Frivolousdressorder |link| -

Within a week, the kingdom of Ardore became the most sensibly-dressed nation in history. Silk stockings were burned in bonfires. Lace was torn from collars and repurposed as fishing nets. The milliners, those architects of whimsy, closed up shop and fled to the mountains.

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. frivolousdressorder

Each day, she appeared in a new outfit that was, technically, perfectly legal. Within a week, the kingdom of Ardore became

“Originality is the mother of frivolity, Your Majesty,” he replied, polishing his shears. “And frivolity is the father of... poor time management.” The milliners, those architects of whimsy, closed up

“On the contrary,” Celia said, spinning. The ribbons flew out in a perfect golden ratio. “It demonstrates the irrationality of a circle’s circumference to its diameter. It is a dress of pure, unassailable logic.”

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.

The only one who didn’t dance was Bartholomew Pence. He sat on the palace steps, wearing his grey tunic, looking at his empty hands. He had spent so long cutting the frivolity out of others, he had forgotten how to put any into himself.