My Shoes

Of course I would rather have picked out my own outfit. But she did very well, considering. Not this year's fashion, I suspect, but certainly presentable enough. Who knew she had such good taste? You certainly wouldn't guess it to look at her. Not that I can boast much of a wardrobe myself, but I imagine she has more... resources.

I ran in to the house for a glimpse in the old mirror before I left, so I know that the corset slims my figure down unbelievably, that the neckline plays a flirtatious game with my bosom, and that I don't look like me at all anymore, or not like I'm accustomed to looking -- rather, like someone who has stumbled out of a storybook. She did something outrageously intricate with my hair, involving a lot of pearls and ribbons, that I'm not sure is possible by natural means, and there seems to be a bit of extra color around my eyes and lips. As I said, the effect is not like me at all... and is all the more pleasing for that.

So here I sit in this coach that isn't a coach, bumped and jostled about by the heavily rutted road into the city, trying not to bite my very round, very smooth fingernails. I can't recall the last time I saw them so clean. If only she could have smoothed over my nerves as well. She did a fine job with the clothing, I admit, but I can't help but feel that all of this is a terribly bad idea: dressing up an uncouth country girl like a fine lady and sending her off to crash the biggest party of the decade. What could possibly go wrong? Everything.

I think I can fake the dancing, at least. I don't know the dances of rich folk, but I'm a quick learner and light on my feet, as nimble with a jig or a reel as any farmer's daughter. I expect the banter will be more of a challenge. I'm afraid all the time I spend with swineherds and milkmaids will show in my manner of speech and choice of idiom, just as all the time I spend with books makes it obvious that I'm not really one of those people, either. But I have an alias ready, and I know enough to smile and keep my mouth shut whenever possible. Most people are more than happy to provide the talking part of a conversation, so long as you appear to be doing the listening part.

I think she had it in her head that tonight would be some sort of husband-finding mission, which I found incredibly funny. The party is a matchmaking soiree for the Crown Prince, I gather, and certainly my stepsisters were all in a tizzy imagining that he'd fall head-over-heels for one of them (and in a jealous rage at the thought that he might fall for the other of them). There will be far too many hopeful young ladies there tonight for him to give more than a word to each, and I can't imagine what I would say back to him even if he could spare one for me. Oh, there might well be some eligible noblemen hoping to pick up the crumbs that fall from the royal table, so to speak. There are possibilities there, I admit, but the possibility of... unpleasantness seems far greater. I must keep in mind that a fine lady doesn't reward a frisky-handed gentleman with a hard right to the jaw.

The dress definitely helps my courage, though. I rearrange its generous, shimmering skirts over my legs and, in doing so, catch another glimpse of my shoes. Oh dear. My shoes. What was she thinking? She seemed so very proud of them. I've never seen anything like them before; I can't decide if they will be the envy or the scorn of every woman there. They look like they're made of brook ice, swirled and bubbled, but you can see my feet right through them. It's a strange effect. There are my toes, lined up in a neat diagonal row, already getting a little clammy under the smooth, cool surface. The shoes look like they could crack as easily as ice, too, and I wonder how practical they really are for dancing. It's a good thing I won't be doing any running this evening.