Frey marveled at her surroundings as she was escorted to the royal table. Opulence oozed from every corner of the banquet hall. Grandiose chandeliers, burning hundreds of candles, hung from the vaulted ceiling. They cast a flickering golden hue over the rich tableau below.

  “How did they light those candles all the way up there?” She mumbled to herself as a servant pulled her chair out. She stepped towards the table and waited for the chair to be slid under her before lowering her bottom as delicately as possible.

  “They winch them down, light them, and winch them back up,” the servant replied in a low whisper as he leaned over and spread a napkin across her p. “You might see the pulleys attached to the cross beams if you look hard enough.”

  Frey blushed and chastised herself. She should be more careful. A proper princess would, of course, know how they lit the candles. Or, more likely, wouldn’t care.

  Keep your mouth shut, silly girl!

  Beneath the chandeliers, white linen dressed a dozen long feasting tables. Their silver and crystal pce settings reflected distorted images of the diners taking their seats. Bedecked in exquisite fineries, the kingdom’s richest and most influential characters were earnestly engaged in high society chatter and gossip. They canoodled and cackled while waving their goblets at scurrying waiters.

  Frey marvelled at the gowns worn by the dies. She knew from her mother that fabric of any blue shade came at great expense, being the most difficult dye to procure from nature. Here there was a predominance of blue and indigo, violet and mauve on dispy. Clearly, these people enjoyed exhibiting their wealth. Almost as much as they enjoyed the King’s wine. But the garments were nothing compared to her own dress. An azure cloud of mulberry silk floated around her. Without breasts rge enough to hold the strapless garment aloft, handmaidens had used hidden tape, stuck directly to her skin. Frey fought the urge to scratch her itching chest.

  Her own table dominated the hall, rising two feet above the rest to give the royal family and their consorts a commanding view of their subjects. Its centrepiece, the King’s coat of arms in crystal. Two swans, either side of an artillery piece, their entwined necks reaching skyward. The same design adorned the banners that hung from the grey stone walls. Frey had never understood what it meant. Her father, lost in the Civil War with the North two winters ago, had joked that one swan represented taxes, and the other represented death. Preferably death to the North. It was his only joke, being a hard man. He paid her little attention other than to scold her for the smallest of things. Frey often wondered if he yearned for a son to go soldiering with.

  She tried to stop marvelling at everything, lest she gave the impression she’d hadn’t seen it all a hundred times before. After the slip-up with the waiter, she couldn’t afford another mistake. As she forced her gaze down to the tabletop, she caught sight of the guard posted at the door to her left. His stare was icy, focused tightly on her, and her alone. She shivered. Did he know? Had she failed already?

  Of course he knows, silly, he’s a royal guard. If the handmaidens are in on it, surely the guards are, too.

  —-

  Earlier that evening, a royal escort had arrived at her cottage. He waved a decree from the King that required Frey to accompany him to the castle immediately. After hugging her mother goodbye, she’d been bundled onto the back of a sweating steed and galloped from the vilge, through the wheat fields, and up to the castle.

  Her escort had dismounted right at the gatehouse and helped her off the horse. He hurried her through stone passageways, up a spiral staircase, and knocked on a solid oak door. With that, he bowed and left. The door opened and three handmaidens pulled her inside, swarming around her like buzzing bees. The conversation was all one-way, with them issuing stern commands, such as “Arms up!” before her smock disappeared over her head. And “Legs together!” when they’d pulled her underwear down and off. The roughest of them made a tutting noise as she held Frey’s old clothes at arm’s length and dropped them in a bucket as if they were poisonous.

  Frey barely had time to be embarrassed. As they jostled her this way and that, she took in her surroundings. A patial bed chamber. Velvet red curtains framed a four-post bed. An expansive marble dressing table piled with makeup and fashion accessories. The cream carpeting felt an inch thick under her toes.

  Outside the chamber, an argument ensued. Princess Jasmine’s petunt voice rose above all others.

  “This is ridiculous. There’s always threats against us. I don’t see why I should have to hide and miss the first feast of the season! I’m eighteen. I’m not a child anymore!”

  And it dawned on Frey that the room she stood in belonged to the Princess herself.

  Frey heard the Queen answering her daughter in a weary, but calm, voice.

  “I know that, dear. But your father’s advisors have received a specific threat. They’re not taking it lightly. And besides…”

  Frey strained to make out what followed, but the Queen had lowered her voice to a whisper.

  With her clothes gone, the maids sponged the day’s farm work off her body before they forced her to kneel over a basin so they could wash her hair.

  “It’s the same shade of blonde, but it’s not long enough,” someone muttered while they rubbed her dry with the most luxurious towels Frey had ever felt.

  “It will have to do,” another replied. “People will just assume she had it cut.”

  When they’d dried her off and produced fresh underwear, the senior maid ducked outside to advise the Queen and princess. The royals halted their hushed argument and came to see.

  “Stand next to her, Jasmine,” the Queen ordered.

  The Princess, still pouting over the whole affair, did as she was told. Frey felt like a side of mb hanging in the butcher’s window. When she gnced over at Princess Jasmine in her pearl-white negligee, she corrected herself. She’s the mb. I’m the mutton.

  The Queen circled the pair, handmaidens in tow like a string of ducklings.

  “Well, she’s the same height, at least, and her face has Jasmine’s shape, like everyone said. Not much we can do about the hair, I suppose.”

  “We could try extensions, Ma’am,” the senior maid replied. “But I fear we’ll run out of time. We still need to fit the dress and apply her makeup.”

  The Princess crossed her arms in a huff and scowled at Frey. “The dress won’t stay up. She’s got no tits!”

  “Jasmine!” the Queen scolded her. “I’ll not have you speaking like a commoner. And you should treat this ss with more respect. She’s putting herself in danger for your sake.”

  “Oh yes, don’t forget, little one.” Jasmine looked at Frey with a glint of menace. “You’re more than just a princess for the night. You’re a target!”

  “That’s enough!” The Queen grabbed her daughter’s arm and dragged her from the chamber.

  Later, the Queen returned and expined some more.

  If Frey survived the evening, passing herself off successfully as Jasmine, the crown would forgive her mother a whole year of taxes. It was a prize worth the discomfort. As to the idea that she’d be the target of a potential attacker, well, that much was true. But she needn’t worry, the King’s Guard would protect her. They were the best soldiers in the nd.

  Frey decided not to question why, if the King’s Guard were so reliable, the King didn’t trust them with his daughter’s protection at this feast.

  —-

  The King and Queen interrupted Frey’s reverie when they entered the dining hall and took their seats to her right amidst a din of appuse from the tables below.

  Her waiter reappeared at her right shoulder, and she gdly accepted the proffered gss of wine. Anything to help calm her nerves.

  Please don’t spill it on this dress, for the lord’s sake.

  An ever-growing collection of steaming silver ptters, pewter bowls, and tureens were brought to the table. Frey had never seen so much food in front of her at once. Or smelt such delicious, mouth-watering aromas. And the variety! Game birds, roasted, broiled, and grilled, joined thick cuts of red meats, ribs, and pork crackling. She thought she recognised venison from the time a poacher had been selling it in the vilge tavern. Everything y in beds of yellow, orange, and green vegetables. There was even a whole gzed fish sitting between her and the Queen. Frey thought its dead eye watched her every move.

  No doubt you’re also aware I’m a fake, she thought to the fish.

  Jasmine’s parents paid little attention to Frey. They were immersed in their feasting and accepting compliments from royal subjects left, right and centre. She imagined it was normal of them to ignore Jasmine. Thank goodness for small mercies. The King read a pile of notices put in front of him by his courtier.

  When Frey emptied her winegss, an arm appeared over her shoulder and refilled it. The waiter had been behind her the whole time.

  Wait until I tell Mother I had my own waiter for the night!

  The warm buzz of the wine helped Frey rex, and she nodded when he asked if she’d like him to prepare a pte for her.

  With deft handling of the silverware, he arranged portions on her dish so artfully she felt it a shame to disturb the arrangement. But her hunger over-rode that concern, and besides, it might attract attention if she didn’t join in like everyone else.

  The fake princess enjoyed a few bites of the delicious food before all hell broke loose.