26

“THERE’S A MESSAGE FOR YOU.” ALICE SHUFFLED THROUGH A FEW receipts and handed me a paper with a formal address, wax seal and all. I stumbled into the shop barely awake—I had gotten a scant few hours of sleep after Theodor finally brought me home. Even though I was late, I was still bleary-eyed and slow.

I took the paper, startled at the seal. I knew it—everyone did. It was the royal crest.

“When did this come?” I asked.

“The messenger was waiting when I got here,” Alice said. “Not a hired messenger,” she added. “A royal footman. In livery and everything.” I could have sworn there was a slight smirk to her smile—Aren’t you sorry you missed that? it seemed to say. Poor Alice. While Penny had been heartsick and I’d been distracted, she was doing extra work and holding the place together.

“It’s from Princess Annette,” I said. “She wants a commission.” I kept reading. “Oh! Her mother does, too.” I forced an elated smile onto my face, even though guilt nauseated me as I reread the message. This was happening; I had to go through with Pyord’s curse.

Alice sighed and went back to sorting receipts. I’d given Penny the plum assignments lately because I knew she was sad about Kristos, but Alice was working so much harder. Even though I wanted nothing to do with creating a cursed commission for the royal family, for Alice, this was the most exciting thing ever to come through our shop.

“Alice, will you come with me to do measurements?” Her eyes shot wide-open. “At the palace?”

“But I assumed it was a … you know … special commission. You don’t let others listen in on those.” Trust Alice to remember my rules even when I didn’t.

“Yes, but there are two ladies in question at this consultation. I will speak to one while you get the necessary measurements from the other.”

Alice broke into a broad grin. “Yes! Thank you!” She paused. “When?”

“We’ve been invited at two o’clock this afternoon,” I said. The incident at Viola’s must have shaken Annette, if she was rushing to get this order so quickly. “I’m going to need some strong coffee before then. Do you want some?”

Alice grinned. “If you’re buying, of course!”

I let the door swing shut behind me as I dashed down the street, breathing steadying drafts of icy-cold air. This was my dream—to accept commissions from the palace. This was the chance to establish myself in the higher echelons of Galatine shopkeepers, to engage a new level of clientele, and to expand the business. To become known for my draping and my work, to move the atelier into the most fashionable districts. To hire more Pennys and Alices and even Emmis, to give them the chance I had been given. But now I’d have to soil my dreams, my goals—one of these commissions would have to be cursed or Kristos would probably die. I sighed. It would be the queen’s. She was closer to the king—it was what Pyord would demand that I do, given the choice. Besides, I had met Annette. She was kind. I couldn’t wish harm on her.

I shivered. In fact, I could. I could cast charms for people I didn’t like; surely I could cast curses on people I did care for. The cold objectivity of my gift left me feeling frost-cold.

“Good morning, Miss Balstrade.”

I nearly fell over with surprise, and dropped several coins before I collected myself. Pyord had fallen in step beside me. He watched my copper coins jounce down the street with amusement, and bent to pick up the ones nearest to him.

I snatched them from him, and he laughed. “Very sorry for startling you. I’ve been waiting for you to come out of your shop. I couldn’t wait for our appointed meeting, what with the latest developments in our project. It seems you had an exciting evening.”

I recalled the frost garden, the sculptures created by the frozen waterfalls, Theodor’s kiss flooding warmth into me. I stiffened. How much did Pyord know? Had I put Theodor in some danger? Or was he referring only to the card party? It had to be the latter, I calmed myself. It had to be.

“Why”—I forced a whisper—“are you here?”

“Because you have a commission from the palace,” he replied easily. I gaped, but he didn’t wait for me to ask the question. “I’m aware of what occurred at Lady Viola’s last night—and that Princess Annette was there.”

“Aware meaning you did it,” I said. “You threw the rock?”

“I didn’t throw it. What do I look like, some street thug? No, but I planned it. That’s what I do, Sophie. I plan things, and other people do them. I write the blueprint and someone else lays the stonework.” I didn’t say what I was thinking—that this sounded like the kind of hierarchy that the Red Caps were trying to topple in favor of egalitarianism. “But yes, I was counting on a little vandalism forcing our princess and her mother to come to you. The messenger from the palace to your shop this morning confirmed that.”

“He reports to you?” I asked, shocked.

“Of course not—that would make this much easier, though. No, my man saw him arrive—they’re not very subtle in that livery—and reported to me.”

“Yes,” I said, “I have a commission from the palace.” Pyord stayed in step beside me. “Is there something else?” I demanded, voice pitching with nerves.

He sighed. “Sophie, I don’t have to impress upon you what an important meeting this will be, do I? This may be the only chance we’re given to secure getting your work into the palace.”

“I’m aware of the lengths you’ve gone to orchestrate it thus,” I replied.

“There is one more requisite to your work.” He pressed his thin lips together so that they nearly disappeared. “It is quite important that the commission be something that will be worn for Midwinter festivities. The ball, the concerts at the cathedral. It’s likely that will be the request in any case. You will attempt to ensure this.”

“There is only so much I can do,” I said, measured. I couldn’t dictate what anyone requested of my shop, let alone a queen.

“I expect that you will do everything that you can. One more thing,” he said, stopping and turning to face me. “You will not try anything with this. You will not make her a charmed garment instead.” He thought for a moment, and added, “Or in addition to. I will find out, and you know what I will do if you cheat me. Just because you’re the only person in this city who can make a charmed garment doesn’t mean you’re the only one who can see it.”

“If someone else can see a charm,” I argued, “then they can cast. That’s how it works. And it’s the same with curses—I couldn’t see the markers until I could cast a curse.” I hated myself for allowing Pyord even this much insight into the practice. “As far as I’m aware, no one is selling curses in Galitha City.”

“I am always surprised by your lack of knowledge,” he said, not unkindly. “There are a couple of penny-ante Pellian curse casters in this city. That doesn’t mean they can do what you do, that they can produce what I need. They craft curses from lumpy clay, not fine silk—the royals would never hire them for anything, down to sweeping the floors. But they’ll happily let me pay exorbitantly to tell me if there’s a curse or charm hidden in your work.”

I swallowed—if I had harbored any latent hopes of sending the queen a piece devoid of a curse or replaced with a charm, they sputtered out like the last flames of a near-spent candle. “I will make what our contract requires,” I confirmed.

Pyord resumed walking. “Good, as I needn’t keep reminding you of your brother’s precarious situation. Such redundancy is tedious and, frankly, beneath both of us.”

I managed to control myself, well aware of the current of people flooding around us, separating and coalescing as though we were an island in their stream. Part of safeguarding my brother was keeping myself inconspicuous, but I wanted nothing more than to scream every obscenity I could think of at Pyord.

Instead, I folded my gloved hands neatly over my cloak. “I believe I was promised a letter from my brother. Shall I collect it soon?”

“Ah, of course.” He slipped a hand into the chest pocket of his coat and produced a folded sheet of paper.

He was gone before I opened it, but I didn’t care. I tore the glob of sealing wax aside—there was no device imprinted in it—and opened the letter.

Dear Sophie, it read. I almost choked on the tears of relief that flooded my eyes—it was his handwriting. Kristos’s cramped, looping handwriting. I hope you’ve been busy with your silks and not worried over me. Still, if the good professor has given you terms, don’t fight him—he drives a harder bargain than a fishwife in the quarter, and is far less likely to compromise. The writing was his, and the words, like something he would say over breakfast. Please keep Penny from trying to find me—I’m afraid she might be a greater threat than Venko if she thinks I’ve spurned her, and I value the continued integrity of my kneecaps. Yes, that was Kristos.

Be well.

And the letter was over. I searched the page—there must be something more here. A hidden message, a secret code. I scrutinized each letter, looking for differences. Nothing. I even held the paper to the light, trying to decipher hidden marks on the page. None.

Kristos had written me nothing save that he was alive and to do what Pyord wanted.

I should have expected no more—surely Pyord had watched him write the letter, perhaps even dictated what he was allowed to say. But I had hoped Kristos would give me something else, a sign as to where he was hidden, a clue to Pyord’s weaknesses, some hint that would help me stop him.

I folded the letter, slipped it into my pocket, and turned back toward the coffee shop.

I brought back one of the shop’s portable tins, noticing that Pyord had disappeared from the street. Alice and I drank our coffee, left plans for Penny, who seemed understanding but disappointed to be left behind, and finished our morning’s work.

Short hours later we were standing at the iron fence encircling the palace grounds, presenting the letter from Annette to the uniformed soldier at the guardhouse.

I had seen the palace hundreds of times. It sat at the top of the highest hill in the city, surrounded first by the tall fence, like a fortress, and then wide plains of green lawn and manicured orchards and groves, like a park. Now I was closer than I had ever been, and was struck with the sheer size of the house and the ornate details everywhere—the lines of trees, the finials on each bar of the iron gate, the gilded buttons on the soldiers’ uniforms.

“You’ll be given an escort to the servants’ entrance,” he explained as another soldier joined him. “He will leave you with the housekeeper, who will keep you until you are needed. Do not go anywhere unattended. Do not speak to anyone without the express permission of the housekeeper. If you leave anything behind, it is forfeit. And if you take anything, you will be prosecuted,” he rattled off as though reciting a long-memorized list.

“I’ll only take measurements,” I joked weakly. When he looked alarmed, I added, “I’m a seamstress. I’m supposed to take measurements.”

He nodded crisply, and the second soldier took us to the entrance at the back of the palace. The building was white limestone, full of huge windows flanked with columns and crested with carved birds, stags, and lions. I felt dwarfed standing next to it and was secretly grateful we were entering at the subdued service entrance instead of the lion-flanked front.

The housekeeper, a ruddy-faced woman with wiry silver hair escaping from an absurdly large cap, seated us in the servants’ sitting room, a low-eaved chamber lined with what looked like cast-off chairs and settees. A single maid sat in the corner by a window, darning a sock. Alice folded her hands neatly in her lap and appeared to be soaking in the admittedly lacking atmosphere.

I, however, felt sick to my stomach. I was in the palace—the home of the royal family, the seat of national culture, the acme of the country’s couture. This should have been either the highlight of my career or—the thought was impossibly bitter now—the start of a grand new chapter in which sewing for royalty was an everyday occurrence. Instead, I was a traitor to my country and an accomplice to murder, armed with just a needle and thread.

The housekeeper returned and bustled us toward the door. “You’re to go to the queen’s salon,” she said simply. The maid didn’t look up from darning her sock. We ascended a dark stairway and emerged into the balconied, frescoed, gilded main entrance of the palace. Wide swaths of sunlight from enormous windows striped the floor. Beside me, Alice whispered, “Mercy.”

We passed through a large atrium with a grand staircase leading to a wide balcony and huge double doors inlaid with colored glass. I gazed up at the staircase—a whole platoon of soldiers could have lined them for parade with room to spare. Then we turned down a wide hallway. Most of the doors were closed, but I glimpsed a study upholstered in red velvet and a formal reception room in gilt and cream.

We were led to a cheerful room where a screen and a large mirror had been set up. The curtains were drawn back to allow ample sunlight into the room. Everything was set precisely as I would have asked, had I the gumption to send requests to the palace.

Princess Annette waited on the settee next to a woman who looked so much like her I could only presume she was the queen.

There was no escaping this now.

“Sophie!” Annette jumped up from the settee and embraced me in the nobility’s overly friendly, strangely formal hug and cheek kisses that I wasn’t quite accustomed to. Alice’s eyebrows shot up in surprise—of course, I hadn’t mentioned that the princess and I had met the previous night.

“This is my mother, Her Royal Majesty the Queen, Emilia of Westmere.” Annette laughed. “Mostly we call her Mimi.”

“Your Royal Majesty, I—”

“You needn’t call me Mimi,” the queen answered, shooting Annette a tolerant smile, “but Your Royal Majesty is a bit much. Madame Westmere, please.”

I sighed with some relief. Between madame, the sort of address I used with all my married patrons, and the name of her ancestral noble estate, Westmere, the title was far less intimidating, and so was the queen. “Yes, Madame Westmere. I am very honored to be invited here today.”

“Annette tells me you have particular talents that are as impressive as your draping,” she said, with a subtle nod toward the pea-green gown I wore. I flushed, happy to be complimented on my sewing, and then remembered the talents I’d come here to employ. My stomach clenched into a knot, but I smiled.

“Yes. You have been correctly informed.”

“And Viola, the Lady Snowmont, has already hired you for this specific kind of work?”

I hesitated. One misstep and I’d be thrown out—my chances at saving Kristos ruined. Still, I had my rules to adhere to. “Madame Westmere, I must confess—I do not disclose the nature or patrons of my commissions. Even to a queen.”

She clapped her hands with a delighted smile. “Splendid! Annette was right—you are indeed the very image of professionalism. Which I confess I had not expected from a conjurer.”

I didn’t argue her terminology.

“If you would like to discuss your particular commission, madame, I will ask that we do so privately. I will dismiss my assistant.”

“Annette and I wish to confer with you at the same time,” the queen said.

I nodded. “Alice, please excuse us. I’ll have you return to take measurements when we are ready.”

Alice nodded dumbly and let the maidservant hovering in the corner escort her from the room.

“Viola told me what you made for her,” Annette said in a rush. I thought I saw the queen tighten her lips slightly, as if in disapproval. Was she lukewarm on the idea altogether, or was it Viola she didn’t like? The princess and the lady were very close; perhaps the queen didn’t approve of Viola’s influence.

“And you would like something similar?” I asked. I hoped so—if I couldn’t protect her mother, I wanted to make something special, something with a charm that would cling to Annette at all times.

“We would,” said the queen. “Annette will have the same as Viola. For my younger girls, too. And I would like a shawl—something I can wear anytime. Rather poetic, isn’t it? Wrapping oneself in luck?”

“Yes, indeed,” I said, forcing a smile past the bile that the queen’s inadvertent irony brought to the back of my throat. “Quite poetic.”

“I have a new gown for Midwinter Ball—if you can coordinate the wrap with that, it would be ideal. I don’t mind clashing in private, but for a formal occasion, well, I ought to look like I meant to wear the thing—don’t you think?”

“Yes, of course.” I let out a shaky breath—precisely what Pyord had wanted.

“Perfect. Can the shawl be embroidered? The gown is in the eastern style and we have ambassadors from East Serafe in attendance—I have to do something as a gesture for them.” Of course—delegates negotiating the marriage contract between Annette and their own prince. I nodded, encouraging the queen to continue. “Embroidery could tie all the elements together, yes? And you can charm the embroidered designs?”

Or curse, I thought silently. How perfect—all the stitches in embroidery, each infused with dark curses. “Yes,” I said, my mouth dry.

“And you can produce these as soon as possible?” When I hesitated, the queen added, “You must understand, we would not demand such short notice if we did not feel it was imperative.”

My chest tightened and I couldn’t hold my calm smile.

“Despicable, I know,” Annette said, misreading my shock. “But we hardly feel safe.”

“I will deliver everything before the ball,” I promised. “As soon as I can.”

Annette smiled. “Viola also told me about the pink gown you’re making for her.”

“She did?” I said, startled out of my guilt for a moment.

“You’re a genius,” Annette gushed. “If there’s time—Mimi said I could have a new gown made for Midwinter Ball.”

I swallowed. On top of our regular orders, another formal court gown was almost too much. Almost. “We can manage that,” I said.

“Perfect! Well, get your girl back in to measure Annette. You shan’t need anything for me, will you?”

I stared, dumb, at her for a long moment before recovering myself. I was really going to do it, really going to create a cursed shawl for the queen. “Yes, the colors, please,” I finally stammered. “The colors of your gown so I can coordinate with it.”

The maid returned with Alice and was then sent for the queen’s gown. While Annette stripped off the pert striped jacket and quilted petticoat she wore, she told me all about the gown she wanted me to make for her.

“I was thinking, first, of yellow,” she said. Her jacket came sailing over the screen, catching on the corner. “But I’m not sure—Mimi is wearing pink and I thought we’d look too … I don’t know. Like matching pastel springtime bunnies.” I examined the gown the maid presented to me—it was, in fact, very pink. Draped in the “eastern” style that I knew was an affectation rather than a reproduction of foreign clothing, it had full sleeves, a wrap front, and skirts that looked haphazard but were, in fact, precisely pleated. The seamstress who had made this knew her trade—and knew that the queen would look particularly lovely in the borderline-obnoxious bright pomegranate color.

Despite myself, I laughed. They would look as though they were trying to coordinate if the princess wore bright yellow—and though that would have been sweet for small children, the princess wanted to stand out on her own. “Perhaps blue,” I suggested. The petticoat flopped over the top of the screen.

“Blue is so … commonplace,” Annette said. Her head poked around the corner, beckoning Alice to hurry with the measurements. She scurried to her work with her notebook and measuring tape clutched in hand.

“Blue doesn’t have to be dull,” I said. “Perhaps an icy blue with silver embroidery? For winter?” I heard the snap of Alice’s tape.

“I don’t really care for silver,” Annette said. “I think I look better in gold.”

Of course she thought so—even though her dark hair and white skin made her look like an ice maiden. A winter-blue gown would have been perfect. Alice’s pencil scratched the notepad.

“In that case, perhaps dark midnight blue with gold?” I was less than convinced—it would be difficult to avoid the result looking garish with gold bullion and sequins.

“Maybe.” The petticoat disappeared as Alice reappeared, signaling that the measuring session had ended. “I was thinking about green—a pale sage, maybe?”

I winced. Though pale green was one of my favorite colors, it wouldn’t flatter Annette. I worried it would make her look pallid or even jaundiced, especially under the chandeliers and candlelight of an evening ball. But how to argue with a princess?

“Annette, listen to the seamstress,” the queen said from behind me. I started. “She surely knows her craft better than you do.”

I balked, but Annette just laughed. “All right, Mimi. You win. Sophie, you make whatever you want, and I’ll wear it and look prettier than anyone else there.”