Chapter 46. The Frost-Touched
In the secondary audience chamber, slightly smaller than the usual larger main court of the Peacock Palace, a new day brought a light which gleamed harmoniously with inlaid tiles of green jade and white marble, the soft light from the upper windows catching on the gold filigree set into the floor.
Waiting patiently, Queen Charula Rajdevan stood beside her throne, not seated — an intentional choice on her part.
Thrones were for final judgments, not first impressions.
The intention was to measure and assess, and a Queen on a thrown could be imposing to someone without confidence or a spine.
When the herald entered, she finally announced the name that she had been waiting for, for a few days, "Clarisse Sairus," Charula's gaze immediately shifted to the opening doors.
The girl entered slowly, hesitantly, her wings tucked so tightly to her back. Trying so desperately to hide that their pale feathers brushed the edges of her gown. Her dress — plainly cut, cream silk that dirtied easily- it was a bold but unwise choice, only chosen to try to imply she had more colour. It was without any notable embellishment — only emphasizing the stark whiteness of her plumage. In a court where emerald, turquoise, and gold dominated, she looked like frost standing in a sunlit garden.
Without saying a word, Charula let her approach. To the measured sound of her own heartbeat, before finally speaking a word.
"When the Queen of your country calls for your presence," she said, voice calm but edged with steel, "you are expected to come at once, Lady Clarisse. Not two days later."
The girl stopped at the base of the dais, head bowed. "Your Majesty… I- I apologise. I—" Her voice caught, soft and unsure. "I had... no expectation that the summons was, of all people, meant for me. I thought… perhaps it was an error."
'An error.' Charula thought to herself, allowed herself the faintest curve of one brow. "And why would that be?"
Clarisse's pale pink eyes flickered up for the briefest moment before dropping again. "Because I am no one of note, Your Majesty. And… because those of the court have long whispered that I am cursed. As all can see clearly, I am...Frost-touched." Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirts. "I cannot imagine why you would call for someone such as... well- for me."
The Queen's silence drew the girl's unusual pink gaze upward again, and Charula saw the faint tremor in the hands, and in her lower lip, of someone who had learned to expect derision.
That, ' she thought, could be useful. 'A woman accustomed to dismisal would not rebel quickly'.
"You are here because I sent for you," Charula said at last. "Whatever you imagine of yourself, Lady Clarisse, is irrelevant to me. I will judge you for you and I will judge what I see of you, with my own eyes."
The girl's eyes remained fixed on the floor in front of her, "Yes, my Queen."
As they stood in that first brittle silence a moment longer, Queen Charula's then, really assessed what she was working with. She had already styled 5 other princesses successfully... what was one more potential princess, even if a bit of a challenge?
With the weight of her studious gaze, Clarisse felt a little more than uncomfortable but it was not her place to tell her queen to stop looking at her. That, she felt, would be highly inappropriate. Allowing the queen to appraise her further.
Her expert gaze swept down Clarisse's gown — plain cream silk, serviceable, but colorless enough to make her seem a ghost adrift in the gilded hall. The Queen's mind was already arranging fabrics in the girl's future. Peacock court was a riot of jewel tones; here, monochrome read as defiance or disdain.
This frost-touched child would have to be coaxed into something warmer.
"We will see what we can do about your... presentation," Charula lamented, almost idly to herself, but her hazel eyes were sharp and she could see the girl still waiting there. "You do not, and will not ever again, walk into my court dressed as if you belong to its shadows."
Lastly, Charula's gaze lingered on the girl a moment longer, the pale shape of her folded wings barely visible behind the drape of her gown. They were held too close to her back, tight enough that the shoulder muscles must have been knotting with strain. A nervous habit, perhaps... Or, was it the weight of the shame that the girl felt in their lack of colouration?
"Unfold them," the Queen announced suddenly, "I want you to unfold them."
Clarisse froze. "I beg your parden, Your Majesty?"
"Your wings," Charula clarified, her tone even but not soft. "Open them. Fully."
Slowly — far too slowly — Clarisse obeyed. The fabric shifted over her shoulders as she unlatched the tension in her frame, the great pale fans unfurling into the hall's light. They were not the dull cream of most albino plumage but the blinding white of frost under full sun, edged so faintly in pink it could almost be a trick of the eye.
Queen Charula did not miss the way the girl's eyes dipped, as though bracing for mockery. "Do you keep them folded to try to make them disappear, or to pretend they aren't there?" the Queen asked very bluntly.
Clarisse's voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the vaulted chamber. "If I keep them small, people… see less and that way they act less."
"People see what they choose to see," Charula mused, circling once, her trained gaze taking in the feather condition, the span, the posture. "...and what they fear, they will always notice and react to, whether you show it or not." She stepped closer, just enough to make the girl meet her eyes. "You will keep them healthy, and you will unfold them far more regularly, while you remain here. That is an order from your Queen. Do you understand? The court will not think you weak for what you are born with — not while you stand in my house."
Unsure of anything anymore, and dizzied by what was happening. Clarisse's chin dipped in a small bow. "Yes, Majesty."
The Queen nodded, as though the matter were settled, but she filed away the truth she had just seen: the frost-touched girl hid not only her wings, but herself.
Queen Charula had her work cut out for her. The perfect princess generally had a few common qualities that were shared, although they never usually had them all: Demeanour, obedience, composure under pressure, and lastly, the most important and usually forgotten... potential.
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First Measure — Demeanor
The next morning, Queen Charula sent one of her more tactful maids and one of the finest seamstress their city had to offer. Sending them to Clarisse's guest chambers with armfuls of silks — muted gold, rose pink, russet brown — and a fitted gown of deep wine-red threaded with subtle gold embroidery. The Queen had ordered it the previous evening, curious whether the girl would embrace or resist the change.
Later that day, after the girl had been allowed time to get settled into one of the guest accommodations and had breakfast to get cofortable and familiar with the house staff. It was then that one of the servants came to inform her that the Queen wished her presence in the garden that afternoon.
The girl knew that it was not a request, so politely thanked the servant and informed them that she would greatfully attend.
When Clarisse arrived for the day's walk in the gardens, she wore the wine-red gown without protest, though she still moved with the same quiet reserve. A court hairdresser had softened her pale hair into a loose braid wound with gold thread. The faint warmth of the color made her eyes less stark, her skin less bloodless.
With an internal sigh of relief, Queen Charula noted the change and that the girl had accepted the court's most expert and finest touch without either fuss or excessive delight. Acceptance without vanity — another positive mark for this girl, on the Queen's mental ledger.
They walked together through the east gardens, a stretch of the palace grounds reserved for the royal family and guests of distinction. Charula allowed the girl to speak freely, offering nothing of her own thoughts.
Clarisse commented on the roses — noting which blooms would open before summer's end, which would wither early. She spoke of the palace architecture with quiet admiration, and once, when a white butterfly alighted on her wrist, she smiled in a way that softened her entire face.
Not a practiced smile. Not the court-trained flutter of lashes. Genuine.
Charula noted that. A genuine smile could not be taught; it was either cultivated by kindness or stubbornly retained despite the lack of it.
The Queen also noted what the girl did not do — she did not preen when male courtiers passed, nor lower her voice to perform demureness. She moved like someone used to avoiding attention, not courting it.
Perhaps that would suit Chaitav. Perhaps it would bore him enough to keep him still.
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Second Measure — Obedience
That evening, later on, Charula sent for Clarisse at dawn, instructing her to appear in the private library.
Clarisse arrived in less than twenty minutes, her hair still slightly damp from hurried washing, her pale wings neatly folded. She bowed.
"Your Majesty wished to see me?"
"I did," Charula said, gesturing to the far table. "The Sairus family's ledgers for the last ten years are there. You will review them, identify any inconsistencies, and present them to me at sunset."
Clarisse's pale brows drew together — not in protest, but in concentration. "I… am not trained in ledgers, Your Majesty. But I will try."
Charula did not offer reassurance. She simply nodded and left her to the task.
By sunset, Clarisse was yawning regularly but had marked three instances where the accounts did not align. They were minor errors, but she had found them without guidance.
"Not trained?" Charula asked, one brow arched characteristically for her. A look that the girl was becoming a little familiar with, one of studying interest. Neither approval nor disapproval, but for someone who had lived her life living off the latter. To Clarisse? This felt like all the approval she would ever need.
"My father keeps our accounts, Your Majesty," Clarisse bowed her head respectfully, due to already being sitting down, and standing to curtsey was likely going to be seen as too formal. "I only ever checked the tallies for accuracy when he was tired."
Honesty. No attempt to claim skill beyond her experience.
When she delivered her findings, Clarisse was still in the same gown the Queen had given her, though her sleeves were dusted faintly with flour — a mark of having taken her noon meal in the servants' wing rather than with the courtiers.
"The hall was… busy, Majesty," she explained when Charula's gaze flicked to the stains. "I thought I might disturb the others with my reading of the ledgers."
It was not what most young women in her position would have done; they would have chosen to be seen, to be noticed. Clarisse chose to work where she was least in the way.
Humility, the Queen thought, or perhaps habit from a life on the edge of notice.
Both could be molded.
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Third Measure — Composure Under Pressure
The next test came unannounced a few days later. During the midday meal, Charula had several juniour courtiers — mostly men and woman known for petty cruelty — approach Clarisse with a veiled insult about her appearance.
Earlier that day, the peacock queen had called for this court's most senior cosmetic artist — a man, and male peacock, who could paint the face of any harpy for war or wedding with equal precision — and ordered him to prepare Clarisse for the evening meal.
He worked with the palette the Queen herself had chosen: gold dust brushed at her temples, a faint ruddy-brown contour beneath the cheekbones, rose-pink lips and the softest trace of red at the lids to warm the unnatural paleness of her eyes.
When Clarisse entered the hall, there was a murmur from the lower tables — surprise, curiosity, and perhaps, Queen Charula thought, a touch of unease from those who had dismissed and disregarded her as an oddity.
Another courtier who had insulted her the day before did not approach again.
"I had not realized," One of the guests in attendance mocked jeeringly loudly enough for the surrounding table to hear, "that the Queen's summons extended to winter specters. I would have thought frost melts in summer."
With a delicate-looking hand holding a silver fork, Clarisse paused mid-bite, swallowing before she responded.
Her fingers stilled on the stem of her goblet.
Everyone went silent and waited. Especially the Queen, 'What will she do? How will she handle this?'
Then, without raising her voice, she surprised and stunned everyone in the room, "I have found that frost endures in the shade, my lady. And in the right places, it is welcome even in summer."
The courtier blinked, caught off guard by the lack of visible offense. Around them, a ripple of subdued laughter moved through the tables — not at Clarisse, but at the noble.
Charula, watching from the high eend of the table, marked another note in her mind.
The girl had a spine.
Quiet, but present.
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Evening — The Private Conversation
That night, the Queen invited Clarisse to the upper balcony of her private solar. The sky beyond the arches glowed with the last of the day's light, casting pale fire on the girl's feathers.
"Do you understand why you are here, Lady Clarisse?"
Clarisse hesitated, picking at the skin of her thumb to try to release her nervousness. "No, Majesty. Not truly. Only that… my presence here must serve some greater purpose to you."
"It may serve a greater purpose not only to me... but to the Peacock Clan and Kingdom," Queen Charula clarified in a tone that almost sounded confessing. Clarisse's pink eyes gleamed with caution and bewilderment, having stopped picking at the skin of her thumb. Hesitancy lingered in her bodylanguage, for a joke that may be about to be played or waiting for a rug to be pulled from under her. Locking with the Queen's light golden eyes in the evening light, so Charula continued her words with a measured pace, "My dear girl, it has been arranged that tomorrow, you are to meet my second son, Prince Chaitav."
Clarisse's eyes widened — not with the thrill most young women showed when named to a royal, but with something closer to alarm. "Your son- The prince… wishes... to meet... me?" With each word Queen Charula could see the radical and fundamental recallibration that everything this girl knew was true or even possible for herself, in the girls pink eyes. Each word dripped with more weight.
"Wishes are irrelevant," Interjecting evenly, with a raised oval hazel nail, Queen Charula. "It is my will that you will both meet. You are being considered for betrothal."
This was.... unthinkable. For someone 'frost-touched' like her to be considered for betrothal to one of the princes?? To the royal family? Not a high noble family or general family... Clarisse's hands tightened on the balcony rail, but her voice remained steady. "I see." Although, was was not feeling fairly lightheaded. The realisation of her time here, of the Queen's measured watching. Not fully understanding why the Queen had sought to have her around, where all would have considered her distasteful company.
"You will, in time," The Peacock Queen promised. "...but for now, understand this: you are not here to impress me with beauty, nor with charm. You are here because you may be the only one to restore what your future husband's behaviour has tarnished, almost irreparably."
She turned, watching the girl's profile in the dimming light. Clarisse did not flinch.
"I will do as you command, Majesty," she accepted softly. Curtseying, while her long white eyelashes looked down with a deep reverence.
Her life was about to change forever... she was about to become a princess. By being married to a prince, and that's all she could think about.
"In Peacock court," Charula continued with one final and critical point she wanted to ensure this girl knew, that evening, "appearances are not idle vanity. They are weapons. When you step into a room, you bring your family's name with you — and it will be judged before you speak a word."
Clarisse inclined her head. "Then I will learn to carry it well, Majesty."
"You will be given dresses more fitting for court," Charula said. "Jewels, when the occasion requires. I do not expect you to love them although you may end up finding that you quite enjoy some and may end up having favourite jewels eventually, but you will begin to wear them and you will wear them well."
"I understand."
The Queen watched her a moment longer, looking for the flicker of pride or resentment. She found neither. Just quiet resolve.
That, more than the red gown or the gold dust on her skin, told Charula that this frost-touched girl might be more adaptable than she first appeared.
For now, she had to hide her giddy excitement with calm composure.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Final Measure — Potential
In the days that followed, Charula arranged brief, casual encounters between Clarisse and select members of the court — a respected merchant matron, an aging general, even one of the Flamingo envoys. In each case, she watched from a distance.
With a respectful and studious serenity, Clarisse listened more than she spoke. She rarely ever asked questions of the Queen, although when she did, it was always without pressing. She deferred to experience without groveling.
...And slowly, Charula began to see it — not a grand charisma that would win a court in a night, but the steadiness of a woman who could hold a place without fanning flames.
Perhaps, Charula thought, that was precisely what Chaitav needed, What they all needed. Not a rival. Not an ornament. A stabiliser.
The 'frost-touched' girl might yet become the hearth which his chaos could not burn.