Princess Genevieve sat still, a picture of cold, weighty stoicism, while the handmaid appointed by her husband-to-be dutifully powdered her face.

"Do try not to pout so much, Your Highness," the maid said, her voice so gratingly upbeat. "It's supposed to be a happy occasion."

With her first intentional movement in over five minutes, Genevieve turned her head towards the hulking metal guard posted by the door. The soft whirring hum it made even while idle filled the small dressing room. The walls around it were covered in fine drapery emblazoned with the red-and-gold emblem of Gryst, a tight, winding spiral with spikes protruding from its outermost curve. Their thick fabric muffled any noise coming from outside, and in isolation that uncanny buzzing grew more oppressive as the moments trickled by.

After too long a moment Genevieve ripped her eyes away from the thing and made herself stare forward into the mirror. It wasn’t any more reassuring. Her hair had been dyed a bright blonde, and for all the praise she used to hear for her delicate features, the way they had done her up, exaggeratedly pale with cheeks rosier than her father's thorn garden, went so far beyond reason that it almost felt like parody. The face that looked back from the glass was closer to a porcelain doll than a person. And it certainly wasn’t her. "Am I not entitled even to my own feelings?" she protested, letting her voice come out as bitterly as it wished, asserting her own existence in whatever small way she could manage.

"Of course you are, Highness," the handmaid said, in the resigned tone people used to placate irritable nobles. "More than any of us regular folk, I imagine."

Genevieve dug her fingers into her thighs, knuckles turning white. "I would renounce my title and live on the streets if that would bring me my freedom."

"You don't want to live on the streets, Your Highness." The maid took a small brush to Genevieve's eyes, lining them thin and black.

"I don't want to marry that man," Genevieve replied. She kept her eyes open and still, just barely resisting the urge to make the maid's life more difficult as an act of petty rebellion.

The handmaid frowned, and Genevieve could see the wrinkles of concern forming around her eyes in the mirror. "Then I guess it's too bad that isn't an option for ya." She sighed and brought Princess Genevieve up to her feet. "Whether you want to or not, I gotta get you in the dress. Not like I have a choice in that neither."

"What's your name?" Genevieve asked as she was brought across the room.

"Eleanor, Your Highness," the maid answered diplomatically. She was pink-skinned, middle-aged at a guess, and a little on the short side, but that didn't take away from the matronly authority she carried. Her wavy chestnut-brown hair was trimmed carefully, and her curvy figure managed to make even the plain workmanlike dress she wore into something fetching. "It's an honor to serve you, Princess."

Every estate Genevieve ever visited had a maid like her: kind and warm, but forceful enough to strong-arm royals like her into brief, localized deference. She was being diplomatic right now, feeling Genevieve out to determine if she was going to be a problem. But a friendly rapport would make things a lot easier. It was best to be sincere and try to break the ice.

"And it’s an honor to be served by you, Eleanor Your Highness." Genevieve allowed herself a moment to smirk, but her expression soon fell again. "You don't need to flatter me. I'd rather you be honest. You have no idea how conceited I feel when the nobles insist their staff worship the ground I walk on."

"If it's honesty you want?" Eleanor relaxed her shoulders. "You wanna be here less than I do, and you’re not being too much of a pain in the ass about it.” She carefully removed the pins holding an impossibly elegant white wedding gown in place on its dress form. “I appreciate that, believe it or not."

"I've been tempted a few times," Genevieve admitted. "But it wouldn’t do any good. It's not like you're one of the people I'm mad at."

"Well, I’m grateful for that. But I couldn't much blame you if I was, could I?" Carefully, carefully, Eleanor picked up the dress and held it up against Genevieve's front. It was an ornate thing, with precisely detailed, delicate gold trims and dense layers of sheer white fabric. It lacked, however, the long train one would normally expect on an extravagant wedding gown. Instead it simply stopped at the floor, precisely fitted to hang just the barest fraction of an inch above the ground–a concession, Genevieve assumed, to the dusty, rocky land of Gryst that would instantly ruin any fine fabric dragged across it.

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"Put your arms up, dear," Eleanor said. Genevieve complied. "I have to ask, though," Eleanor continued, as she began the arduous process of wrapping Princess Genevieve up in all of that fabric. "Is it really so terrible marrying our prince? Not that he's the nicest man I've ever met, by any stretch. But in my head I guess I figured he wouldn't have to be. I like a royal wedding as much as the next girl, but I’m not a fool. We know it's all politics for you regal types. The girls from the capital tell me the Queen kept separate bedchambers and found herself all sorts of pretty young things to keep her company, back before she passed. Doesn't sound like such a bad arrangement, if you're gonna be hitched to a cart you didn't ask for regardless."

Holding herself still while the gown was pulled into place around her, Genevieve could only scowl bitterly and shake her head with disdain. "I don't want to be in bed with that man politically any more than I want to be in bed with him physically," she said. "I don't want any part of this whole ghastly enterprise." She glanced at Eleanor. "I'm sorry if that offends. You aren't responsible. But he is."

All Eleanor could do was shake her head sadly. She zipped up the back of the gown and set the outermost layer of cloth in place. "No, I understand. I'm sure this land seems cruel, coming from outside. King Harmon only tamed it by being even crueler. And Prince Cornelius is undoubtedly his father's son. For better or worse, that's the way of it." Once everything was done Eleanor took a step back and put her hands on her hips. "Turn for me, dearie?" she said.

Slowly, Genevieve turned around, the delicate fabric of the gown swishing around her elegantly. It was a heavy, cumbersome garment, even with its more compact style. There was no chance of her moving very far or very fast in it. She’d sat still and let herself become more trapped than she already was. The proof of that hung off her body, heavier than just the fabric.

Eleanor was giving her most reassuring smile, a warm expression well-suited to her charmingly chubby face. The thoughts running through Genevieve’s head made it hard to appreciate. She placed her hands on Princess Genevieve's shoulders. "You look lovely," she said.

In response Genevieve shuffled in place and pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I suppose this thing doesn't have any pockets, does it?"

"I'm afraid not, dear," Eleanor said with a little chuckle. "But what does these days, eh?"

Genevieve answered with a thin, polite smile.

"Anyway, let me get the veil for you, and you'll be ready to go out there and–do what you have to, I suppose." Eleanor's face fell mid-sentence. "Sorry, dearie. I was trying to be positive."

"It's all right," Genevieve said. "Thanks for the attempt."

Nodding her head, Eleanor stood back to look around the room. "All right, then," she said in a long exhale. "Where'd I put the darn thing…?"

She turned her back for just a moment while she looked. Genevieve took the opportunity to lean down and tug at the strap around her ankle, quick and furtive. It wasn’t quite as hard to reach as she had feared, but the mess of fabric she was clothed in certainly did its best to get in the way.

"Oh, no, you shouldn't do that, Your Highness," Eleanor said, stopping Genevieve in her tracks. "A wedding gown's not made for moving in. It's just for looking pretty. You'll start ripping things like that."

Her breath caught in her throat, Genevieve slowly stood up. "I'm sorry, miss Eleanor," she said. "I just needed to adjust my stockings. They were bothering me."

"That's what I'm here for, dear," Eleanor chided gently. "If anything isn't fit quite right, let me know and I'll fix it up right and quick, all right?"

Genevieve nodded silently, taking deep steady breaths, her hand pressed tightly against her side. Careful, careful, she thought to herself. Careful, careful.

A look passed over Eleanor's face, but she quickly decided it wasn't her place to question. It was a convenient perk of royalty. No matter how friendly you were, people didn't like to challenge you. Just in case you were the same kind of monster as all the others, under the surface. She moved toward Genevieve and lifted the bridal veil over her head. "Here we go dear, just like that."

While she was setting the veil on, Eleanor leaned in and muttered conspiratorially. "Just between you and me," she said quietly. "We're all sort of hoping you'll be a good influence on him. Or at least that he'll leave you in charge of the human staff."

"I understand." Genevieve nodded, ignoring the lump in her throat and the knot in her stomach. "I wouldn't want to work for him either."

For a moment Eleanor stared at Genevieve, a worried frown on her face. Then she leaned in, and gently put her arms around her. Genevieve stiffened at the unexpected touch, but didn't reject it. "Good luck to you, dear. Let's just hope it won't be so bad."

Genevieve nodded, still focused on that steady breathing. She kept her right hand clutched tightly against her side, but reached out to give Eleanor a cautious pat on the back. "Good luck," she repeated, granting herself a single long sigh. "I will need it. Maybe everyone will."