Estrella

“Thank you,” I murmur as one of the Dun’s Crossing seamstresses pins another fold of my skirt in place.

After a few days of what Tess deemed arguing, though I would more rightly call it standing my ground, the flock of women assigned to make my wedding dress have finally understood that I will not be—at least exclusively—wearing the dull neutrals so common in this kingdom. The head seamstress, ironically named Bright, in particular tried to put her foot down on ...