Chapter 18

Chapter 18

AMALIA

H er clothes didn’t fit.

Amalia looked down at the gold-and-white gown she’d pulled from her wardrobe, confusion and frustration swirling together in her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she had bought a new dress, couldn’t remember the last time someone had delivered one to the palace.

But her old clothes no longer fit.

This one was—inexplicably—too large and too small at the same time. A fact that seemed to defy all reality. The hem should have reached the floor or at the very least to her ankles, but no—it fell at least three inches too short, hitting her nearly mid-calf. And the dress was uncomfortably tight across her chest, the stiff fabric digging into her ribs. But the rest?

Amalia snorted, holding her arms out to her sides. The dress was heavy and loose, everywhere but her chest. It slipped off her shoulders, and there was much more fabric than she remembered. Enough that she could grab a handful where it pooled at her waist and below her collarbones, just above her chest.

She needed new clothes. Amalia let out a long breath.

She’d wanted to start with something simple. A bath and then maybe a walk around the palace grounds. She’d opened her curtains this morning and seen the sun and the rich blue sky and felt… something. For the first time in a long time, she’d felt something, some kernel of emotion in her chest.

Not happiness or hope, or anything like that. Maybe a little sad. But it had been something, after so long of feeling nothing, and somehow that had been enough to get her out of bed and into the bath.

But now? None of her clothes fit. She couldn’t go outside, not like this. Couldn’t be seen wearing clothing that was so obviously not her size. She looked a mess.

You represent our entire Faction , her mother had told her, repeatedly. Try not to be such an embarrassment, won’t you?

And Amalia was trying. Truly trying. But she didn’t have other clothing, and not a single item in her wardrobe fit her anymore. Her nightclothes at least fit, but they were all dirty. She’d piled them all up outside her door, hoping her handmaids could get at least some of them washed before she went to bed tonight.

She would need to send someone out to buy her new clothing, eventually, but until then…

An idea occurred to her. She knew where there were clothes that might fit her. Most of it unworn, too.

Her mother had always bought more dresses than she could ever wear, hadn’t she? And her mother had known exactly how to dress, exactly how to be the proper representative for all Witches. Surely her clothing would be good enough, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t make her look like an embarrassment?

Yes , Amalia decided, though the idea gave her a flutter of fear. That is the answer . Still, the idea of leaving the small world around her room was almost frightening enough to send her back to bed.

Amalia poked her head out her bedroom door and looked around. No one. Perfect.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she stepped out of her room and into the palace.

Moving quickly, Amalia snuck through the hallways of the Northern Wing, listening for anyone who might be in the palace, walking the halls. She didn’t want to be seen like this—her dress, too short and so tight around the chest she could barely breathe, and her hair still wet from the bath. She was glad she hadn’t put on shoes yet. Her bare feet made barely any noise on the cold marble floors as she hurried.

No one had bothered doing anything with her mother’s effects after her death. It was like everyone had forgotten her, just like they’d forgotten Amalia. Her mother’s room looked just as it had that night—almost. The maids had taken the sheets from the bed and replaced them with fresh ones. There was a very thin blanket of dust on it now, and Amalia wondered how often they bothered to change the sheets for a queen who would never use that bed again.

Amalia tried not to look around at her mother’s room too much, heading straight for the closet instead.

Her mother’s closet was full of dresses, just as she’d predicted. Amalia brushed her hand over the shoulders of the gowns, reveling in the textures. They were even more beautiful than the ones in Amalia’s wardrobe, even more well-made, more luxurious.

There were a few dresses Amalia remembered, a few she’d seen her mother wear before. Amalia didn’t touch those. She couldn’t even bring herself to look at them for too long. They made her want to go back to bed and forget about ever wanting to get up in the first place.

But there were others, plenty of others. Unworn. Ones her mother had never even touched. Those dresses didn’t make her feel anything at all. Amalia took a few of them from their hangers, laying them out on the bed, before choosing a green gown with cream lace to try on. It was intricate, but not so much that it couldn’t be a day dress. It was perfect.

Amalia struggled to remove her old dress, wincing as the fabric cut into her skin. It was a relief to toss it aside and step into the green gown.

It fit. Mostly. It was a little long, the hem brushing against the floor, though not nearly as long as she’d expected it to be. Her mother had always been so much taller than she was. Maybe this dress was meant to be worn short? And that’s why?—

Amalia yelped as she turned and caught sight of her reflection in her mother’s mirror.

At first, she thought it was a ghost. Her mother’s specter of death, trapped in her bedchamber, waiting for Amalia to come here so she could tell her what a disappointment she was one last time.

But no. That wasn’t her mother in the mirror, Amalia realized, stepping closer. The figure took a step closer, in time with her.

It was her. Her reflection.

I look so much like her , Amalia thought, shocked. She walked to the mirror, leaning closer to her reflection. She twisted her head from side to side, trying to see herself from every angle. Not an exact copy, no. But enough like her, it was a shock to see.

Her face was so thin—much thinner than she remembered. When had she last looked in a mirror, last seen her own face? Her round rosy cheeks were gone, and their loss made her look so much older than sixteen.

She didn’t have her mother’s snow-white hair, and there wasn’t even a trace of white in her brown curls. But she had her mother’s eyes, her mother’s height.

Her body looked more like her mother’s, too. A little too thin, like she was being stretched, but her mother had looked the same way.

Suddenly, it was all too much. Amalia looked away from the mirror, not wanting to see herself there anymore. Not wanting to see her mother there anymore. She gathered up the dresses she’d pulled from the closet and ran back to her room, not bothering to pick up her old dress from where it lay abandoned on the floor next to her mother’s bed.