8

Elodie watched Bishop pace impatiently behind her in the mirror. He was looking down at a piece of parchment folded in his hands, murmuring to himself. She'd not seen him so tense in many years.

"Bishop, could you please sit down? You're making me nervous," she asked.

Bishop paused, looked up, and met her eyes through the mirror. After a moment, he seemed to regain himself, and smiled, shaking his head slowly.

"I'm sorry," he replied, and sat down heavily on the ottoman at the end of her bed.

"It's fine," she reassured him. "I'm sorry, too. I just… I'm already very worried, too."

"Worried? About what?" He asked. A maid passed between them, blocking Elodie's view of Bishop. The maid took a thick lock of her hair in one hand and began to braid it. Elodie carefully turned in her seat to face slightly away from the mirror, so she could see Bishop where he was sitting.

"Is everyone already here?" She asked.

"No, I think only a few people have arrived. We're expecting most of our guests within the next few hours. Some of the invitees are rather infamous for being… fashionably late," he explained, smiling half-heartedly.

"Fine by me," she muttered dismissively. "Frankly, I hope nobody comes."

"Now, don't be that way," he warned softly. "You could try to have some fun, darling. There'll be music, and food, and plenty of people to talk to."

"Music is loud. I feel sick, and I don't want to talk to anyone," she snapped at him. "This wasn't my idea and I still don't want it, why would I have any fun?"

"I suppose you don't have to," he replied. "I just thought it couldn't hurt you to try. You've had a very rough few weeks. Perhaps a party could take your mind off it for a while."

"Any other kind of party? Perhaps. But my coronation? No."

He sighed, stood up, and carefully shooed aside the maid working on her hair. He took the four simple braids in both of his hands and picked up the small box of pins, carefully working the braids into a loose knot and pinning them to the sides and back of her head.

"I know," he breathes. "I'll be with you the entire time, alright? I promise."

"I'll need you terribly," she said. "I don't know what I'd do if you couldn't be there. I'd lose my mind completely."

"Your mind wouldn't make it past the gate, with the amount of guards we have in the castle tonight," he assured her. "We'd find it right away."

She smiled reluctantly. It was funny, but she wasn't in the mood to laugh. She hadn't laughed in a long time, and she doubted that she would feel like laughing ever again.

"You said that after tonight, everything would go back to normal. Do you still think so?" She asked, turning to look up at him. She wanted to see his face, to make sure he meant his response.

He looked down at her, resting his hands on her shoulders. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

"As normal as things can ever be again," he told her. "You know it'll never be quite the same as it was before, but things will calm down, I'm sure of it. We'll both have some space to breathe."

She sighed and looked away, across the table at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair done up, pulled back into perfect braids, her face covered in makeup. Her ears, her forehead, her neck covered in dazzling jewels. She really was the spitting image of her mother.

Bishop gently rested his hand against her cheek.

"She would be very proud of you tonight," he whispered to her. "I want you to keep that in mind. She would be honored to call you the heir to her throne."

She shut her eyes against the tears. They'd ruin the makeup, and she'd spend the next half an hour having someone fix it.

"Thank you," she breathed. Silence filled the room for several moments.

"I know you miss her," he admitted.

"So much that it threatens to kill me."

He nodded and stroked her hair, ensuring there wasn't a single strand out of place. And then he stepped back, and offered her his hand. She took it silently and stood up, following him into the closet where the maid was preparing her wardrobe for the night.

She grumbled at the sight of the three separate dresses that had been prepared for her. One for the first part of the party, the second for the coronation ceremony, and the third for the afterparty dinner. How exhausting it would be to have to change so many times in only a few hours. Bishop helped to pull the garments off the display one piece at a time, until finally the mannequin was bare and the maid took the first undergarments from Bishop.

He left, and the process of putting on the complicated formal gown's entire entourage of tailored undergarments began.

She hated how many layers there always were. Bloomers and chemises and petticoats and a corset. Suddenly she glanced at the mirror and she was no longer Elodie, no longer a girl, but a woman, a Queen, flawless and graceful and magnificent, and she shut her eyes against the tears again.

Finally the maid stepped back and she turned away from the mirror and left without a word, into the hall where Bishop waited, making quiet smalltalk with a guest who'd arrived days ago in order to be present for the night's events.

"Ah, there she is," Bishop purred. "The woman of the hour. Look at you. Absolutely stunning, isn't she?"

He turned and looked at the man beside him. He was about Bishop's age, and wearing an opulent and extravagant sky-blue court coat and a pair of dark breeches. His laced boots bore plain gold buckles and eyelets.

She knew of him, but had never met him before. One of her father's closest business partners. As close as her father had ever been to anyone, at least. Reluctantly, she offered a polite smile, and extended her hand.

He took it and leaned down to kiss her gloves.

"Your Highness," he acknowledged. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Lord Archibald Thornebridge, Viscount of Ravenswood. And this is my wife."

A woman she'd not yet even noticed seemed to suddenly appear from behind the men. She wore a long, puffy dress the color of verdant water, with a swirling silky pattern over the entire skirt. About a dozen layers of lace peeked out from beneath, ever-so-slightly caressing the floor.

"Constance," she said, her voice breathy and demure.

Elodie forced another ladylike smile and turned to look up at Bishop. He was watching her closely, and just as soon as he met her eyes, he offered her his arm.

"We've got some business to attend to before the party can officially start, so we'll leave you both to enjoy the peace and quiet before the others arrive. It's been a pleasure talking with you," Bishop explained, grinning, and then turned and guided Elodie away from the pair, smoothly down the hall and around the corner.

Elodie looked up at him just as they were out of sight, and bared her teeth up at him.

"I hate them," she hissed.

"They're perfectly fine people," he soothed. "You just need to give the night a chance. Perhaps you'll even find another girl your age to talk to."

"Why on Earth would I want to do that?" Elodie snapped. She won't understand anything about anything! Have her parents been killed?

Bishop sighed, shrugged, and patted her gently on the arm, then took her hand into his. It was warm, and his gloves were a soft blue satin. She wished neither of them were wearing gloves. His hands were just as perfectly smooth as the fabric was. But such was the way of things, as she'd been told hundreds of times.

"What do we need to do, anyways?"

Bishop smiled slyly. "Nothing, darling. Sometimes I lie."

She frowned back at him, and he lifted an eyebrow.

"But not to me, right?"

He shook his head. "Never to you."

She stared at him, pursed her lips, and then squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back.

"I was just… Amayella said you've lied to us before," she said. "And I know that she doesn't like you – for some reason – but why did she say that if it isn't true?"

"Not everyone will always tell you the truth," he said lowly. "Some people want you to doubt and question, they want you to be afraid. Perhaps Amayella really does believe that I've told you lies, but ask yourself if you remember a time like that. Ask yourself – Was she just trying to pick a fight?"

She furrowed her eyebrows together and held his arm closer to her. Part of her didn't want to believe her sister would so easily and quickly tell a lie, but another part of her felt, in her heart, that Bishop was the most trustworthy man in her life, and he always had been. And besides, Amayella had never liked Bishop. She'd always been jealous and cold towards him, and she'd always started fights. Not just with him, but with Elodie, and even Mama, too. Elodie wondered if Ama was just a troublemaker at heart.

She looked down at her wide skirt, smoothed the fabric over, and then looked back up at Bishop.

He frowned down at her.

"You believe in me, don't you?" He asked. His voice sounded… hurt. Deeply hurt. His eyes seemed to almost glisten. "Haven't I taken good care of you, darling?"

"You… You're right, you have," she conceded, nodding slowly. "Ama is such a brat."

"She doesn't know any better," Bishop laughed gently. Then, quietly, he added, "But I do think so, too."

Elodie smiled up at him. It was nice, being able to rely on him to agree with her on such things. Everyone had always made excuses for Amayella. She'd always been Father's favorite. Somehow that made her the castle's favorite, too.

It wasn't long before a line of carriages and horses were clogging up the front courtyard, covering every inch of the cobblestones and stretching past the main gate into the city beyond.

People cloaked in grandeur and nobility filed in through the main door and were guided by the servers into the ballroom. Bishop held her tightly by the arm and stood beside the front doors, leading the way in welcoming and introducing guests. In the quiet few moments between terribly dull conversations with people she despised, he would provide scripts to follow, tips to make her seem like a perfect hostess. Nonspecific compliments, questions, point them over there, point them over here. She was beyond grateful for the tricks he was offering. It felt as though they stood there for days, when finally Bishop tugged gently on her arm and began leading the way back towards the stairs, to the room where her coronation gown was waiting for her.

As they approached the door, the stone in her throat grew bigger and bigger, and her feet slowed, slowed, and finally refused to move. Bishop paused and looked down at her.

"I can't do this," she whimpered. "I can't do it."

He took both of her hands and leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead.

"It's going to be okay," he whispered. "One step at a time."

She shook her head. "I… I can't."

He nodded in return. "You can. Like the dancing classes when you were young."

She looked down at his feet, poised opposite her own. He took a step backwards, and she took a step forwards. Step, step. Step, step. Closer and closer to the door. She gazed past him at the foreboding golden handle.

"Don't look there. Look here," he reminded, and pointed up at his face. "One step at a time."

She stared into his eyes, paralyzed. "Please, Bishop. Don't make me do this."

His face broke for a split second, as if he might suddenly cry. "Come, now, darling. You're a strong girl," he reassured.

She shook her head and shut her eyes, squeezing his hands harder and harder. After a few moments, he stepped close and wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her from the ground, carrying her quickly towards the door.

A shriek of terror snagged in her throat and she clung to him as he pushed open the door. And there in the center of an otherwise mostly empty room was the dress, elaborate, ornate. She could hardly bear to look.

She knew from all the tailors that it was the same one her mother had worn, and her father's mother, and her grandfather's, and almost every Queen-to-be since as far back as she knew.

But how long it had been in the family didn't matter. It had been her mother's, most importantly. And how could she bear to wear it?

She grasped Bishop's suitcoat tightly in both fists and shook him.

"I can't! I won't!"

Bishop frowned, and a sternness, colder than she'd heard in all her years, overtook him. "You will, Elodie."

She stopped in an instant, and stared up at him, stunned. Her voice now much smaller, she repeated, "I can't."

"Like becoming Queen, this isn't a choice for you to make," he declared. "Stop with this and put on the dress."

She gritted her teeth. "And if I don't?"

Bishop narrowed his eyes on her. Without a word, he turned, and went for the door. He'd made it barely two steps before she threw herself after him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Okay!" She shouted. "Don't leave…"

He swung her around and drew her into his chest. "Do what needs to be done, darling. Alright?"

She nodded, carefully wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. He held her by the cheeks.

"You're a good girl, Elodie. Sometimes we do things we don't want to, because we must. You will understand soon."

Most of the evening was a blur, after that. The dress fit perfectly, thanks to the tailors and the fittings. The coronation was speeches and readings from the sacred books, it was lots of ceremony and carefully placed hands and feet, it was reciting quotes and ancient pledges. Once, the priestess bowed her head and offered her condolences to the crowd, to the people of Evermore at large, for the loss of their rulers.

Elodie could only seethe, silently enraged. Condolences for all but the ones who were most deeply wounded by the loss.

At last, the ceremony was nearly over. She stood at the base of the steps, staring up at the priestess in her long, bright, flowing robes, holding the intricately crafted crown that had once been placed on her mother's head.

She wondered if anyone was as upset as she was, with how quickly such a beautiful woman had been replaced.

And then the heavy gold circlet was placed on her braids, and the priestess stepped back and extended her arms, as though offering the newly crowned Queen for the crowd to welcome.

After several seconds of awe and reverence, the room erupted into cheers and applause and whistling. Joy, veneration, exaltation, the people rejoiced and as though signaled by an invisible conductor, the band struck up and began a triumphant song.

Elodie watched, unable to breathe. Unable to smile, unable to move.

Until, at long last, a warm, firm hand grasped her by the elbow, and to her relief, Bishop led her down from the stairs and towards the back of the room, where the hollers of the crowd began to fade.

He seemed to glow with pride.

"You did very well," he praised. Then, softer, in a tone reminiscent of all the soothing he'd done in the past weeks, he offered, "It's over, now, darling. It's over, now."

She finally breathed and nodded slightly.

"It's over?"

He grinned.

"It's over."