Estrella
“Thank you,” I murmur as one of the Dun’s Crossing seamstresses pins another fold of my skirt in place.
After a few days of what Tess deemed arguing, though I would more rightly call it standing my ground, the flock of women assigned to make my wedding dress have finally understood that I will not be—at least exclusively—wearing the dull neutrals so common in this kingdom. The head seamstress, ironically named Bright, in particular tried to put her foot down on a traditional charcoal-colored wedding gown. She now stands in the corner of the room with her arms crossed, eying the one pinning the swath of charcoal-shot purple and blue fabric of my skirt like a traitor.
“You look stunning.” Tess clasps her hands beneath her chin, and her eyes sparkle as she looks up at me. Predicta
