¬HILN
That smell.
I was starting to hate it.
I was dressed in a light undergarment and thigh-high stockings that clung to my skin like a whispered promise. I stood still, uncomfortable—both with the smell and the whole situation. The assortment and preparations being made for me were too fancy. When the time came for me to be seated at the dresser, the servants hesitated at my hair.
The trouble began when they started combing it. I winced occasionally, their remorseful voices accompanying each pull of the comb. With deft fingers and some hair lotions, they finally subdued my unruly hair into a delicate bun, secured in place with pins.
