A Gorgon at the Daydream Bridal Boutique

By R. L. Nguyen

 “Eugenia, I can’t put a princess ballgown on a gorgon,” I squeak through the doorway of the sales office. “It won’t match her hair!”

Our immaculate, skirt-suited manager looks up from her spreadsheets. “Mary, you know our policy.”

“Make every bride feel like a daydream.” I hike up my armload of tulle-engorged plastic garment bags. When the Daydream Bridal Boutique hires you to consult, they tell you to expect occasional mythical clients. Emphasis on occasional. Non-human women usually frequent Atelier Aphrodite across town.

Eugenia rattles away at the keyboard. “I know you hate sending a client away without a dress, but that’s not going to happen. You wouldn’t be Consultant of the Year four years running if you didn’t know how to make them smile.”

Right. Like the hippocampus bride. I suspect neither of us wants to repeat the disaster that was trying to wrangle a fishtail gown onto an actual fishtail.

Rule number one of bridal consulting: happy tears only.

I pick at the doorway trim.

“This isn’t like the hippocampus.” Eugenia’s practically a mind reader. Has to be, working with picky brides. “Anyone can wear a ballgown. Any girl—”

“Can be a princess.” Our other slogan. I glance at the jewelry counter, where tiaras sparkle behind glass.

If I didn’t believe those words, I wouldn’t have chosen this job. If I can’t at least try to make a girl’s dreams come true, I shouldn’t be working here.

Deep breaths now. “Time to go make some magic.”

Eugenia flashes me a smile.

Our shop floor is always packed in May—wedding season kickoff. It’s also an optometrist’s Hades. If the fluorescent lights don’t blind you, all the rhinestones will. White gowns froth the room like cappuccino: hanging from racks, pinned to mannequins, trailing off smiling women posing in front of mirrors. I’ll need the mirror in the dressing room to see my client without turning into stone.

I knock at Dressing Room Three.

“Hello?” A gorgon voice, normally high-pitched, whispers back.

I turn the knob. “Are you Ashley? I’m Mary, your consultant. I’m in charge of making you feel like a daydream.” I’ll do it, too.

She nods, and her scaly hair hisses. Its beady eyes glint like Swarovski crystals. Irritable crystals. An enormous pair of iridescent sunglasses perch on her nose. She’s cautious.

“I hear you’re interested in princess ballgowns.” The translucent bags crinkle obnoxiously as I hang dresses beside the floor-length mirror.

“If they’ll make people forget I’m a gorgon.” Ashley’s quavering voice makes me look again. She fidgets with her purse.

I’ve seen this a thousand times. Every bride wants to disguise something about herself. Tummy. Ankles. Freckles. Apparently, snakes.

But I didn’t become Consultant of the Year by helping brides hide their real selves.

“Listen, we’re not going to let anyone at your wedding forget you. You’re the bride; you need a dress to remember.”

“Okay.” A tiny smile quirks her lips. Always a good sign from a shy bride.

“Here’s something you might like.” I unzip layers of glitter tulle with a Mount Olympus of a crinoline and an off-the-shoulder neckline. Ashley wiggles out of her sundress one-handed, pinning her sunglasses to her face. Those might pose a problem.

“Can you face the mirror for me? Perfect.” I fluff the skirt and flip it over her head. She pulls her shoulders in, and the snakes recoil as she disappears.

“Take your time.” I work the bodice down, trying not to flinch as the first forked tongue emerges.

“I don’t know if I’ll fit…” A few more snakes pop out, but she stalls.

“You might have to put both arms through the sleeves at once.”

“Are you sure?” Her muffled uncertainty filters out. Doubt’s normal in the dressing room. Dispelling it is my job.

“Just slide on through. There you go.” I glue my eyes to the mirror. I can’t help her if I turn to stone. “Almost there.” Ashley’s face appears, and her hands slither through the armholes. The sunglasses wobble and tip.

“No!” She snatches at the frames.

“It’s okay.” Around here I say those words a lot. “Why don’t you close your eyes?” Carefully I loosen her fingers, take the glasses, and fold them up.

Breathing shakily, she straightens and lets me pull the zipper closed.

The bodice wraps her torso like it was made for her, flaring into a skirt ready to fill an aisle. Glitter turns her silhouette into a constellation. Fit for an immortal, if I do say so myself.

“Can I look yet?” Ashley’s eyes are clamped shut.

“Not yet.” Not until I can show her a princess in that mirror. I move to the door and poke my head out. “Eugenia?”

Our manager appears in her doorway, beaming. We exchange a nod, and she heads for the jewelry counter.

Just as I finish arranging Ashley’s tulle sleeves, Eugenia raps, and I open the door wide enough for her to slip me a delicate gold tiara.

She peers past me and mouths, “Told you.”

Eugenia didn’t become manager of sales by being wrong.

I turn back to Ashley as the door clicks shut. “One more thing.” The snakes cringe and bare their fangs as I lift the tiara but relax as I nestle it among them. Stepping behind her to avoid her direct gaze, I touch her arm and point to the mirror. “Now you can look.”

Ashley’s eyes open, a deep shade of amber. Her jaw drops and mine stretches to a grin.

“No veil,” I explain. “To show off your hair.”

It’s as if I’m not there. She swishes this way and that, snakes undulating and skirt sparkling in the mirror.

“I look like a princess.” She’s whispering again, but this time her eyes are shining. Are those tears? This is what a consultant calls “success.”

And Ashley isn’t the only one who overcame fears today. I can make mythical brides feel like daydreams after all.

Bring on the hippocampi.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R. L. Nguyen is a child of immigrant parents who found her place to belong in fictional worlds. Her classical education and studies at the Author Conservatory feed her quest after truth and beauty. When she’s not writing magical characters finding victory in darkness, she can be found reading Shakespeare, singing opera, and training her dogs in rural South Carolina.

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