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At my question, Fedora, my maid, stepped back a few paces and examined my face with a scrutinizing gaze. Her eyes, staring intently through the snow-white lace veil that covered me down to just below my collarbones, were almost frightening.
The lace was so dense that she couldn't see clearly, but that was the general impression I got. As if something were displeasing her, Fedora took a deep breath, stepped closer, and gently lifted the veil to meet my eyes, whispering:
“I really think you should wear the hat. Even with a cursory glance, Your Highness's purple eyes are faintly visible.”
“Wouldn't a faint glimpse be alright?”
“No, I don't think so. There are only two types of women who wear white veils in broad daylight: a bride at a wedding, or a woman in mourning. The people of Ohala are terribly nosy; if they hear a woman of unknown name and origin is in mourning, they will scramble to offer their condolences. That means the risk of being discovered is high.”
“I suppose so.”
White veils were generally considered the exclusive domain of male priests of gabhilism.
Male priests of gabhilism wore these white veils over their heads when praying in places other than the holy hall. It was a manifestation of their will to devote themselves to prayer, free from all worldly distractions (female priests covered their hands while praying, though it was not mandatory).
Conversely, for a woman who was not a bride to wear a white veil in Ohala implied both 'please grieve the death of my family with me' and 'I am still sad, but I am ready to receive your comfort.' The period for wearing the veil ranged from as short as one week to as long as a year after the bereavement.
An interesting fact was that one could infer a person's social standing and popularity by the number of balls, tea parties, or gatherings they attended while wearing this veil.
Consequently, influential figures or those who were widely respected appeared in public as often as—or even more frequently than—they did during the social season. Those who wished to share in the grief, offer comfort, and converse with the bereaved would compete to invite the mourning woman.
Generally, if the veil covered down to the chest, it meant 'I am too immersed in grief for long conversations'; if it reached the collarbones, it meant 'I am still sad, but I have recovered significantly'; and if the chin and lips were visible... anyway, it was an efficient means of silent communication.
Fedora picked up a pale beige wide-brimmed hat resting on the dressing table.
She removed the veil that had been perched precariously on my head and placed the hat on it. Then, she draped the veil over the hat, adjusting the length so it flowed down to just above my chest. It was a signal that unless it was for greetings or condolences, no one should dare speak to me. I stepped toward the mirror to check my appearance.
“I look like a wicked witch.”
“Witches don't wear white.”
“Or perhaps an old, wealthy widow.”
“It would be a blessing if we could disguise you as such.”
With a thin smile, Fedora used a pin woven with white artificial flowers and pearls to secure the veil to the hat and my hair. I wasn't particularly fond of it, but I no longer had the energy to resist. Based on past experience, it was always safer to trust Fedora's intuition over my own in these matters.
Fedora was my first personal maid.
Having worked as a maid for just over three years, she was a girl my age who had grown up in the orphanage I sponsored. Unlike other peers, she had always been neatly groomed—an intelligent girl who was easy to talk to.
Those without a clear social status cannot work in the Imperial Palace. Nevertheless, the reason Fedora was able to become the personal maid of an Imperial descendant—and a direct Imperial Princess at that—was entirely due to Vasily's arrangements.
[Though she is an orphan, she seems far too intelligent to spend her life doing menial chores on the outskirts of the city. She taught herself three languages, knows how to cater to your whims, and is quick-witted. Since she has no connections, the probability of her showing unwavering loyalty to you is high.]
Fedora was the first reward I gained from continuing the orphanage volunteer work that I found so tedious. Though Vasily seemed convinced that I, who suffered through the labor of sweeping, scrubbing, and caring for children in that filthy orphanage, had gained and learned far more.
Taking a deep breath as if preparing for a battlefield, I pressed the hat down deeper and asked.
“At this rate, even if Valentin happens to run into me by complete chance... he won't recognize me, right?”
I knew it too. The fact that my voice was trembling—quite literally—as if I were reuniting with a fiancé who had left for war four years ago. It was a justified tremor. Valentin was the only friend I had maintained regular contact with, regardless of the season, for the past four years.
“Who knows. That great prophet of yours might already know that Her Imperial Highness is present here.”
Fedora's problem was that she was unnecessarily cynical.
“It's been four whole years. We've only exchanged letters for four years. I haven't seen that handsome face once in four years!”
“You saw him in photos. After whining for over six months to exchange them, you finally managed to get one...”
“It's a photo. It's different from real life. You remember, don't you? That photo of me taken at the orphanage a few months ago, where I looked like a plump monkey.”
“...”
“You remember, right? Right?”
“Your Imperial Highness. I was trained to always tell Your Highness only the truth...”
“And?”
“At that time, Your Highness actually had gained a bit of weight...”
“And then?”
“Even then, you were thinner than most women. Moreover, the adults around us urged you to keep eating well, saying your complexion had returned and you looked much more vibrant. You've lost it all again. Honestly, in my eyes, you looked cuter back then.”
“I am an adult now. I need to look elegant and poised rather than cute.”
I looked at the woman in the mirror wearing the soft beige wide-brimmed hat and veil. Looking at her this way, it was as if Tatyana were standing there. Now seventeen, my height and posture were gradually becoming more like Tatyana's than my mother's.
The squat Princess Larisa had died long ago. My height had already surpassed 170cm. My straight, broad shoulders, long arms, short chin, and long neck were particularly similar to Tatyana's, as were my purple-toned eyes—though the saturation differed—and the fact that I had grown my hair long.
'Even the modest mole on my chest is the same.'
At this point, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say Tatyana had given birth to me rather than my mother.
“Did you pack the invitation?”
“Yes, here it is.”
I checked the invitation Fedora handed me and tucked it neatly inside my tote bag.
Today's ball was a critically important event for me, and for this city, Shaharansk. Thanks to that, nobles and influential figures from all over the Ohala Empire were gathering.
It was unusual for so many high-society guests to congregate in Shaharansk, a place renowned as a sanctuary of quiet music. However, there was a justifiable reason for their focused interest.
Valentin was returning.
It was a return after four years, delayed by one year from the original schedule.
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