23

THERE WAS NOTHING TO DO WITH MY NEWFOUND UNDERSTANDING of curses except wait for the commission Pyord was sure would come, and in the meantime I had to keep the shop running as though nothing was amiss. Within a week, I was ready to fit Lady Viola’s gown and decided that, instead of sending a messenger to request an appointment, I would go myself to see if she was home. I winced—Pyord was right that I had acquired a certain familiarity with Lady Snowmont if I was comfortable marching up to her door and knocking, and I checked for hooded figures outside my shop before leaving. I walked to her house, trying to put distance between myself and the guilt I felt for lying to Penny. It didn’t work.

As I turned the corner onto the avenue that bordered the river, something tugged at my peripheral vision. I glanced sideways at the figure walking just behind me, a few paces off to my left. There was a flash of red where the cap he had stuffed in his waistband peeked out from under his jacket.

I picked up my pace, and he stayed alongside me, as though in step for some complicated military maneuver. My sewing kit, with needles and thread and wax and a single pair of very sharp scissors, knocked against my thigh, buried in my pocket. I wrapped my hand around it, finding the scissors and gripping them.

The man, nondescript aside from the red cap he carried, was still there as I continued toward Viola’s, turning off the crowded avenue and onto a narrow street. Don’t let a thief or a rake force you out of a crowded area, Kristos had always said. And, It’s better to fight than let someone take what isn’t theirs to have.

My fingers constricted around the scissors, my only weapon. But if the man was Pyord’s hired hound, what could I do? If I fought him, Pyord might retaliate by hurting my brother. In any case, this man was only one of the men Pyord must have at his disposal. He wasn’t my problem; Pyord was. I let the scissors drop back into my pocket. If he wanted to follow me, I was powerless to stop it.

He peeled off as I reached Viola’s gate, and I tried not to watch him stalk across the street and hover under an ornamental tree. The maid let me in and announced me to Viola, then invited me to wait in her private sitting room. A painting stood on an easel in the corner, unfinished. A woman, draped in a dressing gown and reclining in a chair, laughed at me from the canvas. The rich colors of the center of the painting bled into plain white at the edges, and the setting was unclear. I squinted, recognizing the upholstery on the chair the woman lounged in. It faced me across the room.

Of course Viola would paint here, I reasoned, but the picture possessed a faintly private quality—the intimate space of her boudoir, the casual dressing gown, the natural, laughing face. I felt as though I was intruding. This wasn’t a formal portrait, but something I had never encountered before. Like a sketch composed in a moment, capturing a scene, but crafted into a painting.

“I suppose you want the gown off,” Viola called as she swept into the room, her voice ringing ahead of her like a bell. She caught me looking at the painting and stopped.

“It’s very nicely done,” I stammered, convinced that I shouldn’t have seen this half-finished work. “The painting, I mean.”

“Thank you,” Viola said, fumbling with the pins that held her gown closed. “It also should have been put away before you came.”

“I don’t see—that is, I wouldn’t say anything … even if there were something to say.”

Viola laughed. “Of course! The only one of my friends who wouldn’t recognize, instantly, Princess Annette.”

“Oh.” I looked back at the woman in the picture. “But you paint the royal family practically all the time.”

“Not like this, I don’t. They wouldn’t be pleased, I’m sure. Not with the wardrobe or the location or what both, combined, could be read to mean.” She cocked her pert chin and gazed at the painted Annette, who almost seemed to look back at her. “Of course, they don’t know her as well as they’d like to believe.”

“You’re friends?”

Viola’s eyes widened, as though she were taking in the whole painting, all of Annette, at once. “She means more to me than anyone in the world.” Then she shook her head. “And she’s getting married in the spring and leaving.”

“I had no idea,” I replied.

Viola laughed. “You’re dreadfully behind on your court gossip. Yes, the royal house is in the midst of final negotiations with the royal house of East Serafe. A marriage with East Serafe would confirm an alliance with them. Prince Oban couldn’t inherit the throne without some kind of miracle—he’s a second son by a second wife—but is still elevated enough that the match is considered viable. He’s also, by all accounts, half a head shorter than Annette and quite dull at parties.” Viola shrugged. “The perils of the nobility—you marry whom your parents want.”

“You haven’t married anyone,” I said carefully, unpacking my pins and my tape measure and my notebook. I laid them in a neat row.

Viola smiled at my fastidious arrangement. “I have an indulgent father and my mother died years ago. It’s mothers who force these things, you know. They’re the great diplomats of the marital world.”

I wasn’t sure what to say—for common folk like me, no one orchestrated anything. People blundered into one another and fell in love, as far as I could tell, like Kristos and Penny. I had avoided that particular blunder, and Viola had sidestepped the political machinations that would have forced her to marry. We were alike in that regard—both consciously avoiding marriage and making the very deliberate choices doing so entailed.

“I am also not in line for the throne,” Viola added. “Annette has to hurry up and produce an heir to take the throne if her father keels over, since her mother only managed three daughters.” A sour taste reminded me that Pyord was going to force the issue of inheritance sooner rather than later. “Silly rule, I think, that daughters can’t inherit—look at the Allied States. Princesses have the same rights of inheritance as princes there. But here, either Annette produces an heir, or the throne passes to the king’s brother’s house. Not that anyone minds the Prince of Westland, but succession is so much simpler father to son. Even better if we can avoid the mess of a regent if Annette’s son were a minor.” Her tone suggested that, in the long history of Galitha, simplicity in succession had proven an issue.

I decided not to display my ignorance of Galatine history, and instead picked up the muslin gown bodice. “Shall we see if it fits?” I said. Viola glanced at the half-finished portrait with a forlorn look and sighed loudly again.

I was pleased—the back fit perfectly, and I only needed to adjust the armscyes slightly, taking them in to more snugly fit Viola’s narrow shoulders. Viola turned in the mirror, giving me an approving nod.

“The shape is beautiful. I can see already this is going to be perfect—the lines are so elegant.”

“Thank you,” I said, sinking a couple more pins into the refitted section.

“You should stay,” she said impulsively. “For the evening. Some of my closest friends are coming for a card party.” She handed the mock-up gown back to me. “Including Theodor.”

At the mention of Theodor, my breath forestalled a touch and an unfamiliar lightness crept into my chest. I had avoided marriage so long that I had forgotten the benefits of courtship. I tried to read Viola’s face, but she turned and fiddled with her hair in a small mirror. “I’m hardly dressed for the evening,” I protested, half-hearted.

“Then go home and come back. Or borrow something of mine!” She caught my hand and dragged me to her wardrobe.

“I won’t fit in anything,” I warned, silently comparing Viola’s narrow back and petite frame to my broad shoulders and ample bust.

“Nonsense. You would fit this … or, no, this.” She shoved aside a purple wrapper and produced something delicate and sky blue. A chemise-style gown—with its gathered bust, waist, and sleeves, it would fit anyone in a fairly wide range.

“I can’t ask to borrow your clothes.” Still, I fingered the openwork edge of the sleeve. It was masterfully done.

Viola hung the gown on the door of her wardrobe. “Stop acting like a charity case.” She raised a dainty eyebrow. “It’s not becoming.”

“I am a bit of a charity case.” I laughed. “I have to borrow clothes.”

“I’ve seen your clothes; they’re better than most of my friends’.”

“I own,” I said, shucking my jacket and accepting the gown, “exactly one gown appropriate for a somewhat formal evening.” I slipped the pale blue silk on and fastened the minute hooks and eyes.

Viola pursed her lips as she considered this. “So, after you’re done sewing and working all day, you just … go home? And … sit?”

“Pretty much, most days.” I fluffed the skirts of the gown. It was beautiful, I had to admit as I caught my reflection in the mirror. “My brother goes to taverns and cafés. Sometimes I go along, but …” I stopped myself from finishing. Even before Kristos had disappeared, the talk of revolution over ale had driven me away. It didn’t behoove me to mention that here.

“Not exactly eveningwear locations,” Viola agreed. “We need to get you out more. Artists like us need inspiration.”

I didn’t argue, even though I wondered what Viola thought common people like us did for fun. We could afford oil for the lamp and a few candles a month—not exactly the kind of illumination one needed for entertaining. There was a perhaps insurmountable distance between the nobility and the common people, if such practical concerns didn’t even cross Viola’s mind.

“I admit to mercenary reasons for keeping you tonight, of course,” Viola added. “Theodor asked and, well, I can’t refuse one of my oldest friends.” She fished an elaborate necklace of citrine stones from a paper-covered box on her dressing table. “This would look perfect with that gown and your complexion.” I wavered; she insisted. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing to him, but he’s in a much better mood than he has been the past few months. Ever since his father started making arrangements for him to marry one of the Allied States princesses—see, I told you that necklace would be superb, just look!”

I swallowed past the words that echoed in my ears. Of course I knew that anything romantic with Theodor was destined to be exceptionally temporary. Brevity was, I reminded myself, a benefit for someone in my position when it came to romance. Still, I felt a distinct pang of loss. I shook my head, the light dancing on the necklace. It was better if he avoided me now, anyway. Pyord was having me watched, and Theodor could become a target. I smiled at my reflection in Viola’s dressing table mirror. I could enjoy his company, and then let it go—just that easily.