Silk, Brocade, and Polished Horns

“Please, Miss Florian, you must awaken.”

Jianna’s first awareness was a drowsy moan of protest. She felt wonderfully warm and secure, having slipped into a deep sleep she was not nearly ready to leave. The outside world, with its clamor and demands, could wait. Ignoring the insistent voice and the urgent shaking of her shoulder, she pulled the heavy, red-and-gold quilt over her head, burrowing deeper into her peaceful cocoon.

A long, frustrated sigh managed to penetrate the thick blanket. “I regret the necessity of this, but you are summoned downstairs.”

Before Jianna’s sleep-addled brain could fully register the words, the comforter was ripped away. A shock of frigid air assaulted her, shattering her daze with merciless efficiency.

“Hey! I’m up, I’m up!” she yelped, scrambling upright in the enormous bed. She wrapped her arms around her torso, shivering as the profound cold clung to her bones.

“Good. Now that you are awake, we may begin preparing you,” a crisp voice announced. Jianna looked up to see four women standing beside her bed. In their arms, they held an assortment of items: ivory combs, a deep basket whose contents were hidden from view, and a neatly folded parcel of brilliant white cloth. They were all dressed in simple, functional attire, and each bore the same tattoo on her cheek—two chevron markings, one pointed up and the other down, forming a fragmented X that contrasted with Blynn’s solid one.

“Preparing me for what?” Jianna asked, her voice thick and slurred with lingering sleep.

“For the evening meal, of course,” the eldest of the four stated plainly. “Dinner is a formal affair in the palace. One must be properly attired.”

A deep flush crept up Jianna’s neck. “If you don’t mind, I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.” She had always been a private person, and the thought of being dressed by four complete strangers was acutely embarrassing.

“Nonsense,” the woman said, grasping Jianna’s arm with surprising strength and guiding her to her feet. “Allow us to see to everything.”

With no choice but to surrender, Jianna stood stiffly as the women’s impersonal, professional hands deftly stripped her of her clothes. After they helped her into a series of plush undergarments, they presented a breathtaking white gown that hugged her torso snugly before cascading into elegant folds at her waist. They laced her into a corset that forced her into a posture she never imagined she could achieve, though it jabbed at her ribs and made her wary of taking a deep breath. The shoes were soft leather slippers, comfortable and decorated with tiny, exquisite needlework, but they were destined to remain hidden beneath the dress’s floor-length skirt. Her hair was styled and makeup was applied with the meticulous, practiced precision born of years performing the same ritual. As a final touch to her transformation, they fitted her with a pair of white lace gloves that accentuated the length of her fingers.

When they were finished, the handmaidens turned her to face one of the room’s full-length mirrors. The breath caught in Jianna’s throat.

Like most girls her age, she had often tried to dress older than she was, but her own fumbling attempts with modern fashion felt juvenile in comparison. Low-rise jeans and baby-doll tops could never accomplish what this ensemble did. Her reflection was that of a high-born lady. An innate air of aristocracy radiated from her, from the subtle, elegant upturn of her eyelids to the exquisite, flowing lines of her gown. All she could do was pray she could carry herself with enough grace to deserve this elegant vision.

“Does Miss Florian approve?” the eldest woman inquired, a glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes.

“Yes,” Jianna breathed, her voice filled with wonder. “Yes, I approve very much.”

Navigating the grand staircase was, to put it mildly, an adventure. It is difficult not to feel a certain anxiety when descending steep steps without being able to see one’s own feet. Fortunately, the handmaidens—she refused to think of them as mere servants—seemed to anticipate her inexperience. As they descended, they offered her quiet counsel, not only on how to manage the stairs safely but also on the proper etiquette for the dinner ahead. Jianna stored away every piece of advice with immense gratitude, relieved that she would at least have some idea of how to behave and might manage to avoid embarrassing herself completely.

When the doors at the foot of the stairs were opened, the soft murmur of conversation swelled to a lively clamor. Jianna had to suppress a fresh surge of nerves as the handmaidens escorted her into the hall. It was the throne room again, but this time the vast space was filled with a vibrant, chattering crowd of people. She glanced toward the dais, but it stood empty.

“Excuse me, but where are my companions?” Jianna asked, catching one of the women by the sleeve as she began to turn away.

The girl tilted her head and rolled her eyes upward, as if she could find the answer written on the ceiling. “The Feyan will likely require more time to prepare, but the Satyri should be present by now.”

“And the demon?” Jianna pressed. “What of Malakor?”

At the mention of his name, the girl’s small nose wrinkled in a flash of disgust. “Oh, him,” she said dismissively. “I have no idea where he is. He keeps his own company. And with all due respect, Miss, his business is of no concern to me.”

With a brief, insincere curtsy, she melted back into the crowd.

Jianna sighed in frustration, making a silent vow to find Malakor later and demand an explanation for why everyone seemed to treat him like dirt. His sardonic and occasionally abrasive personality didn't justify the open hostility he seemed to inspire in the Royal Court.

For a long while, she lingered awkwardly by the entrance, content to observe as lords and ladies of the nobility mingled, chatting amiably and nibbling at the small refreshments being circulated on silver trays. Hors d'oeuvres, wasn't that what they were called? The diversity of the guests was astonishing. Humans of all complexions mixed with Satyri, Fey, and demons. While a polite atmosphere prevailed, a palpable tension simmered beneath the surface. Jianna noted that the demons and Fey gave each other a wide berth, never speaking and occasionally exchanging glares as frigid as the mountain peaks outside.

Deciding that some food might calm her nerves, she began to make her way along the wall toward a large buffet table. She passed a group of chattering Fey, skirted two bickering Satyri, and gave a polite nod to a human noblewoman who seemed to be taking a bit too much pleasure in leading her demon attendant around on a jeweled leash. When she finally reached the table, she used her gloved fingertips to select a small piece of yellowish fruit. She took a tentative bite, her gaze sweeping back over the assembly. She was so startled by a quiet voice saying, “Hello,” that she almost dropped the delectable morsel.

She turned to see Blynn standing beside her. It had to be him; no other Satyri would have that distinctive chevron tattoo on one side of his face and those terrible burn scars down the other.

He did not, however, look like the travel-worn companion she was used to. For one thing, he was impeccably clean. His dark hair was combed back from his face, and the fur on his powerful legs was smoothed down. Large golden hoops now dangled from the lobes of his pointed ears, and his horns and hooves looked as though they had been polished to a high gloss. Despite the angry scars that marred his flesh, Jianna found that he looked… handsome, for want of a better word.

“Oh, hello, Blynn,” she said, having recovered from his transformation. He shifted uncomfortably on his hooves, made self-conscious by her blatant staring. Noticing his unease, she quickly averted her eyes.

“How long have you been down here?” the Satyri asked.

“Not long,” she replied. She sighed, surveying the assembled nobles. “I don’t belong here, you know,” she murmured. “These people… they’re all wealthy. You can just tell by looking at them. I’m not even from this world, and I have nothing.”

Blynn gave a sincere nod. “I know the feeling. A servant came to my room earlier and seemed torn between treating me as an honored guest and a stablehand.” He then chuckled and gestured toward a spot in the crowd. “Well, it seems one of us, at least, is perfectly at ease here.”