"You don't have to," I say uncomfortably, already feeling self-conscious without her seeing my chubbier body.
"'Tis an honor to meet you, more so to assist you." Her expression is genuine, her eyes the most amazing shade of green.
I'm so jealous, I can't speak and just nod.
The material of the dress is softer than my sheets and nightgown. She drapes it over my head and tugs it into place, tying a thick piece of fabric around my waist at the back. She picks up some sort of bodice acting as a really complicated bra and upper body shaper. It seems stiff but really isn't too uncomfortable when she gets it in place. I'm still wearing my own bra and underwear.
I don't normally wear dresses and the ankle-length layers are kind of annoying. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to move fast in this thing without tripping.
"Can I ask who you are?" I venture.
"Daughter of the former Red Knight and sister to the current Red Knight," she replies. "I am betrothed to the Shadow Knight. I ride with his armies, even if I am not permitted into battle."
How did I not see that coming? The Red Knight, the most incredible, intense, amazing looking man ever and his equally beautiful sister?
The symmetry of their perfection is enough to make me want to throw up.
She's looking at me like I should congratulate her or respond.
"I met your brother," I murmur. "He's an . . . interesting man." It's the only way I can think to describe an admitted gigolo with an imprisoned teen in the bench seat of his carriage and the desire to leave this book to find its author.
She smiles. "He is a fair man, one who hopes my bonding with the Shadow Knight will help end the wars."
Because what man wouldn't want to be with this woman all day instead of at battle?
I nod. "You can turn around," I tell the boy. "Do you happen to have any shoes? Boots? Whatever you call them here?"
He opens the box he was sitting on and pulls out suede boots. They appear new and match my dress. I'm not certain how comfortable they'll be until I sit and pull them on.
They fit like they were made just for me, as if someone measured my feet while I slept and molded boots around them.
Which is a really, really creepy thought.
The princess is watching, her features radiant. Even on my best day, my skin hasn't been that clear.
"What do you do for, um . . . bathrooms?" I ask, embarrassed.
The squire points.