Moon Drunk: Origins

A Burgundy Gown

But three months pass with no word from King Julien

Finally, one blustery January afternoon, a troop of King Julien's yeomen of the guard, clad in the burgundy livery of the king, appears at the door of the palace.

"Princess Felicite Beaujolais," the king's herald announces from the doorway. "The king will visit your household this evening. He will attend with twenty men, and they will take their evening meal in your home."

Lady Margrithe inclines her head politely, informing the herald calmly that the princess will be present and prepared when His Grace arrives. Only her eyes betray her calm demeanor; she is a seething bundle of barely-contained raw werewolf energy beneath the surface of her skin.

The instant the great doors close, the room erupts into chaos.

"It must not be blue," Lady Margrithe says, brow furrowing. "Blue is the color of Bourbon royal mourning, and she cannot appear to be mourning Jolis's death. It will offend the king and his court. It will ruin all we have worked for! Red, perhaps?"

"She absolutely cannot wear red," Anjolique frowns. "Although it does bring out the flawlessness of her skin...oh, Felicite, you do look so stunning in red. Scarlet, perhaps?"

"It is a whore's color, and we are not presenting the king a whore for his bride," Lady Margrithe says.

It is as if Felicite is no longer in the room. She wishes she was not.

"Perhaps I should ask the executioner to borrow his hood?" she pouts. "A visit to his scaffold would certainly be more pleasant than this event with the king."

"Yellow? She could wear yellow, could she not, Margrithe?" Anjolique asks with no acknowledgement of Felicite's comment.

"No one looks good in yellow," Lady Margrithe replies with a shake of her head. "Not even our girl."

"I look good in yellow," Claude pouts. "I think she should wear red. It is fitting, for her, and surely the king knows about her...indiscretions...with King Jolis?"

"You hush, Claude Beaujolais, or you shall not join us to meet the king."

Claude knows better than to challenge her mother, and her mouth closes.

"Oh, forget the dress!" Lady Margrithe says suddenly. "How will I have a meal prepared for the king in a matter of hours?"

Anjolique smiles. "You forget, sister. I was once queen of one of the largest werewolf kingdoms in existence. I have prepared banquets for hundreds with less notice. I will handle the meal. Send for the Master of the Servery. But first, we must ensure our girl is at her best. She is the only hand we have to play."

Anjolique holds a purple gown to Felicite's chest.

"No, no, that is all wrong," Lady Margrithe says, shaking her head. "She must appear humble. She must not appear too flashy, too eager, or too proud. She must appear the perfect lady. The epitome of Bourbon and Bruges royalty to remind him of all he has to gain by marrying her. Remind the nobles that they must force his hand if necessary."

"What about the burgundy, Felicite?" Dulce asks, holding up a deep, rich burgundy-colored gown. "It is the color of His Grace's house, is it not? Would that not win his favor?"

"My girl," Lady Margrithe beams. "My clever girl. That is perfect. Absolutely perfect."

"But that is my gown!" Claude protests.

"It is too short, of course," Anjolique says. "Claude is much shorter than Felicite. We will have to let down the hem. Put it on, now, Felicite, and come to my room so we can fix the gown. You must look perfect for him."