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The Queen, meanwhile, sat in her throne room, which now resembled a very comfortable monastery. She wore a sturdy, brown sack. It itched. She missed the whisper of velvet against her ankles, the gentle weight of a pearl chandelier earring. She had issued the decree in a fit of pique after a visiting duchess had worn a dress so large it required its own postal code, blocking the main corridor for three hours. But now, boredom had set in.
And for the first time, Bartholomew Pence almost smiled. frivolousdressorder
The royal decree, etched on vellum and sealed with a pound of wax, read: The Queen, meanwhile, sat in her throne room,
Then came the pièce de résistance . Celia arrived at the royal banquet wearing a dress that was a living mathematical proof of Pi. The bodice was a perfect circle. The skirt was an infinite, ruffled spiral of silk ribbons, each ribbon a different shade of blue, calculated to the thousandth decimal place. It rustled with the sound of 314 calculations per second. It was breathtaking, beautiful, and utterly, screamingly frivolous in spirit, if not in name. She missed the whisper of velvet against her
The next day, she wore a dress made entirely of interlocking felt rectangles. “Platonic solids, my lord. The very bedrock of reality.” He nodded, unable to argue with bedrock.
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