Chapter 6: The violet dress
Steam clung to her skin as Annalise stepped from the copper tub, the jasmine-scented air cool against her flushed face. The week-long silence, a reprieve after the storm, the binding, the humiliating hobble through the banquet hall, had seeped into her bones like warmth. She reached for the violet silk laid out by unseen hands, its colour a bold, almost defiant contrast to the oppressive Northern blue she’d worn under duress. Sliding the cool, soft fabric over her damp skin felt like reclaiming a piece of herself.
She ran her fingers through her drying black hair, the rope burns on her wrists now faint pink lines, the deep ache in her hip finally subdued to a manageable throb. Sunlight, weak but persistent, filtered through the high, arched windows of the Hightower bedroom, catching dust motes dancing above plush rugs and gilded mirrors. No summons had shattered the quiet. No icy blue eyes assessed her defiance. Just the soft hum of distant servants, the rustle of silk, and her own quiet breath. It was… peaceful. A fragile, stolen calm she hadn’t known since leaving her sun-drenched Southern home.
The profound quiet felt almost sacred. She traced the intricate embroidery on a throw pillow – Southern flowers, not Northern knots – a forgotten relic of her trousseau. The scent of jasmine from her bath oils mingled with the faint beeswax polish of the furniture. Her gaze drifted towards the heavy oak door, expecting its inevitable opening, expecting him. But it remained shut. She breathed deeply, letting the tension ease from her shoulders, a luxury she hadn’t afforded herself in weeks.
A sharp rap shattered the stillness, echoing too loudly in the serene room. Annalise flinched, her hand instinctively drifting towards the hidden pocket where the cool weight of her dagger rested. The door opened just enough to admit a young page, his eyes fixed firmly on the ornate rug. He held out a small, folded parchment sealed with dark wax bearing Aleksandr’s crest – a snarling bear. “For Her Highness,” the boy mumbled, thrusting it forward.
Her momentary peace evaporated. The violet silk suddenly felt less like armor. She took the note, the wax cool and hard under her thumb. Breaking the seal felt like breaking a spell. The message inside was brutally concise, written in a sharp, commanding hand: ‘The physician attends you within the hour. Ensure you are ready.’ No signature. No pleasantry. Just command.
Annalise crushed the parchment in her fist, the fragile sense of calm replaced by a flicker of cold anger. ‘Ensure you are ready.’ As if she were a horse to be saddled. The jasmine scent turned cloying. She dropped the crumpled note onto a polished side table. Ready for what? More prying hands? More assessment? The memory of the physician’s impersonal touch, the tight bandage, the hobbling pain, surged back.
She took another breath, deeper this time, forcing the anger down, smoothing the violet silk over her thighs. The defiance, banked during her week of solitude, began to simmer. They thought her contained? Focused? She touched the hidden dagger through the fabric. The physician would find her ready.
The physician arrived precisely as the weak northern sun climbed higher, a timid knock preceding his entrance. He smelled faintly of antiseptic herbs and dust, his movements hesitant as he approached where Annalise sat rigidly on a velvet chaise. "Your Highness," he murmured, eyes darting nervously towards the door. "His Majesty insisted... a final assessment."
Annalise offered her bandaged wrist without a word, the faint pink lines stark against her pale skin. His fingers were cold, probing gently. "Healing well," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. "Remarkably so." He gestured awkwardly towards her hip, still concealed beneath the soft violet silk. "The deep bruising... may I?"
A flicker of the old, sharp pain echoed as she shifted, granting access. His touch was impersonal, clinical, pressing around the edges of the lingering soreness. She stared past him at a tapestry depicting a bloody stag hunt, focusing on the beast’s terrified eye. "The King requires confirmation of your fitness," the physician explained, his voice low. "For... upcoming duties."
"Fitness?" Annalise echoed flatly, the word tasting bitter. "Or compliance?" She didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the dying stag. His probing fingers paused for a fraction of a second. "The injury is resolving, Highness," he stated carefully, withdrawing his hand as if burned. "Rest remains advisable, but mobility... is restored." He packed his instruments with undue haste, the clatter loud in the quiet room. "I shall inform His Majesty."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the scent of herbs hanging heavy, clashing with the fading jasmine. Annalise smoothed the violet silk over her hip, the phantom pressure of his assessment lingering. She touched the hidden dagger’s outline beneath the fabric, a cold anchor. Silence descended again, thicker now, charged with the unspoken weight of the King’s scrutiny. Outside, the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer began, rhythmic and insistent. Then, without preamble, the heavy oak door swung wide once more.
Aleksandr filled the doorway, sunlight haloing his close-cropped blonde hair. His piercing blue eyes swept the room, lingering on the crumpled note beside the tub, then settling on her. He wore riding leathers, smelling faintly of horse and cold wind. "Well?" His voice cut through the quiet, low and expectant. "Are you fit, Princess?" He stepped fully inside, his presence shrinking the opulent chamber instantly. His gaze dropped pointedly to her hip, then lifted, challenging, waiting for her answer.
The physician’s dust-and-herb scent still hung in the jasmine air as Aleksandr’s challenge landed between them. His icy gaze, fixed on her hip where the deep bruise had bloomed purple and yellow just days ago, felt like another unwanted touch. Annalise held his stare, the defiance she’d nurtured during her silent week surging back, hot and sharp.
"The physician says I’m remarkable." The words were cool, clipped. She rose smoothly from the chaise, ignoring the faint, residual throb. A deliberate smirk touched her lips as she turned towards the dressing screen, the violet silk whispering against her skin. "Healing like a weed, apparently." She stepped behind the painted screen, the fabric barrier feeling pitifully thin against Aleksandr’s looming presence filling her opulent prison.
She could feel his impatience crackling in the silence, a physical pressure against the screen. Deliberately slowly, the rustle of silk was loud as she shed the damp robe. The cool air touched her skin; she pulled a fresh underdress of the softest linen over her head, the motion fluid, unhurried. Next, the structured violet overdress, its vibrant colour a silent rebellion. She fastened the tiny buttons with steady fingers, her knuckles brushing the familiar, weighted outline of the dagger sewn into the seam.
Emerging, fully dressed, she met his gaze head-on. "Fit enough?" Her tone was deceptively light, belying the tension coiling in her stomach. She smoothed the rich silk over her hips, a silent dare. "For whatever duties the King requires." His sharp blue eyes traced the line of her gown, perhaps sensing the hidden steel, perhaps noting the renewed steadiness in her posture. He didn’t answer immediately.
His hand, clad in worn riding leather, lifted slightly – not towards her, but to rest lightly on the high back of the velvet chaise she’d vacated. A possessive claim on her space. The silence stretched. "The gardens," he stated finally, the word abrupt. "This afternoon. You will walk with me." It wasn't an invitation, nor even a command repeated. It was an announcement. A test.
The gardens, when they finally reached them, offered no southern warmth; the air bit with a damp northern chill despite the weak sunlight filtering through high clouds. Aleksandr walked a precise half-step ahead, his boots crunching gravel with rhythmic finality. Annalise matched his pace, the violet silk whispering around her ankles, the softness jarring against the stark, manicured hedges and statues of stern-faced ancestors watching from plinths.
"Remarkable recovery indeed," Aleksandr remarked, his voice slicing the quiet. He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on the distant blackened stone of the outer wall. "The physician seemed… impressed." His tone held no warmth, only a detached assessment.
"Northern weeds are famously resilient," Annalise replied, her breath misting slightly in the cool air. She kept her spine straight, the lingering tenderness in her hip a dull echo. "Or so I'm discovering." She deliberately brushed her fingers against the rosemary lining the path, releasing its sharp scent.
He stopped abruptly by a sundial, its shadow stretching long and thin. "Resilience is useful," he stated, his blue eyes finally locking onto hers. They held no trace of the cold anger from the tower, only a piercing, unnerving focus. "Provided it doesn't become defiance."
She held the gaze, the weight of her dagger familiar and solid against her thigh. "Is there a difference, Your Majesty?" The honorific felt like grit in her mouth. "Or is it merely a matter of perspective?" A light breeze tugged at a loose strand of her black hair.
His gaze flickered downwards, perhaps catching the subtle outline beneath the silk, perhaps just noting the faded pink lines circling her wrist. He stepped closer, the scent of leather and cold stone enveloping her again. "Defiance," he said, his voice low and dangerously quiet, "is pulling a blade on your king." He leaned in, his breath ghosting her cheek. "Resilience is walking beside him after."
He turned sharply and resumed walking, leaving her rooted by the sundial, the echo of his words colder than the northern wind. A test indeed.
The crunch of gravel resumed behind her as Aleksandr walked on, leaving his definition hanging in the chill air. Annalise pressed her lips together, the phantom sting of the rope on her wrists flaring briefly. She pushed off the cold stone of the sundial and followed, the fine violet silk offering little warmth against the pervasive damp. Her steps matched his deliberate pace precisely, each footfall echoing his on the path.
The manicured gardens stretched out, all sharp angles, dark evergreens, and statues of grim-faced warriors staring blindly from lichen-spotted plinths. It was bleak control sculpted into nature, a mirror of the man striding ahead. "Northern resilience seems... severe," she observed, her voice level, cutting through the silence as they passed a perfectly trimmed yew hedge smelling faintly of damp earth. "Does anything softer grow here, or is it all thorns and stone?"
He didn't slow. "Soft things die in the first frost, Princess," he replied, his tone flat, factual. "Strength endures." He gestured vaguely towards a cluster of hardy, low-growing herbs clinging to a rocky outcrop near a larger statue – this one depicting a bear reared on its hind legs, claws outstretched. "See? Rosemary. Thyme. Useful."
They stopped before the imposing stone beast, its snarling muzzle weathered but still intimidating. Annalise tilted her head, studying the bear, then shifted her gaze sideways to Aleksandr’s profile, his jaw set against the cold wind whipping strands of his close-cropped blonde hair. The crisp air carried the scent of the herbs and the metallic tang of distant rain. Her fingers brushed the concealed outline of the dagger through the silk, a grounding presence. A memory surfaced: the yielding resistance of his skin beneath her teeth, the sharp tang of blood.
"How's your neck?" she asked, genuinely, her gaze fixed on the bandage edge still visible above his high collar.
His hand flew to his collar, knuckles whitening against the leather. A flicker of something raw—surprise, maybe irritation—crossed his face before vanishing behind the usual granite mask. "Healing," he clipped out, the word sharp as the gravel beneath their boots. His blue eyes narrowed, assessing her genuine curiosity like a trap. "Clean bite. Efficient." He dropped his hand abruptly, the movement stiff. "You fight dirty."
"Desperate times," Annalise countered softly, her gaze drifting back to the stone bear’s frozen snarl. The rosemary scent intensified as she crushed a sprig underfoot deliberately. "You were crushing my ribs." The memory of his weight, the mud, the suffocating panic, tightened her throat. She touched the hidden dagger’s outline through the violet silk, a silent anchor. "And you started it."
A harsh bark of laughter escaped him, startlingly loud in the quiet garden. It held no warmth. "By preventing you from drowning yourself in a storm?" He shook his head, strands of blonde hair catching the weak light. "Or bleeding out in a woodsman’s shack?" He took a step closer, the cold air shifting around him. "Your definition of ‘starting it’ needs refinement, Princess." His gaze dropped pointedly to her hip, then lifted, challenging. "Walk."
They walked on.
They walked on, the gravel crunching beneath their boots in uneven rhythm, the scent of damp rosemary sharpening in the chill. The manicured path curved towards the arched entrance back into the Hightower's cold stone embrace, leaving the bleak garden behind. Her hip throbbed only faintly now, a ghost of the pain that had hobbled her through the banquet hall. The violet silk felt like borrowed armor against the King's assessing gaze.
Inside, the warmer air carried the familiar scent of beeswax and jasmine. Servants melted away into shadowed corners as they passed, eyes downcast. Aleksandr’s stride didn't slow, heading deeper into the keep's administrative wing, away from her chambers. "The Eastern post riders are late," he stated, his voice echoing slightly off the stone walls. "Two days. Uncharacteristic."
He stopped abruptly outside a heavy oak door bearing the carved bear crest. "Unsettling," Annalise murmured, leaning against the cool stone wall beside the door, giving her hip a moment's respite. The hidden dagger pressed reassuringly against her thigh. "Creatures displaced by the storm, you said?"
He turned, his piercing blue eyes fixed on her, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "Or something else exploiting the chaos." He pushed the heavy door open, revealing a war room dominated by a massive table strewn with maps weighted down by daggers. "Borin!" His sharp call echoed in the cavernous space.
A burly man, Borin, scrambled up from where he'd been studying a parchment, ink smudged on his cheek. "Sire! Princess." His gaze darted nervously between them. "Still no sign, Majesty. Scouts sent?"
Aleksandr moved to the table, tracing a route on a map with a calloused finger. "Send Captain Varga. Small, fast unit. Find them." His tone brooked no argument. "And the Princess requires an escort for her… walks." He glanced back at Annalise, still leaning against the doorframe. "Ensure it's discreet."
Borin nodded vigorously. "Of course, Sire." He scurried out, nearly tripping over a rolled-up map. The heavy door thudded shut behind him.
Silence descended, thick and sudden in the map-strewn room, heavy with the scent of ink and old parchment. Only the faint ticking of an ornate clock on the mantle broke it. Aleksandr remained bent over the map, his broad shoulders tense. Annalise watched him, the absurdity of Borin's near-fall colliding with the grim weight of missing riders and the memory of her own desperate flight into the storm. A sudden, unexpected bubble of amusement rose in her throat. "Poor Borin," she said, her voice surprisingly light. "He looked like he’d seen a ghost." She paused, the ridiculousness of the hardened warrior tripping over cartography striking her anew. I laugh lightly. The sound, genuine and unexpected, seemed to hang in the air, fragile as glass.
The sound, genuine and unexpected, seemed to hang in the air, fragile as glass. Aleksandr slowly turned from the map-strewn table, his blue eyes narrowing—not in anger, but wary surprise that softened the hard lines of his face for half a breath. Annalise pushed off the doorframe, the dagger’s familiar weight grounding her as she crossed the cold stone floor towards him, her violet silk gown whispering against her faintly aching hip.
Her pulse thrummed against the faded rope scars on her wrists. She stopped before him, close enough to smell leather and cold wind clinging to his riding clothes. "Aleksandr." His name felt foreign, dangerous on her tongue after weeks of icy titles. She swallowed, forcing her chin up to meet his piercing gaze. "I don’t want to fight… or be enemies." The words scraped out, raw with memory—his crushing weight in the mud, the bite, the rope burns, the hobbling humiliation before the court. "If you require my obedience… I will do it." She took a shaky breath, the jasmine from her bath still clinging to her skin, clashing with the war room’s stale ink and dust. "I will do my best to be a Queen you can be proud of." Her knuckles brushed the hidden dagger through the silk, a promise and a plea. "I just need your help for awhile… Is that acceptable to you?"
Silence crashed down. His eyes locked onto hers, searching for deception or desperation—traps, blades, storms. The clock’s ticking echoed like a hammer on anvil. His gaze flicked to her bandaged hip, then her wrist, then back to her face. He leaned back against the map table, fingers tracing the carved edge near a dagger hilt. "Help?" The word was low, rough—not refusal, but wary consideration. He studied her violet gown, her earnest stillness, the absence of defiance in her green eyes. "Define 'help,' Princess."
"Define 'help,' Princess." His voice scraped low, echoing slightly in the map-strewn stillness. Ink and dust hung thick in the air, mingling with the fading scent of jasmine clinging to her skin.
Annalise met his piercing blue gaze, the wariness etched deep. Her throat tightened. The hidden dagger pressed its familiar, comforting weight against her thigh beneath the violet silk. She remembered the mud floor, his crushing weight, the desperate bite, the coarse rope burning her wrists, the agonizing hobble before the staring court. Control it. Or I will. His warning echoed.
She took a slow breath, the cool stone floor chilling her slippered feet. "If I'm doing something wrong..." Her voice rasped, quieter now, stripped of defiance. "...tell me." She swallowed hard, forcing the next words past the knot of pride. "I'll do my best to fix it." Her fingers brushed the concealed outline through the silk one last time.
Deliberately, she reached into the deep pocket sewn into the gown's inner seam. Her fingers closed around the cool Southern steel grip, the grooves worn by secret practice sessions in sunlit courtyards a lifetime ago. She pulled the dagger free, its blade catching the weak light filtering through the high windows.
She held it out, flat on her palm, offering it to him across the space cluttered with maps and weighted blades. Her gaze dropped to the worn floorboards, avoiding his face. "I give him my dagger." The words were barely audible, thick with surrender and something else – a fragile, terrifying hope.
She placed the blade carefully on the edge of the massive map table, near his hand but not touching him. The steel clicked softly against the wood. She didn't look up. She didn't wait for his reaction – acceptance, rejection, scorn. Turning sharply, the violet silk swirling around her ankles, Annalise walked towards the heavy oak door. Her hip protested only faintly. She kept walking, head still slightly bowed, leaving the dagger, the war room, and the silent King behind her.