did not bear close scrutiny; she had never been very close to her father—or he had never managed to become very close to her—but she bore him no ill will, and she liked the Lady Anna much more than she wanted to admit.
Still, doing anyone's bidding was something that worked much better as theory than practice. “He will get over it,” she said, “as he always does.”
“Not always,” Anna said. She opened the door and got out without another word.
* * *
Madia arrived at her chambers alone and began sorting through clothing, looking for something appropriate to wear. She wanted to appear as sweet and charming as possible when her father summoned her to his chambers. She wished to avoid too childish a look, as he had recently made a habit of describing her actions as hopelessly immature, yet she could not appear too womanly, either, too old and . . . responsible. Or overripe, for that matter—at eighteen she was already past the age when most girls were wed, and she had no wish to remind him. She needed to look young and proper, shy and needing, yet somewhat sure of herself; she needed to look as much like her mother's paintings as she possibly could.
She