Free Killer Queens by Rebecca Chance

more ermine would trim the sleeves and the hem of the long, curving train, an abundance of rich fur considered suitable for a winter wedding.
    ‘Too much!’ the dressmaker said, smiling still, squeezing Lori’s upper arms. ‘Too much! Like man!’
    The other women giggled, nodding in agreement, as Lori realized that they meant her shoulder muscles and her biceps.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, smiling back. ‘I won’t flex my arms on the big day.’
    Teasingly, she raised one arm a little, turned the palm to face the ceiling, and contracted her muscles; her bicep and tricep popped up impressively. The women shrieked, the dressmaker grabbed Lori’s arm and pushed it down again, shaking her head.
    ‘No! Not like man!’ she wailed, continuing in a stream of urgent Herzoslovakian, stabbing Lori’s tricep with a pointing finger, gesturing at the lace that now sheathed Lori’s magnificently square shoulders.
    ‘We make sleeve longer,’ the dressmaker said firmly to Lori. ‘To here.’ She stabbed halfway down Lori’s arm. ‘We not see arm like man.’
    The main door of the Green Drawing Room suddenly swung open, a footman entering first and holding it for the Dowager Queen, who swept in with her usual light, swift gait. The seamstresses instantly fell into curtseys – not quick bobs of the head and hips, but full, halfway-to-the-ground obeisances, heads ducked, gazes to the emerald malachite and marble inlaid floor that, along with the matching fireplace, gave the room its name.
    ‘Oh, how magnificent!’ the Dowager exclaimed, tapping the tips of her fingers together to avoid doing anything as vulgar as actually clapping. ‘My dear, you look like you were born to be a queen!’
    It had been a huge relief to Lori that her prospective mother-in-law was so enthusiastic about Joachim’s lightning-swift courtship of his fiancée. As the King had assured Lori, the Dowager had been utterly delighted at the news of the engagement, kissing her daughter-in-law-to-be again and again, pouring her tea and handing her the cup with her own hands, rather than instructing the footman to do it – a sign of very high esteem – and launching into a stream of enthusiastic plans for the future. She was already occupying the Dowager’s apartment at Schloss Hafenhoffer, so Lori mustn’t think that there would be any awkwardness; on the marriage, Lori would join Joachim in the Imperial Suite. She wouldn’t interfere in any way with any changes Lori wanted to make; it would be a positive
relief
to finally have a reigning queen, the Dowager was
much
too old now for all the state duties and had been nagging Joachim for a
decade
to get married and bring a bride to Herzoslovakia! But he had held out for the right girl, and now he’d found her. The Dowager
couldn’t
be happier.
    Despite her self-deprecating comments, the Dowager Queen had barely passed sixty, and, thanks to careful maintenance and judicious nips, tucks and tweaks, she looked much younger than that. In her elegant Yves Saint Laurent crepe suit, her classic Ferragamo court shoes, and a wonderful multi-stranded pearl necklace at her throat – she always wore pearls, she had told Lori, as they were extremely flattering to the complexion – she was intimidatingly elegant. At this moment, in her couture wedding dress, Lori felt for the first time that she was on a par with the Dowager, and certainly the open appreciation in the older woman’s eyes spoke volumes about the success of the dress.
    ‘Wonderful!’ she exclaimed, nodding vigorously. ‘Absolutely wonderful! My dear Lori, you have an excellent figure. A very hard design to wear – satin makes women look fat
so
easily – but you are perfect!’
    Behind the Dowager, two more footmen entered the room, each carrying a large, elaborately carved wooden box; she pointed with one ring-laden hand to the huge malachite table, and the footmen scurried to set down the boxes as instructed.
    ‘We must decide now on the