A sharp knock at the door woke Twain. He sat up with a jolt, blinking blearily. Before he had the chance to gather himself, the door flew open. An older moon elf marched straight across the room to the windows. He threw the curtains wide. Brilliant light glared through the gap in the curtains. Hands on his hips, the older moon elf gazed out at the day, satisfied. “Ah… glorious sunlight. Bracing, isn’t it?”

Twain cringed in the bed, desperately shading his eyes with a hand. Voice crackling with sleep, he murmured, “Please, Dayander, I can’t…”

“You can, and you shall.” Merciless, Dayander threw open the next set of curtains, then then next.

At the end of the row, a thought finally struck him, and his wild eyebrows furrowed. “Your voice, your Highness.”

Twain grunted. He swung his legs out of bed and snatched a swig from the flask on his bedside with the same motion. “There, is that better?”

As he spoke, his voice climbed higher and higher, until it scaled the octave to a feminine pitch. Dayander frowned, but nodded. “Much better, Moussaesa.”

“Mouse, everyone calls me Mouse,” Twain protested, then closed his eyes. Mouse. I’m Mouse now.

“You let the humans call you—”

He waved a hand. “It’s not a big deal.”

Eyebrows quivering furiously, Dayander turned on Mouse. “You are the Princess, the representative of our country. You will not drag her reputation through mud.”

Mouse scoffed, tossing his nightshirt on the floor and stepping into the padded straps for the day. “It’s a bit late for that, haven’t you noticed? Us drow are poisonous, dangerous creatures of the night. To hear the humans speak of it, we’re halfway to darkfoes. We’re horrifying monsters capable of the greatest calamity, and probably baby-eaters, to boot.”

“Anyways,” he continued, layering on the underclothes for today’s gown, “when it comes to ruining Mouse’s reputation, I don’t think I can do any better than she. Running off to join the army, what a madman!”

Dayander gave him a good, long stare. “After all, Your Highess’s own reputation remains spotless.”

Crinoline rustling, Mouse pointed at Dayander. “This is for Moss and country, at Her Majesty the Queen’s express direction. I’m not doing this for fun.”

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

With that, he wrestled into the dress. Halfway there, he got lost, and struggled against the fabric. Wildly, he flailed, struggling for light and air. Where’s the neck? Is that a sleeve? What’s going on with this dead end?

Firm hands grabbed the dress from outside and guided him through it. Mouse’s head popped out the collar, and he sucked in a breath of clean, fresh air. “These things are more complicated than they look.”

With a final yank, Dayander settled the dress over Mouse’s shoulders and pulled the skirt to drape past his hips. “The Prince is less familiar with the workings of a woman’s clothes than I might expect.”

Mouse narrowed his eyes, slotting his arms into sleeves. “What’s that mean?”

“Your Highness is a man of immense virtue,” Dayander flattered him.

“I’m only a hundred and ninety,” Mouse grumbled. Young, for an elf! Barely an adult!

Dayander tutted. Moving swiftly, he undid Mouse’s slept-on braid and began to comb his hair. As he brushed, his eyes caught a satin sheen under the bed. “Your Highness, what is that?”

Mouse glanced down, then hurriedly kicked the offensive item deeper under the bed. I thought I hid that costume further under there last night! “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I see,” Dayander murmured. He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing further.

“Dayander… Uh, hypothetically. If I had hypothetically assaulted the human’s crown prince, and hypothetically… er, something disgusting befell him, would that be a problem?”

Dayander clicked his tongue. For a long time, he remained silent, the only sound the swooshing of the comb through Mouse’s hair. He hit a knot, and with uncommon strength, yanked at it.

“Ow! Ow, that hurts!”

“That would be an international incident, my princess. A very dangerous one, at that. One I would have appreciated knowing about before it came to pass.” Fiercely, he brushed out the knot, careless of Mouse’s cringing. “Hypothetically, of course.”

“Mmm. Good thing it’s only hypothetical,” Mouse reiterated.

“If this had happened, if you had, in fact, assaulted Crown Prince Reginald V, would they, hypothetically, be able to pin the blame on you?”

“Probably not. Er, I mean, if it had happened, they probably wouldn’t be able to. Not that anything happened.”

“Of course not. And you wouldn’t leave your fine tutor-slash-handmaid-slash-confidant-slash-advisor in the dark about it, either, would you? Hypothetically.”

“No, no, I—only if it was an emergency situation, and I had no control over it. Not that it matters. We’re only talking possibilities.”

“Of course, of course.” Dayander’s combing softened, back to its usual steady pace. “Are you fine? Uninjured?”

Mouse nodded. Quietly, he murmured, “I almost… I’m almost glad I’m here, and not Moss.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing. Have you heard anything from Mother?”

Dayander shook his head. “Unfortunately not. It seems she hasn’t located your esteemed sister.”

Mouse sighed. “I hope she’s alright.”

“She’s fierce. She’ll be fine. It may even be good for her,” Dayander assured him. He brushed back the hair from Mouse’s temples and coiled it into a small bun perched at the back of his head. Quick hands secured it with a swan-shaped silver ornament. He patted Mouse’s shoulder and stepped away.

“How do I look?” he asked, stretching.

“Like Moussaesa.”

Mouse brushed down his dress and looked himself over in the mirror. Today’s dress was dark and simple, almost austere, but played up his silver hair and eyes with winding embroidery around the hems. “Good.”