Page 49 of The Sun King's Noon

Exchanging glances, the three of them walked into Briony’s room.

Chaos reigned. Seamstress Cecily, a stout, buxom woman only a few years older than Richard, was flanked by two attendants. She had her hands fisted on her hips and frowned at Briony before her. The girl stood in her shift, face blotchy and trying to wriggle out of a half-laced corset.

“It digs!” Briony wailed. “It crushes my sides, and I cannot breathe. My ribs will crack, I shall die, and everyone will say, ‘Oh, what a pity, the princess perished at a ball because her innards were squeezed out through her nostrils!’”

“Your Highness!” Cecily’s voice was higher-pitched than usual. “The corset has been fitted to your exact measurements. It helps to shape.”

“It shapes me into a corpse!”

Elara moved past Richard. “It is not as tight as you think, little one. You are panicking, and that makes everything feel smaller.”

“Can the corset not be loosened?” Richard asked, nearing his sisters.

The seamstress shook her head. “It is already as loose as it will go, Your Majesty. Any further, and the gown will hang improperly.” She sighed “It is tradition for princesses at formalballs to wear corsets. Why, the late queen, gods bless her, would have expected nothing less for her daughter.”

“It is terribly unfair!” Briony blew her nose on her sleeve, earning a wince from an attendant. “Why must girls be mashed into such horrible cages, while boys get to swan around in soft jackets? I hate growing up. I hate stupid dances that nobody asked me to. I hate traditions. And I especially hate whoever invented corsets, and I hope they are dead.”

Corwin leaned against the bedpost, chewing his apple. “You know, I think they’ve probably been buried for centuries by now.”

“Good!”

“And I shall wear one too if it helps.”

Briony froze. “You...you would?”

Corwin shrugged. “If my very beautiful and sweet little sister must suffer, then I shall suffer with her. Besides”—he grinned—“I shall look splendid.”

Richard squinted at Corwin, but the boy seemed genuine. Perhaps the stretch of Briony not talking to him had knocked some sense into him.

Mistress Cecily looked delighted. “Oh, Your Highness, there are plenty of male corsets that would fit you well. They are mostly decorative, designed to be worn over the doublet to emphasise the shoulders, the upper chest, and narrow the waist.” Her eyes glittered as they shifted from Corwin to Richard. “I have several in my workroom that would suit both brothers beautifully.”

Richard’s brows rose. “No.”

Elara snapped at him, “It would only be fair, Brother.”

“No.” Richard glared at her, then at a sniggering Corwin. “Absolutely not. I am the king.”

Briony’s mouth wobbled. “Will you not do it for me, Brother?”

There it was. The wounded note that undid him entirely.

Richard pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled.

“Oh, very well,” he muttered. “Let us see these corsets.”

* * *

The corset was a mistake.

Richard fought the urge to hook two fingers beneath the boning andwrenchit off. The thing sat over his doublet like a constricting vest—stiff maroon brocade fastened at the back with a column of hooks. As Cecily had promised, the shaping cinched his waist, squared his shoulders, and hugged his torso close. It felt ridiculous, but Cecily had proclaimed that not a soul who met him would be able to keep their wits about them.

Now, standing at the top of the grand staircase that swept down into the hall, Richard very much doubted her words. He tugged at the corset’s hem and tried to breathe as he waited for the herald to announce his entrance.

Below, the Great Hall sparkled. Tables lined the hall’s edges, laden with wine, fruit, cakes, bread and soup. On the far platform, a band of violinists and harpists played a merry tune. The centre of the floor had been cleared for dancing, its marble tiles polished to a sheen. Already, guests were filtering in through the lower doors dressed in fine robes. Richard spotted Seola by the wine table, squeezed into a long gown that was cut at the back to reveal her muscles.

“Stop fussing,” Dain grumbled from Richard’s right shoulder.

Richard glanced sideways at the Lord Commander, who’d been wrestled into a formal tunic with medals pinned across his front. His hair had been combed back, and his beard trimmed.