Cameron returned from another hard session with Venable Marignon, hoping he had time to squeeze in a bath before lunch. The senior blood mage did not believe in going easy on her students. Or maybe it was just him that she drove so fiercely. After all, he was supposedly a full blood mage, so she shouldn’t need to coddle him. Currently though, he was mostly a rapidly turning black and blue mage. So far, their training had mostly consisted of good old-fashioned hand-to-hand combat practice. There had been a few magical elements—he got the feeling she was still taking his measure in that department—but mostly she seemed to be enjoying succeeding in sending him crashing to the mat as often as possible.
This last session had been attended by other students as well, and that had almost been worse. The venable had decided to make an example of some of the differences in his fighting style. Which mostly involved sparring with him until she could lure him into a mistake caused by one of those differences, then delivering an excruciatingly polite dissection of the problem and what he’d done wrong to the assembled students.
Educational, but not good for his confidence.
Perhaps he should have a bath and a beer. He doubted they had iska in the Academe. Probably just as well. A glass of the northerners’ favorite drink might have done him in entirely. But every part of him ached. Noon was surely not too early to begin drinking under those circumstances?
He was already pulling his robes—they didn’t fight in the stupid things, thank the goddess, but he still had to wear them to and from his assigned classes—over his head as he entered their chambers.
Sophie was already there, sitting on the end of the bed. She held a sheet of paper in her hand, staring down at it, chewing at her bottom lip.
That didn’t seem likely to be a good sign. He dumped the robe on the ground near the door as he kicked it shut behind him. “What is it?”
“Maistre Matin wants to see us after lunch,” Sophie said.
“Again?” Cameron bit back a groan. “Doesn’t that man have any other students to bother?”
He respected Henri but was beginning to find his frequent “requests” for Cameron and Sophie to attend on him irritating. The last few times had been to grill them about Chloe, on the surface at least. Cameron was fairly certain that he’d been trying to probe them for news of Anglion generally, but they’d been expecting this approach and had tried to limit the information they shared to the things they had read already in the textbooks on Anglion they’d discovered in the library. It had been gratifying to find those volumes were only a little thicker than their counterparts about Illvya back in Kingswell. The main difference seemed to be that they were freely available to the students here. He hadn’t seen a complete text on Illvya until he’d joined the Red Guard. Now that he was here, he was rapidly coming to appreciate that it hadn’t been so complete after all.
“He misses his daughter,” Sophie said.
“Since we ran out of new information to divulge on that subject several days ago, I hardly think that can be it,” Cameron said.
“I know,” Sophie said, sounding as reluctant as he felt. “But the alternatives aren’t pleasant to contemplate. Madame Simsa told me yesterday that she didn’t think the emperor would ignore us forever.”
“I thought you talked about Tok. And familiars?” He and Sophie had been debriefing—for want of a better word—about their days each night, to share what they had learned. They’d discussed the ongoing problem with the raven. Cameron shared her reluctance to accept a familiar if that would mark her as different if they returned home. But he was starting to think that perhaps they would be foolish to turn down any chance of potential advantage. However, it was Sophie who needed to make the final decision. She was the one who would be bound to the bird, after all.
“We did. But the emperor came up in passing.”
“Well, it’s hardly news. So let’s not borrow trouble. Maybe it will be the life of Chloe de Montesse part four that he wants.” He didn’t think so, but Sophie looked nervous enough that easing her mood for a few minutes seemed the right choice. If she was too worried, she wouldn’t eat. She needed to eat. She still looked tired. He suspected her teachers were pushing her harder in the use of actual magic than Venable Marignon was pushing him. She was not yet fully trained in magic, so she was still developing her skills, rather than just learning how what she knew already differed from Illvyan practices as he was. Her power would also be of interest to them. It seemed unlikely they’d had a royal witch of her strength to study before.
He was not looking forward to the day when the venables decided to start poking around the bond he and Sophie shared. Bruises, no matter how bad, were preferable to that prospect.
“Well, at least we’re allowed to dine first,” he said. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I need to bathe.” He lifted an arm and sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “It’s probably not polite to go see the maistre smelling like this.” He tugged his shirt over his head, wincing as the movement tugged at aching muscles along the left side of his ribs.
“You’re hurt,” Sophie said, crossing the room to him.
“It’s just bruises, love. They’ll heal. Or I’ll go to the healer, if not.”
Sophie put a tentative hand along his ribs, where the bruise was blooming darkest. Given that the fresh bruises were layered on top of those he’d acquired in earlier sessions, even that light touch made the muscles throb.
“I could try,” she said. “I’m starting to understand how healing works.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d prefer not to be your very first patient.” He grinned at her, turning a little so her hand fell away from his torso, then pressed a kiss to her lips. “Besides, you need to keep your energy up. No point wasting magic on me when there are others who can do it.”
“I’m your wife.” Her brown eyes looked worried again. “It’s my job to take care of you. Lord Sylvain said men gain strength from the marriage bond. You shouldn’t bruise this badly.”
“Our bond isn’t exactly traditional,” Cameron pointed out. “And Lord Sylvain said it would protect me from illness. Not being repeatedly hit with training swords. Plenty of Anglion lords have died on the battlefield over the years. So there are limits to what the bond can do.” He kissed her again, and she relaxed into it. “Don’t worry. As I said, just bruises. I know what a cracked rib feels like. This isn’t it.” He crossed to the armoire to find a fresh shirt and trousers. “Go on ahead. Eat. Save me a place. I won’t be long.”
Mercifully, Henri did not prevaricate once Sophie and Cameron presented themselves at his office after their meal.
“I have received this,” he said, lifting a stiff piece of heavy white paper from his desk. Sophie couldn’t make out the coat of arms she glimpsed as he lifted it, but between the gilded edges of the paper and Henri’s serious expression, she could only assume it was from the emperor.
She glanced at Cam. He smiled quickly, but if it was supposed to reassure her, it didn’t really achieve the aim. Not when he immediately returned to watching Henri with the same expression one might use to watch a snake stumbled upon on a path.
“His Imperial Majesty requests your attendance at a ball he is throwing on fifth day,” Henri said. “I assume you know how to interpret ‘request’ in this context.”
“Show up or else?” Cameron murmured.
“Just so,” Henri said. He put the piece of paper back on this desk with a sigh. “I was hoping he might be content to leave you alone a little longer. But at least he has given us some time to prepare rather than simply summoning you today. I shall see if I can find out if anything has happened that has encouraged him to haste. And why he has chosen a ball rather than an audience.”
Given that they’d been here for more than a week already, it didn’t seem overly hasty to Sophie. But she didn’t know how quickly the machinery of the court moved here in Illvya. “Surely a ball is not an unusual event for an emperor to hold?”
“If it were his son making the announcement of a ball that has not already been expected by the court for weeks, I would perhaps agree with you. Alain can be . . . whimsical. His father, though, is not known for whimsy. Capriciousness, perhaps, but not usually in the vein of such frivolities as balls held out of season. For one thing, they annoy the ladies of his court who prefer time to prepare for such occasions.”
“Am I to understand that you think the emperor is specifically organizing a ball for us?” Her lunch suddenly sat uneasy in her stomach.
“I suspect so,” Henri said. “But as I said, I can find out more. It is not exactly what I had expected.” He smiled a little grimly. “And I would prefer to have some advance warning if he intends to do something foolish with you. We would not like to see your talents go to waste.”
“I see,” Sophie said faintly. She didn’t want to ask what ‘something foolish’ might entail. Though the knowledge that the maistre might defend them offered a tiny scrap of comfort.
“In the meantime, you will both need suitable clothes. I have arranged an appointment with you at the best clothiers in Lumia, my lady. And my own tailor should be able to outfit you, my lord.” He nodded at Cameron. “I’ve informed your teachers that you are to be excused from your classes this afternoon. There will be a carriage waiting for you downstairs and two of the venables from the blood mages to escort you.”
She hadn’t thought she could feel worse about this news but apparently she could. Why did they need an escort to visit a dressmaker?
“Are you expecting trouble?” Cameron asked.
Trust him to be practical. She took a breath. Between them, they could handle trouble. They had done so before. So far the score was far more in favor of the Scardales than those who tried to hurt them.
“Not expecting, no. But I believe in being prepared. Two blood mages should be enough. They know how to call for reinforcements quickly.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “So go. Preparation, in this case, includes clothing. The rest we will deal with if I find out more.”
It seemed to take no time at all before they were standing outside a small discreet-looking store in the midst of what appeared to be a wealthy part of Lumia. The people they’d passed in the streets were well-dressed, the gutters relatively clean, and the storefronts she glimpsed decorated with silk, velvet, and gilt, their large windows hung with finery. She’d been trying to match the streets they had taken with the mental map of Lumia she was forming in her head from the time she and Cameron had spent studying, but the carriage had moved swiftly and she’d lost her bearings.
Sophie stared at the names on the door mutinously. The gilded letters were surrounded by enough flourishes to take up half the pane of glass, but in the middle of the elegant script, standing out against the midnight blue velvet draped inside the glass, the letters read M & M Designy, Clothiers.
Simple enough. She needed a dress. So they had come to a dressmaker. The only problem was that she didn’t want to go to the damned ball.
“If you glare any harder, the glass may shatter,” Cameron said. He stood behind her, his body between hers and the pedestrians crowding the streets. The two blood mages who’d escorted them were still in the carriage. “That may not endear you to the dressmakers.”
“As I don’t really want a dress, that doesn’t particularly concern me,” Sophie said, trying to calm her nerves. Just a dressmaker. Something she had more than her share of experience with. Being a lady-in-waiting to a crown princess and then a queen involved a lot of clothes. Both hers and Eloisa’s. She’d attended more fittings than she cared to think about. It wasn’t a process she had ever particularly enjoyed. She liked nice dresses well enough, but when what was deemed suitable for her to wear had been so governed by protocol, it had seemed easier to just allow others to make most of the choices. She’d limited her protests to color selections she did not like and left it at that.
But it wasn’t the dressmaking that had her feeling as though she might lose her meal there on the very elegant steps. It was the reason she required the dress in the first place.
Aristides Delmar de Lucien. His Imperial Majesty of Illvya. A man she had never expected to meet. Nor wished to, once she had found herself in his empire.
But apparently her wishes counted for nothing right now.
“I understand, love, but that doesn’t change the circumstances. We can hardly say no to the emperor. No more than we could have refused such a request from Eloisa.”
Even more so, to Sophie’s reckoning. His Imperial Majesty was an unknown quantity entirely. Who knew what he might do if his will was thwarted. “Why is the emperor even interested?” she muttered. “Why can’t everyone just leave us alone?”
“Because you were born to your parents and then you had the misfortune to stumble across me at the wrong point in your life,” Cameron said, his voice tight.
She spun around, nerves retreating as guilt replaced them. She doubted Cameron was excited at the prospect of this ball either. And she was the reason he would have to endure it. “You were exactly the right point!”
His mouth twitched. “Be that as it may, this is the result. So, we should go inside before the Designys send a footman or whatever people have for servants here to chase us away from their doorstep.”
“They won’t chase us away. Not when the maistre requested the appointment.”
“No, but no point being rude. They’ll stick you full of pins during fittings and make you look like you’re wearing a sack.”
“I’d be happy to wear a sack. No one would pay any attention to me.”
“Actually, I think the opposite is likely to be true.” Cameron reached past her and tugged on the chain hanging from the neatly polished brass bell on the doorjamb. The chime was louder than the size warranted. Sophie peered a little more closely at the bell. Yes. There. A faint shimmer ran over the metal. Some sort of spell to enhance the sound.
Apparently the maistre hadn’t been lying about the quality of the Designys’ work. Anyone who could afford to pay a practitioner of the Arts of Air to bespell their doorbell was doing quite well for themselves.
The door swung inwards, revealing a young woman wearing a deep blue dress that fit her perfectly despite its simplicity. Her dark hair was pulled up into a bun so smooth, Sophie wanted to reach and touch it to see if it were real.
“Yes?” the woman said, looking them up and down.
Sophie fought the urge to smooth out her skirts. Her dress was somewhat crushed after a morning of being hidden beneath her robes, but in her experience, dressmakers were more respectful to customers who behaved as if they were dressed for court, regardless of what they actually wore. “I am Lady Scardale. I believe Maistre Matin arranged an appointment for me?”
The woman’s expression didn’t change significantly but she nodded. “Yes, my lady. Welcome to Designys’.” She looked past Sophie. “Is this Lord Scardale?”
“Yes,” Sophie said. She wasn’t sure who else the woman thought would be accompanying her to a dressmaker’s appointment. “It is.”
“Does he also require clothing?” The woman studied Cameron a moment, then ushered them inside with a graceful gesture. “We know some excellent tailors.”
“The maistre has also made a recommendation on that front,” Cameron said smoothly. “But thank you.”
Inside the store smelled like gillflowers. Heady and rich. Sophie paused just inside the door, caught in unexpected memory by the scent. Her mother loved gillflowers, grew any number of them in the gardens at their estate. The striped pink flowers were a fixture in their house throughout the long hot summer months.
A wrench of longing tugged at her stomach. Home. Goddess, what she wouldn’t give to be home.
“Lady Scardale?” the woman prompted.
Sophie nodded, forcing the memory from her mind. She stepped forward, the heels of her boots sinking into carpets so rich they muffled any sound of their footsteps. There were no dresses on display in the room. In fact it was close to empty. The only furniture was several low couches upholstered in striped blue and white silk, the blue several shades lighter than the dress their escort wore, and one small oval table standing near the wall farthest from them. The walls were hung with paintings of extravagant bouquets but she couldn’t see any actual gillflowers. Was the scent another spell like the doorbell? She’d never heard of such a thing. Not that she could claim great knowledge of the Arts of Air.
The whole place was silent, the only sound the swish of Sophie’s skirt over the carpet. Their escort’s skirts ended a precise inch above the soles of the black leather boots she wore, as though designed to avoid precisely that effect.
The woman glided across to the table. Its mirror-polished surface held only a leather-bound ledger. Which was opened, their names written on one of the pages, and then closed again after the ink had been blotted.
“Please wait here a moment,” the woman said. There was no time to respond before she opened a door that was so well fitted into the wall beyond the table that Sophie hadn’t even noticed it, then vanished through it.
“Interesting style of service,” Cameron said.
“Not so unusual. Haven’t you spent any time with dressmakers before?” she said. In her experience, the expensive kind of dressmaker liked to make a performance out of the process.
“Tailors are more my thing.”
“And tailors don’t go in for superior attitudes, expensive furniture, and invisible flowers?” Sophie asked, turning back to wave her hand at the room.
“Not in my experience. The men who make the Red Guard’s uniforms definitely don’t,” Cameron said with a smile. “I will confess to meeting a superior tailor or two when I had to get clothes for court. But no, there was a lack of invisible flowers. And empty rooms. Tailors tend to be full of shelves of cloth and pattern books.”
“Pattern books are so dull,” a male voice said from behind them.
Sophie turned. The woman in the blue dress hadn’t returned, but in her place, a man and a woman stood by the table. They had identical bright blue eyes and hair an odd, almost bronze shade of blond. Not quite red. Not quite yellow. The woman’s was curled and piled high on her hair whereas her… brother’s—surely not a husband when they looked so alike—was cropped short. They wore clothes that were a testament to their skill. The woman’s dress, a deep blue silk, was severely elegant. Her companion was more flamboyant, wearing a dark purple velvet jacket over a green shirt with a waistcoat embroidered with both those colors and black and silver. The colors may have clashed, but the garments were all made with the same elegance of line and skilled construction as the dress.
“You are the Designys?” Sophie asked.
“Yes.” It was the woman who spoke. “I am Helene and this is Marx.” She didn’t explain further. She wore no rings though, so Sophie thought perhaps that her assessment of brother and sister was correct.
“And you are Lady Scardale,” the woman continued.
“Yes,” Sophie said. “I am Sophia Mackenzie. This is my husband, Cameron, Lord Scardale.”
“You, sir, are enough to make me wish that I had taken up tailoring after all,” said Marx, looking Cameron up and down. His voice was rich and rolling. The sort of voice that Sophie had heard amongst the actors who performed at court but had rarely encountered elsewhere. Was this a performance, too?
“Why didn’t you?” Cameron asked.
“As I said, my lord, pattern books are dull. In my experience, most men lack a certain imagination when it comes to their clothes. Or else, where they have imagination, they lack taste. That seems to be the prevailing sin in the emperor’s courtiers, at least. Women’s clothing has so much more . . . scope.” Marx smiled widely, revealing neat white teeth, then moved his focus back to Sophie. “And you, my lady, appear to be in need of some scope.” He frowned suddenly, brow wrinkling. “Who made what you are wearing?”
“That hardly matters,” Helene interjected. “She has come for ball gowns, not day dresses.”
“Ball gown,” Sophie said. “I only need one.”
That earned her a head shake. “Oh no, Maistre Matin was quite exacting in his instructions. Three gowns. If you are pleased with those, then perhaps we can reconvene on the matter of other items to . . . supplement your existing wardrobe, my lady.” It was clear from her tone that by “existing wardrobe” she meant something closer to “appalling rags.”
The dresses that Cameron had bought her were hardly rags but they were not exciting. Nor, from the glimpses she’d caught of the clothes worn by the other students, were they at the forefront of fashion. She was content with that. Simple and serviceable made far more sense. After all, her clothing was concealed by her robes for most of her day. Clothes that blended in rather than stood out would be an asset if she and Cameron ever had to run again. So, even if Helene Designy’s dresses were the most glorious creations ever seen, such clothes were currently of little use.
Besides, even if she were concerned with fashion, buying a wardrobe designed by the Designys would probably cost her several more of Eloisa’s pearls. And they needed that money for other things. So she would be shopping elsewhere. She only hoped Maistre Matin was footing the bill for the day’s acquisitions.
“Perhaps,” she agreed, not wishing to be rude. Helene looked perfectly capable of stabbing a client who displeased her with pins, as Cameron had suggested. “But the gowns are our priority.”
“You and half the noblewomen in the city,” Marx said. “The emperor’s whims are good for business. He rarely throws a ball on this scale at this time of year. Too many of the court travel to their estates during the summer to attend to harvest and other such rural mysteries. They don’t generally return until well into autumn. So he has caught everyone off guard. But the maistre has asked so nicely, we have moved you right to the head of our queue, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said, tempted to ask for a list of the names of the women she had displaced. In Kingswell, securing the services of the various dressmakers who went in and out of fashion had been something of a blood sport amongst the ladies of Eloisa’s court. If it was the same in Lumia, it might well be better to be forewarned about whose noses she might have put out of joint before she even met them. But asking would be futile.
“Shall we begin?” Helene said. She gestured gracefully to the door behind her. “Our fitting rooms are this way.”
The fitting rooms were no less elegant than the store below. Just more busy. Here there was noise, though tones were still soft, voices carefully courteous. The woman who’d greeted them was introduced as Clara and was soon busy bringing bolts of fabric for the Designys’ consideration.
Sophie, it seemed, wasn’t going to be given much choice in the matter.
There were several other girls and women clothed in the same style dress as Clara moving around the space, presumably doing the same for other clients.
While Clara was still fetching fabrics, Helene whisked Sophie into a curtained alcove and asked her to remove her dress.
She refrained from commenting on the very plain chemise and underthings Sophie wore beneath her gown, but the arched eyebrow spoke volumes.
For a minute or so, Helene simply studied Sophie, every so often instructing her to turn, raise her arms, or stand in a slightly different position. Then she produced a measure tape from a pocket and began to wrap it around almost every part of Sophie’s body, first over her corset and then without it. Her movements were brisk and practiced, pausing at the end of each wrap of the tape to note each measurement in a small leather-bound book with a pencil that disappeared into another pocket when she was done.
“At least we are working with good bones,” she said at last after she had fastened Sophie back into her corset and helped her into her dress. “One could wish for a little more curve in the bust perhaps . . . .” Her hand sketched an absent line in the air that suggested more than a “little more” curve to Sophie’s eyes. “But we can do much with corsets and structure to assist there.” She snapped the book closed and opened the curtains.
“Marx,” she called as she stepped out. “Come, consider these.”
Sophie, following her, saw her pass the book to her brother, who opened it and glanced down at the rows of figures. He smiled, looking smug.
“This will do nicely.” He passed the book back and came over to Sophie, tilting his head first one way and then another as he considered her.
“Now, my lady, from what we have been told, you have not been here long enough to know much of Illvyan fashions, let alone the court. You would hardly be able to see even what the women at the Academe wear under those dull robes. So the question becomes are you willing to trust Helene and me, or do you wish to see some examples?”
“Is there anything in current court fashions I should know about?” Sophie said. “Anything . . . risqué?” She knew enough about the whims of courts to know that very strange things could become popular. She’d been lucky in her time in Kingswell. The preference was for gowns that harked back to previous years, which had been a little cumbersome at times—though she had to admit the wider skirts on her Illvyan dresses were more so—but that was nothing compared to what she had read in her history books. Periods where women wore sheer laces with nothing underneath or fine silk robes that also left little to the imagination.
Marx inclined his head at her, expression approving. “No, my lady. The emperor has grown conservative as he has grown older. Not a bare breast or ankle in sight these days.”
Bare breasts? Sophie couldn’t stop her brows lifting at that.
“I think we’ll stick to decently covered,” Cameron added from where he stood to one side, observing. “Regardless of the fashions.”
Helene nodded at him. “Of course, Lord Scardale. You will wish to make a good impression, not a scandal.”
She and Marx started talking rapidly. Sophie struggled to follow. Her Illvyan classes had not included dressmaking terms. She was still working on the basics. So she really was going to have to put herself in the Designys’ hands.
The conversation came to an end when Marx nodded decisively. “Yes. That exactly. Now, as to fabric.” He walked over to the table where Clara was standing next to her stack of bolts and lifted one from the pile. A silk in a deep golden shade that reminded Sophie too much of Eloisa’s coronation gown. He freed a length and then came back to Sophie to drape it around her.
“No,” Helene said firmly. Marx nodded his agreement, to Sophie’s relief. The process was repeated a dozen times, with the Designys making decisions rapidly on most of them. Two of the fabrics, an emerald green satin embroidered with black flourishes and a deep raspberry pink silk shot with silver, were ultimately dismissed. Which left a fiery red satin, a silk in a beautiful blue-green shade, and an unusual dark purple velvet, the color of the darkest part of twilight.
“These three are all excellent choices,” Marx said.
“Yes,” Helene agreed. “But for this first ball, it has to be the red.”
“Isn’t that somewhat bright?” Sophie asked, eyeing the fabric. “I thought the aim was to create a good impression, not a scandal.” In Anglion, the red would be a bold choice indeed. Sophie couldn’t actually remember seeing a court dress in such color. The court, as a whole, didn’t wear much red. Perhaps because they were constantly surrounded by the color in the coats of the Red Guard.
“A good impression but also a strong one,” Helene said thoughtfully. “You do not want the court to think you are an Anglion mouse, seeking to hide away. They are quick to sense weakness and pounce. This color is not weak. And the cut of the dress will ensure you do not offend any sensibilities. Besides, if you are studying earth magic, which I think from the tinge in your hair you are, you have a limited time to wear this shade. It would not go so well with earth red hair. Which in your case is a pity as it flatters your complexion brilliantly.”
Was that a compliment? Sophie relaxed a little. Perhaps the Designys could pull this off after all.
“So,” Marx said. “That is all we need you for today, my lady. Tomorrow morning, one of the girls will come to the Academe with the muslin and make any adjustments. Then a final fitting or two the day before the ball.”
“That seems very fast.”
“Your maistre is paying us well,” Helene murmured. “The other two dresses can wait until next week. But the deadline is not moveable for this one.”
“Then we will leave you to your work.” Cameron came over to stand beside Sophie, bowing slightly to the clothiers.
“Yes, thank you,” Sophie said. “I’m sure the dress will be perfect.”
“Of course.” Marx sniffed. “Ours are never anything less.”