consciousness slowed

The anticipation is tangible. The crisp, autumn air creeps in through spaces in the door and windows. She stands in her room, shivering, naked. The wretched pile of tulle and satin sits on her bed, mocking her lack of royal blood. She can only pretend. She feels bitter. Her mother's voice wafts upstairs, asking if her dress is on. She grudgingly puts one foot through the mounds of fabric, then the other. An arm goes through a gaping lavender hole. Then another. Her bare back shakes with cold. A knock at her door. Her mother enters, armed with paint, brushes, powders, and other suffocating devices. Her mother clicks her tongue and zips up the open back of the dress. She sits, while her mother arranges the ingredients for disguise. A sponge piled with tan goo comes toward her face. She closes her eyes, cringing inwardly, gulping down a whimper.