Ms Hastings didn’t like to admit it, but Prince Alvin had latched onto her like a mother ever since Queen Janice had died several months ago. She did not necessarily mind, and as the esteemed tailor of the royal Zantzar family, she’d watched Alvin grow up as she fitted him into a new outfit wherever the occasion arrived.
For 45 years she had done so, ever since she’d wormed herself into the position from being a childhood friend of Janice, and had watched as her late friend carefully inserted into the royal court, centring discourse around her, until, eventually, King Theodore had fallen in love with her and soon became her betrothed.
Life became hectic for her once the twins arrived, and soon Ms Hastings was tasked with clothing the royal quartet from time to time. Alvin was the easiest to manage. He would come along, long before his sister Aeryn arrived, and find himself going through whatever fabrics were in fashion during that time. Even when his parents didn’t approve, believing he should take up more masculine pursuits befitting a king to be, Alvin always found himself scurrying down to the Little Shop of Royal Dresses whenever he had free time.
Ms Hastings enjoyed the young boy's company, since she spent a great deal of her own time alone. Her husband had died as a soldier elsewhere, and her only son was too busy spending time with friends as he entered his more turbulent teenage years. So, she made do with the young Prince’s visits and taught him the fundamentals of sewing, embroidering and pattern making, while he brought what little stories and gossip he could from the royal court.
These weekly visits had continued ever since, but Aeryn’s disappearance and Theodore’s illness forced Alvin to put them on hold and take a more leading role in royal affairs. She felt him beginning to slip away from under her watchful eye, and anytime the two encountered each other briefly in the royal palace, she saw a haggard young man being saddled with unwanted expectations from all sides.
She was surprised then to find Alvin one afternoon back in the Little Shop, only to learn he’d come to ask of a favour to help a friend of his. This friend was an elf, his fencing tutor and a piece of juicy gossip that Ms Hastings had somehow missed, and would she be so kind as to help her for the upcoming ball a few weeks from now. She was more knowledgeable around blades and cannons than she was with boudoir and corsets.
So, Ms Hastings, who held some truly disparaging views of elves in general, sewed her mouth shut with needles the moment the Cressia walked through her front door, her mind racing with all sorts of possibilities and practicalities needed to make this work. Cressia herself was horribly out of place in a fashion shop, and Ms Hastings knew she was in for several long weeks of indecision as Cressia picked out her first ballroom dress.
She had done it with Queen Janice, with Aeryn and now the same strings of events were about to unfold with this elven friend of Alvin's.
It did not help that, when Cressia grew hungry from trying out dresses, that Hastings was forced to overhear the same several jokes about the differences between dressing and dresses, and how Cressia did not understand why nobles went through all the trouble to look like a peacock or an ostrich or whatever manner of strange creatures Cressia had skinned and feasted upon during her time spent in the Conclave Youth Movement.
“It’s fashion, darling.” Ms Hastings answered through gritted teeth. What would a Conclave elf girl like her know about fashion?
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“It could also be practical too,” Cressia replied as she forced herself out of a trailing yellow dress, “when I was in the Zantzar Armed Forces, we had both.”
Hastings smiled, because her own son had grown up to enlist in the Armed Forces, and that was enough to bridge a gap between them and put aside her bigotry for the time being.
The weeks went on, and soon Cressia’s fashion sense began to be moulded to Hastings liken, but they still butted heads from time to time.
"Red is definitely not a good look for you," Hastings said as Cressia emerged from a changing room in a crimson gown, "how about green?"
"As if my ears didn’t give away I was an elf already!” She stammered out. Cressia knew there was sense in Hastings suggestion, most of her garments were green and it would match the colour of her eyes, but she wanted to get away from elvish colours for the time being.
She wanted something fresh, but something that wouldn’t differentiate her from the rest of the party goers. It sounded strange when she admitted that to herself, like she wanted to be dressed like a human, but she’d had enough of the plain, earthy colours that dominated Conclave fashion. She wanted to adapt more to the customs and practices of those around her, and not stick out like the Conclave elf girl when she’d first come to the palace.
In fact, she felt there was truth in Alvin's subtle suggestions that life in the Conclave was more uniform than in Zantzar. She hated to admit he was right, but the further she’d lived in Zantzar, the more clearer it had become. Dress codes in the Conclave had been strictly monitored, and her own sense of style, which had always emphasised the practicality of a minimalist wardrobe, was derived from the crucible of all that surveillance.
Her shoe size, waist length, neck circumference - were all marked down for the first time by Hastings as she tried on frilly dress after frilly dress. She’d never done anything liek this with another woman, not even with her own mother, and soon Cressia, like Alvin, Cressia was beginning to latch onto her like a motherly figure too. She felt even comfortable enough to open up about her own insecurities as they went through the motions together.
“Will you go and speak with Prince Alvin before tonight?” Hastings prodded her gently. After several weeks of turmoil and dress-up heartache, they’d finally found the perfect outfit for Cressia. It was in the afternoon before the ball, but Hastings realised that had been the case for Janice and Aeryn too.
“No, I don’t think I will.” Cressia replied.
“Why not?” Hastings prodded her gently as she clasped up the last few buttons in the back, “don’t tell me you’re afraid of him seeing you like this early?”
Cressia wasn’t afraid, or even superstitious about things like that. She did not want to see him either, knowing he was probably dressed in something more outlandish than usual considering the occasion was to befall them. She'd already seen his collections of furs and silk pyjamas and whatnot, what else was there for Alvin to go?
But Cressia also knew that wasn’t the whole story, and that something about meeting Alvin beforehand would make her feel deflated, like it was to ruin something special between them, something they could talk about later on in the night.
“I just want to wait, I don’t want to rush into it.” It felt like a half truth, but where the other half of it was, she could not say.
Hastings felt she knew where the other half might be, but decided to let the subject go. With only two or three hours to go before the ball, Hastings suggested her that she lock herself up in her room for the time being, until the rest of the royals from the neighbouring kingdoms came, and then she might be able to scamper down the hallway into the main Ballroom, where Alvin might gaze at her as she came down the large staircase that led down to it, where he would be busy fending off potential heiresses who wanted to become the next queen of Zantzar.
Cressia nodded, and spoke a few old elven words of gratitude before she found herself moving through the foyers in an awkward walk-jog-promenade fashion, that wasn’t helped with the large high heels she wore.
All Hastings could do was smile, and reminiscence back to when Janice had done the same thing in front of her, an awkwardly dressed warrior woman who felt she was best suited to claiming King Theodore’s hand and becoming the queen of Zantzar.