Three days in the palace pass unexpectedly quickly. From the Madame and the Crown Prince going over what my wardrobe is going to look like from now on, to maids vigorously preparing me merely hours early in the day preceding the ball later tonight. Like a whirlwind, it feels as if I had been thrust into a hurricane back and forth. 

“Your Holiness, please close your eyes.”

Lariette, who I’ve slowly become accustomed to in the past few days from her attending to me on the prince’s order, is currently doing my makeup. 

“Don’t you think we should powder her face more…?”

“Her Holiness already has a nice face, putting too much will only contrast her natural beauty.”

“However, Her Holiness is less pale than the other ladies…”

“Chevelle, Her Holiness is a woman of color. A proper night and morning routine does better than hiding her features with cosmetics that only apply to our pale mothers.”

The soft patting of a makeup instrument, I suspect is also stuffed with feathers or cotton of sorts, upon my cheeks begins to cease. I’ve considered counting how many items within the palace contain feathers just to pity the amount of birds that have been killed throughout the years. All the while, another maid has begun loosely braiding the hair behind me. In the meantime, I’ve been sitting silently with my hands carefully folded over the other upon my lap. The only request I made to the Madame at the time about two days ago was that I didn’t want a dress that was uncomfortable. As a result, the ball gown I have now is decently comfortable, though heavier than I thought. Rather than heavy around my chest or torso area—corsets I can bear with—I’d say the skirt has the most weight. From the undergarments underneath everything already, there were about two or three more layers of skirt fabric that I know not the name of. The top layer especially, the colorful layer that was a matching lavender with my torso, in turn also had decorative lace and ruffles dotted with small pearls. Matching ruffles were laid upon my chest and shoulders. At the very least I had short sleeves, puffed, and a pair of long white gloves that practically covered my arms completely. 

“It’s best that the Saintess wear long gloves for the most part. I’m no expert on divine magic, but if those scars can’t be healed, then they have to be hidden. It may be jarring for the more traditional crowd and she may receive odd stares instead of looks of admiration.”

Shifting my palm, I glanced down at my hidden arms. I suppose some things do not change. Only the privileged have the ability to see scars as ugly or terrifying. Glancing up at the mirror in front of me, I take in my new attire for the night fully.

… It’s pretty. I’m still reluctant about how bizarre and overblown the situation is with my apparently future wardrobe, but I’d lie if I said I hated dresses. When I was younger, before entering the temple, I remember eying the noblewomen in the streets with glittering eyes. After all, a lot of children dream at least once to wear something magnificent like this. Even in the outside world when we were battling corrupted beasts, I always liked the way the fabric flows easily with my movements. Since the dress I wore was imbued with divinity, it was also practical in a way that actually served divine protection against corruption. 

I curl my fingers loosely, one by one. It’s only been a few days for me, but I already miss it—that feeling of freedom. Climbing tedious rocky mountains, walking around through fields of abandoned weeds, treading through sand and snow… it was hard, but I felt alive again. And in that place, in those memories that fill me with such serenity, you were always there. Was it those places that gave me that sense of freedom and solace? Or was it because you were there with me, watching quietly with a gaze as warm as sunlight?

Clenching my fingers against my palm, I suck in a breath. Just a little longer. 

“Oh.” I forgot to keep my eyes closed, forcing them shut again nervously.

“It’s alright Your Holiness, I’ve finished your blush already. All that’s left is your rouge.”

Rouge? My inward question is answered as I open my eyes. Lariette leans close and stares at my lips intently, lightly dabbing at them with a small crayon-like peach colored utensil wrapped in paper.

“Her Holiness is more baby-faced, so a lighter rouge is better suited.”

“Aren't bold rouges popular nowadays though?”

“Did you see Countess Thistle last month? Very few can pull it off nicely. It looks childish if you choose one ill-fitted to your own complexion.”

There’s a wince from the maid looking through various accessories.

“I don’t think anyone can consistently apply it as naturally as the Graces, however.”

“That lavender of Lady Calliope’s is one of a kind after all. I don’t think anyone can compare to her serenity!” 

“The signature vibrance of Lady Venus’ red is also its own force to be reckoned with. Her business intuition is also scary.”

“But,” the maid who has been braiding my hair pipes up herself. “Lady Rishita’s mature beauty shines most brilliantly, doesn’t it?”

The maids become quiet before sighing in unison. In the meantime, I’ve been holding my breath hoping none of the ladies have noticed the flutter in my chest as well as the heat upon my ears in their gossiping. After what feels like an eternity, I can feel myself sigh as Lariette finally smiles to herself and distances her face. It’s a miracle the warmth and embarrassment can be muddled by the tinted dust upon my cheeks. I hadn’t been so close to another girl since before I joined the temple. I’ve never been good around pretty women, or at least beautiful people in general. That’s what you get when you travel with men and an armored divine warrior for nearly five years.

“All that’s left should be the perfume. Does Your Holiness have a scent you prefer?” Lariette asks.

“Um,” I feel as if I am sweating. I know nothing about flowers or perfumes. There’s incense and the smell of burning wood from campfires, but I’m sure that’s different. “What… scents are there?”

“There’s quite a variety,” Lariette says, walking over behind me along with the other maids to look at the array of bottles. “Violet is always a popular choice. Lavender and Rosemary leave a lasting impression and are more herbal than sweet. Jasmine is strong, but equally floral and is always a good choice. Rose and Honeysuckle are more subtle but always a joy.”

There’s the clinking of glass bottles.

“Does Your Holiness like flower scents?” A younger maid asks.

“Yes? I mean,” I sputter, trying to remember the last time I smelled a flower. Wildflowers count, surely? Dandelions are nice, though most think of them as weeds. I like the scent of nature, something lighter and natural. “Maybe not one that is too strong…”

“Orange blossom is a more youthful, citrus scent that isn’t too overbearing,” another maid pitches in. It’s a bit overwhelming. Just like the dress, accessories, it's as if everything has to be an overbearing descriptor of me.

Suddenly, I recalled something in the depths of my memory. It was such a long time ago, about after I memorized the alphabet in sign and had begun learning small words. There was a child in a village we had stayed at who knew sign along with their mute sibling and was excited to communicate with Shivani.

“‘Moonflower’?”

Shivani seemed surprised, jolting so when I came up behind them. Up until that point, I had never gotten the chance to see what Shivani referred to me. After all, no one else in our traveling party knew sign and Shivani would simply sign to me instead of talk about me. It had only caught my eye because the child had been staring at me intently after they had signed to the child. Shivani did not spell my name out individually, however.

“Is that what you call me?”

Shivani did not respond. In fact, I believe they had actually turned away from me. By then, we had long become accustomed to each other's habits so I could tell. Although they were covered from head to toe in metal, Shivani’s embarrassment was as clear as day.

“That’s sweet,” I remember smiling. 

Back then…

If I remembered correctly, back then things between us were ambiguous. We were good friends, friends who had bore our heart and soul to each other. Friends, who felt comfort in each other's presence. Friends, who had begun dancing around each other nervously simply because those feelings of friendship began to change.

And eventually those feelings burst, I recall, warm yet bittersweet grief brewing in my chest. Under Viaios Pass.

“Um… Your Holiness?”

“Oh! Sorry,” I exclaim, forcing myself out of my reminiscing. If I succeed, it’ll just be a bit longer. Just a bit longer until I see you again. “Does… Does a Moonflower scent exist?”

The women are silent behind me.

“Moonflower perfume…” There’s the light clinking of glass. Out of the mirror’s reflection, I can see them giving each other doubtful looks as they finally come across a small bottle. It’s much smaller than the others, and less new as the glass is a bit more clouded compared to the rest. Lariette threw over a glance. “Is Your Holiness sure about this one?”

Maybe not as much now after looking at their expressions. But it’s the only kind of flower I can think of that probably suits me—though I do not know what it smells or looks like.

“Yes, I am.”

The girls look at one another for one last time before Lariette approaches and unbottles the cap. At the same time, there is a knock at the door.

“Um, yes?”

“Is Her Holiness’ preparations complete yet?”

“She will be ready in a moment!”