How Not to Design a Swimsuit

“We’re off to the King’s summer house for the weekend,” Morgan told me today, delivering the news with all the gravity of an announcement for a trip to the market.

I paused, my gaze drifting to the window. “His summer house?” The concept seemed absurd. “Why on earth would he need one? Isn’t this castle large enough for anyone?”

“How should I know?” came her muffled voice from within the depths of a large wooden wardrobe. “I’m not privy to the inner workings of the royal mind.” She emerged a moment later holding a ruffled, frilled monstrosity.

I scrutinized the thing. “What is that?”

Morgan held it up with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “Apparently,” she stated flatly, “it’s a swimsuit.”

My eyes swept over the baffling confection of lace, ribbons, and heavy-looking cloth that more closely resembled a set of ornate curtains than anything designed for water. “That’s supposed to be a swimsuit?”

“Apparently.”

A wave of relief washed over me that I didn’t have to wear it just yet; one of my bulky, constricting dresses seemed almost appealing by comparison. Once we left my chambers, Morgan led us on another trek through the castle’s serpentine hallways. I made a conscious effort to commit the route to memory, knowing this was one of the few times I had been allowed beyond the confines of Viktor’s study or the throne room (though a detour to see the good doctor wouldn’t have been unwelcome). Right, then left. Down a sweeping staircase. Right again. Through a long gallery speckled with shafts of early sunlight. Down another flight of stairs. The directions continued, a dizzying sequence that eventually blurred into an indistinguishable tangle. The sheer, overwhelming scale of the place soon left me completely disoriented.

It struck me then that this was, in fact, the first time I had set foot outside the castle walls since my arrival. My windows had offered only limited vistas of towering stone and manicured gardens. I found myself wondering what the world beyond this fortress truly looked like.

After what felt like an eternity of walking, we finally reached a set of truly massive double doors. They swung open for us, and I had to give Morgan silent credit; her ability to navigate this maze was nothing short of incredible. We stepped out into the cool, pre-dawn air. The sun had not yet risen, a fact for which I was grateful.

Even in the twilight dimness, the castle courtyard was breathtaking. A large, placid pond sat at its center, its surface a perfect sheet of dark glass. Rows of meticulously tended flowers lined the pathways, their colors muted in the gloom, while a few ancient, towering trees seemed to reach for a sky that was only just beginning to pale from black to indigo. A wide dirt path circled the pond, and waiting there, amidst a quiet hum of activity from servants, was an exquisite carriage. It was fashioned from polished black lacquer with tasteful white trim, its windows tinted for privacy. It was hitched to two powerful black stallions whose coats gleamed like obsidian even in the faint light. I shouldn't have been surprised, I suppose, but the raw elegance of it all was still astonishing. Viktor, it seemed, was a man who settled for nothing but the absolute best.

He stood before the carriage, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. Instead of his usual formal attire, he wore what I could only assume were summer clothes—a stark white linen shirt and dark trousers that looked far more comfortable. A simple black ribbon tied his brown hair back from his face. I had to concede, much to my annoyance, that he looked handsome, though there was still an air of studied perfection about him. When he offered his hand, I accepted it, knowing I’d need the help to ascend into the carriage while managing my cumbersome gown. With my free hand, I gathered the heavy skirts, careful to keep the fabric from rising past my ankles as Morgan had recently warned. Apparently, respectable young ladies here didn't do such things. It was a bit prudish for my taste, but I'd rather not create the wrong impression.

I settled into the plush velvet seat, and I’ll admit it was a challenge not to fidget. The suspension was a world away from modern shock absorbers; I’d take a car over this jarring ride any day. Viktor followed, sliding in beside me with a fluid grace that I almost envied. The carriage lurched into motion, and a heavy, uncomfortable silence descended between us. I sensed that if I didn’t do something, it was going to be an excruciatingly long journey.

“Ever played twenty questions?” I asked, breaking the quiet. He merely arched an eyebrow in response. Was that a twitch? “It’s a game to get to know people,” I explained. “I ask you a question, you answer. Then you ask me one, and I answer. We go back and forth until we get tired of it.”

“Then why is it called ‘twenty questions’ if the number is indefinite?” he asked, his voice a low baritone.

“Because the original version had a twenty-question limit,” I clarified. Seeing no further objections, I continued. “Try to answer as honestly as you can. You have the right to pass on any question you don’t want to answer.” He gave a slight, silent nod of understanding. He didn't seem particularly engaged, more like he was humoring me, so I decided to start with something simple.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Black.” Fitting.

“Mine’s purple and blue,” I offered. “I can never seem to decide between them.” Now it was his turn.

“What is your favorite pastime?” he inquired.

“Reading.”

“Sword practice and horseback riding,” he replied. More traditional answers, I mused. I hoped he wasn’t just giving generic responses, though it was too early to tell. The sword practice, at least, was a little unexpected.

“Do you enjoy music?”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, I love it.” And so the rest of the journey passed, with this simple back-and-forth of questions and answers. With each exchange, the wall of tension between us seemed to erode, brick by brick. For the first time, it felt as though Viktor and I were actually finding some common ground. I just had no idea how long it would last.