Read Online A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist by Ron Miller - Free Book Online Page B

top of the dress.
    “Only a very little bit, not nearly enough to be upset about.”
    “You’re a man; you would think that.”
    “Come now! Don’t hunch over like that; stand up straight! You’re a very attractive young woman: you should be proud of that!”
    “There aren’t even any petticoats!”
    “There aren’t supposed to be, I daresay. There’s no room for them.”
    “What are people going to think?”
    “What do you imagine they’re going to think? You’re not back in Blavek; this is Toth! By the standards observed here, that’s a very conservative dress.”
    “It’s on a very conservative princess.”
    “The men are going to fall over themselves vying for an introduction, and all the women are going to hate you!”
    “You have no idea how much that comforts me.” Bronwyn’s grimace barely resembles a smile. “I know you think I’m just being silly, but I can’t help it. I know the dress is beautiful, but what about me? I don’t look too funny? You think I look all right? Truly?” She reluctantly dropped her hands to her sides, stood up straight and turned slowly for the baron’s inspection.
    By Musrum and all the lesser gods, he thinks, stroking the ends of his pointed moustaches , I’m old enough to be her father, so perish the thoughts I’m having! Well, not that haven’t satisfied such yearnings before, and when the age difference is even greater . . . but this is the Princess Bronwyn , for Musrum’s sake!
    The black velvet is a perfect counterfoil for the princess’s pale skin, which is not the sickly pallor of the sunless, but is naturally a tint resembling fresh cream with a single drop of blood stirred into it. Her shoulders are as smooth and level as a beach, her neck long and cylindrical; her ambergris hair spilling around and over both, like hot coals consuming ivory. She wears no jewelry save a single, simple emerald pendant that punctuates the vertical shadow between her breasts. Long black gloves come halfway up her upper arms, level with the top of the bodice. With her high-heeled shoes, she is as tall as the baron; a slender black column topped with onyx, like a caryatid made of obsidian and rose quartz.
    “I do think it’s time to go,” says the baron, in a subdued tone.
    “If anyone laughs or says anything , I’ll never forgive you.”
    “My dear Princess, there may be a lot of different reactions to you, but I guarantee that laughter will not be one of them!”
    “You’d better hope you’re right.”
    The ballroom is full when the baron and the princess arrive, and at the sight of so many people, Bronwyn balks. She hangs back, but the baron’s strong arm, to which she is clinging, prevents any actual retreat. The fact that virtually every other woman in the vast room is in a state of either greater opulence or greater undress, or both, fails to reassure her. At least she has the small comfort that, because of the baron’s advice, she is, at least, accurately if not decently dressed.
    Bronwyn is certainly no stranger to balls and receptions, but now, here, for the first time in her life, she feels uncomfortably and self-consciously out of place.
    King Felix, surprisingly, is there, his squat body filling his clothing like an assortment of bulbous odds and ends thrown in a sack. Close to his side is one of his ubiquitous, sour-looking physicians, carrying a portable respirator that resembled a not entirely successful hybrid of bagpipe, bellows and samovar. The king immediately spies the tall, long-eyed girl and her escort. Hurrying carefully to her side, he pauses for a moment to catch his breath, the doctor hovering anxiously behind.
    “ Heeeee, heeeee, heeeee ,” he says, straining to fill his inadequate lungs. “I’m so glad to see you, my dear!”
    “Are you sure you should be up, Uncle?”
    “Oh, don’t worry, a small party won’t kill me. Heeeee, heeeeee.”
    “I hope you’re right.”
    “Have you met our guest of honor?”
    “No, we just