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Nuala's spine is perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap, not a single strand of hair out of place.
Perfect, as her queen desires.
She sits composed as Queen Titania holds court, wishing she could be anywhere else, counting the seconds until she is allowed to take her leave.
“As you already know,” Queen Titania says, “the delegation from the Infernal Court will be here tomorrow.”
A pause.
“What you don’t know is that Prince Azazel is seeking to take a spouse.”
A chorus of surprised gasps run through the crowd. Most of the ladies, and some of the gentlemen in attendance hold their breaths. Nuala knows Prince Azazel is sought after–a good catch, as her brother would always say–but until now he had never manifested a desire to settle, to find a spouse.
Nuala had seen him once before. He is undeniably handsome, but there is something about his smile that makes her skin crawl, makes her sense danger.
“In three days' time, we shall hold a grand ball in his honor,” Queen Titania continues. “Representatives from seven realms have been invited to present potential matches for the prince.” She pauses, letting her words settle. “This union could forge lasting peace between our realms. Decades of conflict could finally end with this alliance.”
Murmurs ripple through the assembled people. Nuala feels the excitement, the anticipation, the hunger for political gain that always accompanies such announcements.
“From our own court,” Queen Titania's voice cuts through the murmurs, “I have selected ten of you to attend the ball. Prince Azazel will choose from among our finest.”
Nuala's stomach twists. Finest. Like they were prize horses being offered at market.
Even as the queen starts to list the names and call forward the chosen, Nuala knows she will not be one of them. She can’t be chosen, not after six months prior she had been found clean-faced in her chambers at midday.
Disgraceful, the queen had hissed, taking in Nuala’s bare lips, her unlined eyes, her cheeks of their natural colour instead of the perfect rose that was expected. What if someone had seen you?
Since that day, she'd been watched like a hawk. Even her own brother had lectured her about the importance of being perfect at all times, of never giving the queen cause for displeasure again.
You have no idea how close you came, Cluracan had whispered urgently, and had told her the queen had considered sending her away as a gift to a nearby realm whose ruler had fallen out of her queen’s favour.
Her stomach churns at the memory. A gift. A pretty trinket to smooth diplomatic relations.
“You will represent the best our court has to offer,” Queen Titania says, once she finishes listing the names. As Nuala expected, she is not among them, but her brother is.
“The prince seeks a spouse who embodies beauty and perfect poise. I trust you will not disappoint me.”
A chorus of “Yes, Your Majesty” fills the room as the ten chosen bow to their queen.
“However,” Queen Titania continues, her gaze sweeping across the rest of the assembled court, “this will be a joint effort. Those not chosen will assist in preparing our representatives. You will help select the finest silks and the best jewelry, find cosmetics that will enhance their beauty, and help them perfect the etiquette required to address foreign sovereigns.”
Another chorus of assent fills the space, and Nuala's lips move with the others, the words automatic after years of servitude, but for the briefest moment, as she bows her head in deference, Nuala allows herself to imagine what it would feel like to say something else instead.
The thought terrifies and thrills her in equal measure.
“You know, if you hadn't been such a fool, you could have been among the chosen yourself,” Cluracan says, as he disdainfully eyes a light brown silk shirt. He brings it near his face, and looks in the mirror, then tosses it to the side, on top of the growing pile of discarded items.
Nuala sighs, and hands him a deep blue shirt. “I am aware.”
“I still don't understand what possessed you. Going without makeup in broad daylight! What were you thinking?” He holds up the garment and tosses it among the others. “Perfection isn't optional, Nuala. It's survival.”
“So you've told me.” She holds up a forest green shirt. “This one?”
“Better. But the sleeves are wrong.” He dismisses it with barely a glance. “You know, Nuala, when the prince chooses me, I’m going to miss you.”
When, not if. Nuala sighs at her brother’s confidence. “I had not thought you one to wish to settle,” she points out, “given your…proclivities.”
Cluracan pauses, a pale yellow shirt halfway to his chest. “But imagine! I could be a prince consort! Think of the opportunities, the influence.” He smiles, then winks at her. “Besides, I'm sure the prince's court offers new pursuits to explore if one can be discreet.”
“Cluracan!
“Don't be tiresome, sister.” Cluracan rolls his eyes. “Now, hand me the purple one with the gold lining.”
The evening of the ball, Nuala's chambers feel smaller than usual. She sits at her vanity, slowly removing her makeup for the night. Her quarters are comfortable enough–more than many in the court could claim, really–but the light blue walls and the fine furnishings make her feel like a trapped bird, its wings beating frantically against the bars of a perfect little life.
The silence is blissful after hours of his brother’s chatter about the new life that awaits him. Still ever confident, he’d even proposed to ask their queen to send her over when he’d settle into his new court, if she wanted to follow.
How lovely, she thinks, as the thought of moving into another prison makes her jaw clench.
Nuala closes her eyes and imagines speaking her mind for once, imagines laughing too loud, or wearing her hair loose, or telling someone exactly what she thinks of their etiquette.
The fantasy is so vivid, so tempting, that she forgets her duties, and lets her mind roam free.
“Oh, how I wish I could…” Even as she speaks those words to herself, she knows they’re futile.
“Could what?” a voice asks, behind her back.
Startled, Nuala turns around, and a woman stands before her. Dark skinned and beautiful in a way that makes Nuala’s pulse quicken, she bears herself with formality. Her back is straight, and she is wearing a purple tailcoat and a matching vest over a crisp white shirt. Her ears, Nuala notices with a faint blush, are pointed and lovely, and the round glasses she is wearing complement her beauty.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“I am Lucienne,” the woman says, her voice warm and measured. “And I am here to grant you a wish.”
Nuala stares at her. Nothing about her matches the descriptions from old wives' tales, and yet there is only one possible answer. “Are you... are you a fairy godmother?”
“Please,” the woman–Lucienne–says with a scoff. “I am no godmother. I am merely a fairy who has chosen to grant you a wish.”
“A wish.” Nuala tries the word, tentative and soft. “What is the catch?” she asks, then, because experience has taught her that nothing is given for free, and that there is always a catch.
“No catch.” Lucienne smiles, and her smile softens her lovely features. “Just a simple wish.” She glances around the chamber, taking in the discarded silks and jewelry that Nuala has not had the time to tidy up. “I assume you wish to attend the ball tonight? To dazzle Prince Azazel and win his hand?”
Without thought for etiquette or refinement, the words burst from Nuala's lips unbidden, “Fuck the prince!”
Lucienne's eyebrows rise above her glasses, and amusement flickers across her face, followed by a huff of laughter.
“What?” Nuala asks, and she doesn’t mean to sound so combative, but she is tired. “There are a lot better things I could be doing right now than wasting my time on some prince who wants to find the perfect little spouse.”
Her harsh words are rewarded by open laughter. “I couldn't agree more,” Lucienne says, and if Nuala is not mistaken, there is a new sort of admiration in her gaze. “How refreshing to meet someone who is not swooning over the prospect of royal marriage.”
Nuala feels heat rise in her cheeks at the approval in Lucienne's voice, at the way her perceptive eyes roam over her, taking her in, seeming to see straight through her.
“So,” Lucienne continues, stepping closer, “if not the prince's hand, then what? What do you truly want, Nuala?”
The word comes without hesitation: “Freedom.”
“Ah,” Lucienne says. “A remarkable wish, indeed. But you must understand that freedom means leaving all of this behind. Your chambers, your position at court, everything you've ever known. Are you certain this is what you want?”
Nuala's gaze drifts around the chambers that have felt like a prison for so long. She thinks of the hours spent perfecting her appearance, of words measured and weighed before being spoken, the constant fear of disappointing Queen Titania. She thinks of her brother's assumption that she'd follow him into yet another prison, of being treated like a pretty thing to be gifted and traded. Like dowry.
The answer, she finds, isn't hard at all.
“Yes,” she breathes, but even as she says the word, she knows that Lucienne’s words are not unfounded. She has never known of a life outside of her queen’s court, would not know how to be free.
“But perhaps...” She continues, and feels her cheeks flush, but she forces herself to continue. “Perhaps you could guide me?”
Lucienne’s smile turns warm and wondering. “You would trust me with that?”
“Yes,” Nuala repeats, surprised by her own certainty. She hesitates, then with what she hopes is a coy smile, she adds. “I like you.”
Lucienne’s breath catches. She steps closer, close enough that Nuala can make out every detail of her gorgeous face. “I think, she says softly, “that would be my greatest pleasure.”
At her words, the laughter that had been trapped beneath Nuala’s sternum for so long breaks free. She laughs, delighted, and for the first time since forever, feels that she can breathe.
Lucienne's smile widens at the sound. She reaches out, her fingers gentle against Nuala's cheek, and leans in. The kiss is barely more than a whisper, but in that soft brush of lips, Nuala tastes freedom itself—wild and sweet and hers.
When they part, Lucienne presses their foreheads together, then steps back and offers Nuala her hand. An invitation. A promise.
Nuala's hands move to her hair without hesitation, pulling out the pins that keep it in place one by one. Each pin that falls to the floor is like a piece of her life falling away, a weight she no longer has to carry. Her hair tumbles loose around her face, and she is herself, at last.
She reaches for Lucienne's hand, and grasps it tightly.
“Lead the way, then.”