“You have worked hard,” Mara says. She’s dabbing powder on my face now, which tickles my nostrils and almost makes me sneeze. “I’ve never seen anyone work harder. The hours of study, the dancing lessons, the travel tour . . . you impressed everyone who was watching. Exactly as hoped.”

This isn’t what I want to hear.

“Red?”

I don’t want to hear about my hard work. Or that I’m half Invierno. Or that my adoption will begin to change the cultural and political landscape of our empire, opening hearts and minds to the possibility of long-term peace between our people.

Mara says, “Your adoption will begin to change the cultural—”

I hold up a hand. “I know.”

“No, you need to understand. This is the culmination of reforms that Elisa and Hector have been working on for years. Joya d’Arena is so easily bogged down by tradition, but when the court accepts you as an heir—”

“I know, Mara. It’s just . . .” Shame clogs my throat. It’s embarrassing and weak of me—when I’ve been working so hard the past few years to appear strong—but what I want to hear is that Empress Elisa and Prince Consort Hector love me. That I’m part of their family, no matter what.

Maybe that makes me a stupid, pitiful child, but I did have that dream again, and I just want to feel like I’ve finally run home.

Mara dabs rouge onto my lips and says, “There’s something you’re not telling me, but I won’t pry. I’ll just say that we have every reason to believe the day will go exactly as planned, and after it does, you will be a princess of the empire and third in line for the throne.” She stands back to admire her handiwork. “Not bad for a foundling girl with slave marks on her feet.”

I force a smile. “Not bad.” Mara has always been frank about what I am. Other people think it’s polite to pretend away uncomfortable things—the magic mark in my hair, the faded slave tattoos on my feet, my undeniable paternity. It never occurs to them that because those things are part of me, they’re pretending me away.

“Time to don the monstrosity,” she says.

I rise from the stool. “It’s only for a few hours, right?”

Mara smiles in sympathy.

The monstrosity is my ceremonial adoption gown. It’s a horror of ivory silk, to make my skin appear more traditionally dark and to mute the golden color of my eyes. The sleeves explode with ruffles the size of the Hinder Mountains, a fashion that is apparently all the rage in the vassal kingdom of Orovalle. Worst of all is the train that will stretch behind me, roughly the length of the Joyan coastline, during my formal procession down the aisle.

Everything about the monstrosity has been carefully engineered to make me seem both royal and blandly pleasant. The train and fine silk confer status. The color and ruffles wash away every part of me that might intimidate or dismay.