Three days later, Verinia was ready to toss herself out of a window and attempt to fly.
Unfortunately, there was nothing to blame for her dwindling will to live except for her own perfectionism. Some days it was a blessing, but most days it was a curse.
For that very reason, she had been looking at all manner of colours since the rise of the greater sun that morning.
Her eyes ached from the variety but still, there seemed to be no solution to the never ending search she'd imposed upon herself.
Cera Dionar Sarivi, the Master of Ceremony and unmarried third-born son of Su'na Paxzon Sarivi, had been by her side for the entirety of the day.
His critical eye for colour and flair saved her more than once from making a dreadful choice out of the sheer desperation to simply choose a blasted fabric already and be done with the whole affair.
Verinia looked, and she looked hard, but somehow her eyes could make no sense of the textile before her.
It wasn't confusion that was blinding her, per se. It was more like disdain. An unwillingness for her eyeballs to appropriately perceive what was in front of them.
"...What is it?" Cera Dionar's expression was wrinkled like a sun-dried prune.
A massive wig of powdered horse hair sat on top of his head strictly for visual purposes, and it flopped heavily to the right when his head tilted in that direction.
The wig seemed to balance precariously in the tilted position by the grace of an innumerable amount of pins that attached the thing to his real hair beneath.
From the sheer weight of the wig and how he moved his head so freely like a pecking chicken, Cera Dionar seemed to be unafraid of being left with mere patches of his real hair.
"This is a new colour, Cera. They call it 'plum' in the north." The textile merchant, a stocky man whose eyebrows took over half of his face, smiled proudly. "A costly acquisition, I must say."
"What north? I'd like to have a strong word."
"It's black." Verinia looked at the fabric with a tight expression, one that was not quite surprise and near entirely disgust. "That colour looks black."
"That colour looks like the result of bodily functions, Su'Adrit." Cera Dionar waved his hand in dismissal. "You've wasted your coin, Yod."
"Cera, please," The princess tried to amend as the merchant's face fell. "It's not so terrible."
The white powdered face of the wigged man turned a violet glare into the side of her face. "Would you wear it?"
Verinia ignored the question, picking up the fabric with the tips of her fingers sceptically.
It really was an unfortunate purchase, and there was so much of it.
"You said this colour is called plum, Leor?" She asked, using the formal title for a merchant to convey her respect. She truly did not want the round man to think that the palace held less respect for him just because he had questionable taste.
"That is what the northerners call it, Serenity."
"Again, what northerners?"
She hummed as a malevolent idea began to form. "I know someone who would look good wearing this."
"A corpse, perhaps, if it's disgraced itself in its final moments." Cera Dionar smiled. "They say they do that, you know."
The princess eyed Cera Dionar from the corners of her eyes. "Who says?"
"The executioners, of course."
Verinia dropped the fabric faster than if it was from a leper. "Please show me something brighter, Leor Yod. This is to be a welcoming so I would like the ballroom to be as captivating as possible."
The merchant bowed and returned the roll of fabric to its cart, bringing his palm to the back of his assistant's head while at it.
"Useless boy!" He scolded. "You told me this is a popular investment!"
"It is popular," the assistant hissed, rubbing the back of his head aggrievedly. "In the north."
"What bloody north?!" The Master of Ceremonies bellowed. His wig slid forward until it ate up half of his forehead. "They should be barred from trading with us."
"Of course, Cera. I won't purchase from them again." Leor Yod and his assistant bowed deeply, with the latter apologising profusely. "This one should be to your liking, however."
The skinny little twig of an assistant brought forth a roll from the cart, heaving with every step as he set the giant thing onto the display mat for their textiles.
It was a stunning, shimmering green, lighter than the sovereign colour and near identical to the greens of tree crowns.
Cera Dionar raised his chin in approval. His wig slid back until the roots of his tawny hair could be seen pulled tightly from his scalp by the pins. "Excellent."
"Yes." Verinia approached the fabric and took a small part delicately in her hands. It was light and incredibly soft. "I believe this will be the purchase."
"Of course, Serenity." Leor Yod beamed at her, then turned his head to scowl at his assistant. "Boy, ready the fabric!"
"At once." The poor assistant scrambled, nearly crushing himself as the fabric roll tipped to fall onto him. A concerning wheeze came from the young man, who had vanished behind the pillar of fabric. "H-how much would you like, Su'Adrit?"
"The entire roll." She was already calling in a servant to alert the palace seamweavers of the new purchase. "How much will it be?"
"Ten eras, Serenity."
Both the princess and Cera Dionar's brows rose in surprise, but she wrote the merchant a coin note in the name of the sovereign family for the cost, either way.
It was an expensive purchase. In fact, that entire roll of fabric was the same price as some low rank government minister's annual salary.
"And now we must secure the entertainment." Cera Dionar wrote something in his bound book when the merchant had left. "I believe I know who to hire for it. They are these acrobats from the east."
Verinia returned to her task once the roll of fabric was taken away to be worked upon by the miraculous hands of the seamweavers.
"No exuberance. I want this to be a simple ball," she said with a straight face. Anyone could tell that she was completely serious.
"You've spent eight thousand ira so far but you close the coffers with acrobats?" The white powder of the eccentric man's cheeks creased as he pursed his lips. "Capricious."
"It is an introduction ball, not a sovereign wedding." She rolled her eyes. "Kaelbi comes from simple origins. He will appreciate this much."
"If I'm not mistaken, Su'na Grandpire was the wealthiest null blood noble in the eastern north. I'd hardly call such a life simple if he was raised by the man."
"And the lifestyle of a null noble compares to the luxury of ours?"
Cera Dionar couldn't seem to disagree with her. How could he, when she had spoken the truth? Wealth was an inaccurate word to describe how deep the coffers of the Eight Houses lied.
Not only had they formed the economy of New Oalta from their own pocket, they had brought the wealth from the old world with them.
It was impossible to make a fair comparison between the transcendent blood and those who came from abroad to build a life in New Oalta.
Cera Dionar grinned, the look of a predator gleaming in his eyes. "Simple, indeed."