#nadia week

She is as the ocean, and I am caught in her waves. I have a duty, to myself, to Asra, yet the Countess sits in her gilded chambers and has to do little but beckon and I am at her feet like a trained dog; like a herring on a lure. Nadia sings her siren song and I am bewitched. Of course I’ll help you find the murderer, when really I mean of course, I’d probably follow you straight off the edge of a cliff and into the waiting waters below. Every minute I spend in her presence, my heart flutters in my chest and my hands shake behind my back. When she smiles at me and it feels like the first breath after you’ve been drowning.  

All this I write and more, filling up pages with my scribbles and wanting to burn them later. There’s not much you can do in this palace- as much as I want to spend every waking moment with the Countess, she has responsibilities to Vesuvia. Directing food stocks, placating the courtiers, overseeing the inspection of infrastructure. It’s silly to write in such a way, especially when anyone could stride into my room when I’m not around, but I could hardly shout out my feelings from the rooftops; could hardly confide in a friendly ear. She is the widow Countess, and has undoubtedly turned away suitors much more charming and accomplished than myself. This is almost treachery, blasphemy, yet the more I write the more it seems to fit.

I tell myself that most of the servants aren’t learned and can’t decipher my scribbles, that no one who can read would bother with coming into my room. It becomes my escape, writing about the blush on my cheeks and the stutter in my heart every time she gives me some off-hand look. I look forward to it, every day when I’m not working on Devorak’s case or dealing with the courtiers’ sickly-sweet backhanded compliments.

It takes a whopping three days for Portia to squeak and drop her eyes at my gaze, and when I question her as to what’s wrong, she just shakes her head and lets out a nervous giggle. The worry that hits me is nauseating, and the rush of thoughts- It can’t be bad, she’s not hurt at all, but then why-

The dots connect, my stomach leaps up into my throat. I can’t decide if I should get to packing my bags or pause to empty my stomach out on the marbled tiles first, and luckily I have the trek up to my room to choose. The climb up the stairs, usually arduous after a long day when I want nothing more to collapse into bed, becomes a matter of minutes fueled by panic. My breath saws in my chest, my legs burn, yet I sprint down the hallway and tear the door half off its hinges in frantic hope that I might have gotten there fast enough.

After all that she’s shown me over the past year, I can’t believe that my wedding robe might be any more extravagant.

Nadia doesn’t disappoint. The robe is Prakran in style, a long strip of cloth that Portia winds around and around me without need for pins or buttons. The fabric drapes beautifully, revealing my arms and clinging in all the right places to cut a stunning figure, but tight enough that I have little fear of my movement dislodging it. The silk is cooling against my sweat-soaked skin, and it’s certainly welcome considering little of the sweat is from the heat and most of it from the low ball of nerves brewing in the pit of my stomach. I can’t believe that I’m marrying Nadia. I can’t believe that I’m going to walk out into the town square and take the hand of the Countess, and then be joined in marriage to her. I can’t believe it, and yet here I am. Could the Arcana ever have foreseen this fate for me?

Portia’s words are a welcome distraction from my anxious thoughts. “The Countess had me learn how to do this so many times,” she chatters, “She said she was going to teach you, but she wanted it to be a surprise. Oh, you look lovely!” The last sentence is punctuated with a final tug at the end, hanging beautifully off my shoulder yet not long enough that it drags on the ground.

It was made to measure, I realize, looking at myself. Nadia had commissioned this, specifically for me. The thought isn’t surprising. After all, all my clothes were tailored since I had begun living at the palace. But still, the thought evident in it was endearing. If you don’t like it, milady had a traditional Vesuvian outfit made, Portia had said. To think, two wedding outfits, made specifically for the sole purpose of surprising me. Made specifically so I wouldn’t have to worry about the big day.

The sun grows ever higher in the sky, and the cheers of the crowd grow larger. It’s time. “Well,” Portia begins. I turn to look at her, and she’s grinning big, flicking her curls out from her eyes. Her eyes- they shine with something that looks suspiciously like tears, and the thought makes me want to sob from joy too. I swallow hard and remind myself that I can burst into tears after I make it through the crowd. “It’s a straight walk from here to where Nadia is, waiting for you. Just by the fountain, like we rehearsed. Ready?” I look at myself in the mirror one final time, at Portia, and then at the curtain that separated our dressing room from the airy heat of a midsummer’s day. I think of everything that started that first day in the shop, all the days that separated our first meeting from now, and a smile makes its way onto my face.

“One for every day of the week,” Nadia says, holding a sapphire robe up to my figure. The Prakran silk is gorgeous, catching the torchlight in all shades of azure. The detailing on the sides is worked in golden thread, hand-stitched with impeccable regularity. I hold my breath, not wanting to sully the material- or moment. I want to remember this as it is. Everything seems like it’s too much to take in- the sun dipping just below the horizon through the glass window, the heat of her against my back, the tight feeling in my chest that feels like it could spill over at any second and send me hurtling down the cliffside of who-knows-what. I want to stay like this forever, staring more at Nadia than myself and watching a small smile curve over her full lips. I want to remember this forever. “I think golden trim on a robe would go quite well with this. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I manage a nod, caught up more in the sound of her voice than her words. Her very presence gives me a fluttery feeling in my chest, like I’m about to fly away every second I spend with her, yet I don’t think I could bear it if I had to leave. I’m infatuated with the Countess, I had realized a few days ago, and I had promptly spent the next few hours at dinner hoping she wouldn’t see it, staring down at my plate whenever I felt her eyes on me, hoping this strange feeling would go away yet not knowing how I would cope with the void it left. I was sure I was done for after that disastrous incident with the letters, but the Countess- please, call me Nadia- had seemed only amused and insisted that I was going to be late for my fitting, so I had best to hurry up. When I asked what fitting, she had simply laughed and said I’d see, and here I was.

And here I am, seeing and feeling and breathing in what is sure to be elegance. Elegance not just in expense but in taste, in colors and textures carefully selected to complement each other as costly as they may be. Elegance in how Nadia must have stood in this room, saying to an attendant, lovely, no-not that one, that’s absolutely hideous, passable- elegance in care and choice rather than a simple tallying of cost. I’ve begun to notice that’s reflective of Nadia- everything in the Palace is there because she wishes it to be so, everything shows off her taste and choice. Everything whispers that elegance isn’t just borne of value in coins. Elegance is an art.

Even clothing is an art. Nadia holds up robe after robe in the mirror, every one a complete work. Every one surely a labor of love, and all these selected and purchased specifically for Nadia and I. Colors flash before my eyes- rich burnt orange, gauzy violet, deepest emerald green. The soft rustle of fabrics, Nadia’s breathing, and my pulse pounding loud in my ears are the only sounds in the room. I try to speak, but don’t want to shatter the elegance of the room. I settle for a whisper. “This is incredible.”