A Most Unflattering Humiliation

The dressing room, usually a kaleidoscope of silks and sparkling jewels, had transformed into a chamber of sartorial despair. Lily stood frozen, a statue carved from pure mortification, as the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, with grim efficiency, wrestled her into the… *garments*. They weren't just clothes; they were a proclamation of defeat, a drab, shapeless sack of itchy wool the color of forgotten porridge. A stiff, high-necked blouse, the kind that choked the very joy out of breathing, was buttoned up to her chin, obscuring the delicate curve of her neck. Then came the skirt, an ankle-length monstrosity that pooled around her feet like a sad, grey puddle. It had pockets, enormous, gaping pockets, large enough to smuggle a loaf of bread, or perhaps a bewildered badger.

Lily’s usual vibrant pink gown, a confection of tulle and stardust, was nowhere to be seen. In its place, she was swathed in a costume that screamed ‘elderly aunt who knits doilies and complains about her bunions.’ Her carefully styled golden curls were tamed into a severe bun, secured with what felt suspiciously like a knitting needle. She caught her reflection in the gilded mirror and gasped, a small, strangled sound that was entirely unbecoming of a queen. Or, indeed, a princess. She looked like a grumpy teapot.

“There,” the Queen’s head lady-in-waiting, a stern woman named Agnes whose face seemed permanently set in a disapproving frown, declared with a sigh that suggested she’d been dealing with Lily’s tantrums for far too long. “Perfectly respectable. And, dare I say, quite practical.”