books on her head. Each meal she’s expected to use the correct fork and spoon, though their food is no better than peasant gruel. So it has been since her father’s death in the ceruleum mines.
Her mother yanks the laces again. Polistea’s breath hitches with the tightening pressure. “Mother, it’s too tight—” she whimpers.
“Too tight is how it should be. Now, hold still. Don’t you want a life better than this? Don’t you want to make your father proud?” It’s a question her mother knows makes her want to cry, yet she asks it mercilessly. “Then I suggest you put on that pretty face and deal with it.”
No choice remains but to keep her mouth shut. She closes her eyes and focuses on steadying her breathing. Deep inhale, exhale. Repeat. Inhale, exhale. She forces the discomfort to stay put as her mother tightens the laces one last time before tying them off.
Polistea opens her eyes again to a world appearing a shade darker around her. She stands up straight, ignores the burning on her ribs, and walks in a straight line just as her mother instructs. Walks straight into her ruin.
“Tighter,” Polistea snaps at her bridesmaid. Orchidea obliges with a stronger tug, but still not enough.
“It’s not too late to back out,” she repeats what she has said in a million words before. At the pageant’s backstage, it would have been a taunt. Polistea’s silver medalist would have loved her resignation. Now she only wants what’s best for her, but the pretty bride does not see it her way.
Polistea scowls, ignoring her bridesmaid’s words. “Pull harder. It needs to be tighter.”
Orchidea sighs but tightens the corset with another pull, and another, until Polistea gives a weak nod of approval. It’s hard to breathe now, each inhale sharp against her bruised ribs. She ignores the sharp pinch of discomfort to take in herself in the mirror. Her gown is the very finest; expensive silk, golden lacing and frills. Her cheeks’ florid glow would charm any man. And charm they have, first the country itself, then a prince from her fairytales.
And Orchidea too. Her hands slide to her cinched waist, slowly, reverently. Polistea meets her forlorn eye in the reflection, standing still as a statue. Unwavering in her resolution.
“You’re beautiful,” Orchidea whispers. “He doesn’t deserve you.”
But Nerva yae Galvus, in Polistea’s rose-tinted view, is her way to freedom. She swallows hard, forcing herself to look away from her bridesmaid’s soft features. “Enough of that chatter.” If her groom knew of her tender nights with this woman, he’d change his mind. He’d condemn her right back to her mother’s winter. She straightens her spine with a grunt of discomfort no worse than the thought. Her body hurts all over, and her organs must’ve shrunk to half their size. Yet her reflection is that of a porcelain doll in a dress too fine for a daughter of a miner.
She grabs her bouquet of silk flowers, a substitute for white roses. Alas, a recent rampaging morbol in the botanical gardens made real ones hard to come by. She only hopes it’s not a bad omen for her wedding. “Are you ready, Orchidea?”
Orchidea nods, but hesitates as she follows the bride to the door, her eyes lingering on the stiff movements.
Polistea notices the pause. She knows what the woman is thinking, knows how their whispered promises will end once the vows are done. A pang of guilt pinches the pit of her stomach. Her hand finds the bridesmaid’s and squeezes it briefly. “This is my choice,” she murmurs. The words are for both of them. “I have to do this.”
“So you say.” It’s the last objection that leaves Orchidea’s lips. She places a lone violet in Polistea’s bouquet, then lets her go. It’s too vibrant, its purple petals too bright for the white silk arrangement.
Polistea’s eyes linger on the flower as she hides it among the fake blossoms, out of sight. So too will Orchidea have disappeared come the reception, but Polistea won’t notice. She takes a deep breath, her lungs barely able to fill in the pressure of the corset, and strides out of the back room into the ceremonial hall.
Polistea’s teenage son has taken to fashion. This would be no problem, of course, if he didn’t raid her closet for his accessories. She’s long discarded what he steals from her own daily wear—she’s a woman pushing forty, not some doll. Her constricting cage has matured with her. Seeing Nerva junior strut like some peacock down the palace halls, the stolen corset tied too loosely around his waist, is an insult regardless. Polistea’s fingers twitch, itching to tighten the strings. Her son has no right to treat her garments so carelessly.
“You’re going to stretch those laces.” She steps towards him, hands on her hips.
“Mother, are you calling me fat?” Vespasian gasps in mock-scandal, not slowing his gait. Her shorter legs take two of his steps just to match his speed.
A vein pulses on her temple. If she had talked back like that in her youth, she would have gotten the cane. She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You know that is not what I mean, you little brat.”
He is the spitting image of his father: tall, pale and handsome. Only his light hair resembles hers, and even that he bleaches. She should love him, but the boy inherited more than his looks. His attitude is exactly like her husband’s. Pompous, arrogant, and annoyingly clever.
He twirls around, the corset fluttering with the motion, displaying the gap between the laces. His smug smile, just like Nerva’s, tells her he taunts her on purpose. She scowls, her ire reaching a boiling point.
Without warning, she grabs his arm to stop his spinning. She forces a smile despite the strain in her cheeks. Keep up appearances. Don’t cause a scene. Smile. With a swift hand, she tightens the laces enough to close the gap, and the corset molds itself around his lean waist.
He lets out a sharp groan, bordering on pained. “Mother, it’s too—”
Polistea scoffs. “Too tight? It has to be tight. You’re wearing it wrong.” It gives her more pleasure that it should, seeing his features pinched together as the corset squeezes his waist. She pulls the laces even tighter until the garment is properly tied off. His pale face has turned red, and he staggers like he might faint any second.
“Can’t breathe—” he gasps out, clutching a hand to his side.
Polistea rolls her eyes. He is such a drama princess. “Stop your mewling. You act as if you’ve been stabbed. Grow up. You can handle a little discomfort for the sake of fashion, can’t you?”
He opens his mouth to retort but snaps it shut when she gives him a warning look. So he resorts to glaring at her instead, the pain in his gaze as clear as the flush on his cheeks. His clammy hand rubs the spot where the corset digs into his ribs.
Polistea almost feels a surge of pity for the boy. Almost. She pushes it down like all her other unwanted feelings. He is just like his father, she repeats to herself. He can handle it. Satisfied with her last word, she walks away instead.
No doubt the kid will whine to her husband, and she will hear of it later. But can Nerva blame her? She’s merely instilling the composure he so wishes to see in his spawn.