Snow Season – Day 20 of 90
“Do you have something…” You clenched your teeth, trying to find the right words. “…with fabric on it?”
The bouncy blonde before you raised a thin, blue brow and pouted her painted lips. “This style is very popular!” She swept her hands along her thighs. “It accentuates the legs.”
Your eyes raked up and down the bustle skirt. The damask taffeta was pearlescent emerald green and of exquisite quality. Plump tufted gatherings gave it volume, but without cumbersome width. You had no doubt it was the latest couture, direct from Kestania’s winter fashion shows. The trouble was that delicate copper chains in the front hitched it so high, people could comment on the lace trim of your undergarments.
“The straps are adjustable.” She tugged the front panel down. It was only a hand’s length lower. “See! Now, what do you think?”
“Are they removable?” you muttered.
If she cocked her head any further, her ridiculous, sky-high wig was going to tumble right off her scalp. “Why would you want to remove them?” She shuffled her skirt, drowning her legs in a tidal wave of frills. Her bubbly wink set your teeth on edge. “How will you show off your assets?”
Your jaw started to ache as terrified eyes searched the room for aid. Your employer was no help. With a sadist’s satisfaction, he smirked at you over his long fingers. Reeves was even more useless. He was bent over in the corner, shoulders shaking from holding in his laughter. You hoped he suffocated from all his efforts.
The blonde bounced to another satin mannequin with the glee of a yappy dog nipping at its mistress’s guests. “Perhaps this will be better?”
Upon the figure was a monstrous mound of lace, layered like an over-frosted cupcake beneath a knee-high, pink velvet bell skirt. While the droopy sleeves reminded you of a butterfly’s wings, there was a certain horror in imagining a poor creature being ripped apart to create… this. Splattered with polka dot bows and trimmed in fur, the brightly colored nightmare looked like something a four-year-old would force upon her doll for the unicorn princess’s tea party.
“This has much more length, yes?”
You glanced at the door. With a wave of his hand, the master put the choking Reeves between you and the exit. As you were contemplating the virtues of death by self-immolation, Sicarius’s smooth baritone called out to your torturer.
“Georgette, I am ever pleased with the wide array of options you offer. However, our maid is a widower, and the social circles she was brought up in were”—he raised the back of his hand to his mouth and lowered his voice to a gossip’s hush—“very traditional.”
The blonde looked at your dowdy clothing with a pity-filled frown. “Oh, yes… Of course. Of course.”
Your master continued his insinuations, “Though she has passed her mourning period, we all know that the heart does not heal quickly. Perhaps, after such a long seclusion, something of a simpler style would suit her better?”
The blonde took your hands in hers, coiling her painted claws around your wrists. “But you mustn’t, dearest!” she begged, tears in her eyes. “You still have your looks. You cannot give up hope.”
If you cringed any further, your head would disappear into your collar.
Sicarius’s smile was as charming as a devious fae bidding a lost soul to come into the night. “Then what would you suggest?”
At once, the silliness in her expression was gone. She drew herself up and took a deep inhale. Crimson talons tightened their hold. “Come, darling. Georgette knows what to do.”
When you emerged from the dressing room, Georgette guided you to a raised pedestal between four scalloped mirrors. With tightly restrained hope, you looked up from your feet. Despite yourself, a gasp escaped your lips.
“Oh Georgette, my little muffin, I knew I could count on you!” Reeves cooed, pinching his wife’s cheek.
The tea frock was jacquard cotton in ivory cream. Its V-shaped neckline plunged to your navel around a high collared panel of modest smocking. Trimmed with small ruffles, it coyly suggested femininity without the garishness of youth. Embroidered ribbon accents were a burgundy overlaid with delicately tatted chains of picots and rings. A simple silk sash tucked the dress tightly to your waist. The flounced petticoat was impossibly light thanks to the fine chiffon construction.
Sicarius hummed. “It is missing something.”
With a click of her tongue, Georgette shook her finger at the image in the looking glass. “Pearl teardrop earrings.”
You whipped around in horror. “Oh no, Master, no! You can not!”
“They make it more mature.” Georgette snapped her fingers. “It must be done.”
Sicarius’s hand curled over his chin to stifle the snort. “You heard the woman.” He mimicked her snap. “It must be done.” The sadist turned to his manservant. “Reeves, talk to VosKart and Bronsk. Get something conservative in ivory. Nothing gaudy like those awful cufflinks they showed me last month.”
Reeves extracted a paper pad and pen from his pocket. He jotted down the note with a snotty grin.
Your master turned back to the seamstress. “Now, as to the uniform…”
“Ah!” Georgette clasped her hands by her cheek. “I thought of it as soon as you sent her measurements! You will be pleased! Dainty, but with grace. Tasteful, but ornate. It will make for excellent scenery.”
“Show me,” Sicarius commanded.
Georgette rounded on you with quivering fingers and a predatory grin. A cold sweat trickled down your neck. You took a step back. With both hands, she seized your arm and tugged you down the stairs. A bouncing push sent you spiraling into the dressing room.
When you emerged from Georgette’s lair, your face was slack in sullen defeat. She paraded you onto your perch and twirled her finger. Like a well-trained stage monkey, you turned in a tight circle.
Your calf-length black dress had puffed gigot sleeves that tapered at the upper arm. The skirt, neckline, and cuffs were stark white with a scalloped hem. An underbust apron was trimmed with bobbin lace below four bronze buttons. Each of these was pressed with Sicarius’s spider seal. You frowned at the delicate details. It would be impossible to keep clean.
Georgette grinned as she held a matching, but plainer, drape aloft. “One for the housework and one for the serving.”
You sighed with relief.
She turned you to face your master and pointed to the ruffled jabot tie. “It wants a brooch.”
“Bronze like the buttons?”
“All bronze? Too masculine.” She paused and tapped her chin. “Though, with a mother of pearl core…”
Reeves hastily scribbled down the note.
“For the headpiece, would you like a bun, a cap, a headband, or a headdress?”
The master stared at your hair with the intensity of a society widow eyeing a prospective suitor for her child. “A headband seems the most practical for all lengths. However, I do want better than a simple ruffle.”
“An accent ribbon. I will weave it in the crochet, so it is not so childish.” Georgette set her hands around your head to indicate the distance. Her long nails scraped the edges of your scalp. “This wide?”
Sicarius clicked his tongue. “Perfect.”
She grinned. “I will have them complete in a few days.”
Your master thumbed his chin. His eyes rolled to your old dress, hanging like a sad sack from the dressing room hooks. “I do not suppose you have anything ready-made?”
Georgette’s smile was coy. “Do you think me one of your little machines, Mr. Estrova? A simple seamstress cannot just”—she popped her lips— “make dresses fall out of the sky.”
The silver-haired man tilted his jaw back until the shadows filled the crevices below smooth cheekbones. “No, I do not believe you to be a machine, but neither are you a simple seamstress.”
The sly way she raised her painted brows tightened the knot in your stomach.
“Perhaps I have something that may work.” Georgette peered over her shoulder at Reeves. “If my husband could have the night off?”
Sicarius groped deep into his pocket. With a frown, he turned to the footman. “Reeves? Do you have the time?”
“Half-past noon.”
Sicarius nodded. “If you can complete the task by three, you would have plenty of time to make my standing reservation at Riverside Bistro.”
Georgette flapped her hands towards the door. “Off with you boys, then. We shall work faster without you.”
Your master turned his back and strolled to the exit. Reeves blew a kiss to the blonde before tugging the door shut. As the lock clicked, your hackles rose. An oppressive aura of desperation oozed from your captor’s every pore.
You took a step back. “Mrs. Reeves, I am sure you must be rather excited about your date, but I—”
A soft finger pressed itself to your lips. “Do not worry.” The frenzy in her blue eyes made you feel like a toy in the hands of a rambunctious child. “Georgette knows what to do.”
Two hours later, you sat on the velvet cushion stool as the furious churning of the sewing machine filled the room. Georgette’s fingers flew across the navy skirt, tacking the hem into submission. When at last she reached the end of her task, she nipped the thread with a flourish and stuffed the dress into your hands. A flick of her wrist was enough to send you skittering into the changing drapes. When you stepped out again, one thing was clear: Georgette did, in fact, know what to do.
The dress itself was a simple princess cut bodice attached to a long, pleated skirt. Flowing sleeves were easy to move in but tapered to an elegant cuff. A rounded flat collar and pintuck yoke displayed modest professionalism befitting of a governess. The detail that set it apart from such an occupation was the copper-colored tie around your neck. Too rich for a traditional servant’s wardrobe, its fine paisley fabric mirrored Reeves’s waistcoat.
“He likes his collections to match,” Georgette explained as she evened the knot.
“Is that why you forced this ridiculous girdle set upon me?” you demanded.
“It’s called a garter set. Less restrictive than the corset or the girdle but it still tucks the waist.” Georgette winked at you. “Besides, pretty underthings are the pride of every woman.”
“Pretty as they may be, these briefs are riding up my backside!”
“It is called a cheeky cut for a reason.”
You sighed in defeat.
As Georgette dipped to secure the hemline, a general feeling of constrictive unease engulfed your gut. Your eyes fell to the window, examining the ice on the single pane glass. Beyond the boundaries of Georgette’s shop, the city of Marinar was bursting with activity from the Frost Festival. The burbling purr of steam-ore engines was interspersed with the nickering of horses and the clop of carts in the lane.
“Mrs. Reeves, how long have you known my master?”
The blonde smoothed the last pleat and stepped back to take in her work. “Six years. He came for a suit. When I saw the delectable man he brought in tow, I knew I must keep him as a customer.”
“Have you noticed anything… odd about him?”
She raised a thinly penciled brow. “Darling, all the rich are odd. You must be more specific.”
Memories of a charming smile and witty banter fluttered across your thoughts. You shook your head like a dog throwing off mud. “He speaks to his servants in a very different tone than that to which I am accustomed.”
The seamstress plucked a loose thread from your shoulder. “He does not look down upon someone because they lack noble connections.” She scoffed and draped her arms one over the other. “They treat us like dirt, but he is a man who judges talent over breeding.”
“I can hardly find fault with that,” you agreed, biting your lip. Your new kidskin boots toed the floor. “…but does not his manner seem too at ease with his employees for a man of his standing?”
The woman stared at you with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.
A burning itch crawled up your neck. “Please forgive me. I spoke out of turn.”
Georgette sighed and shook her head. “Dearest, you are in a new place. That would make anyone feel uncomfortable.” She patted your cheek. “Life brings so many troubles. Do not bring your own.”
The clock on her wall chimed three times. Turning to face the looking glass, you fanned your skirt. The woman in the mirror was unfamiliar, but as you swung your new dress from side to side, you resolved to become accustomed to her.
All at once, there was a cheerful voice in the hall and a jaunty series of raps on the door. Reeves swaggered into the room with a hoard of shopping bags swinging from his wrists. In his hands he held a long leather box bearing an embossed lyre and a brass tag labeled “Froskwick’s Fine Instruments.” He pecked his wife on the cheek and peeled the packaging off his sore arms. From a monogrammed silver sack, he extracted a charcoal grey cloak.
“Sicarius awaits you downstairs,” he instructed, handing you the mantle.
You took the garment in your hands. The wool was finely crimped and soft to the touch. Once you closed the clasp, Reeves hung the bags from your outstretched arms. He opened the door and shooed you out into the stairwell. You staggered as each of the purchases rocked in a different direction. Toddling down the steps with the grace of an overladen pack mule, you planted one foot on each tread before easing onto the next. When at last you reached the bottom, you sighed with relief.
The city of Marinar was an ocean town and Coriland’s largest port. On winter days, sea breezes choked travelers’ throats with salty cold. Digging through a paper bag from Sanderson’s Sweet Emporium, Sicarius seemed unaffected by the winds. He popped a crunchy toffee into his mouth and closed his eyes. The orgasmic expression on his face was enough for one mother to usher her children to the other side of the street. You lowered your head to hide your smile.
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Master.”
The scarred man licked his lips and tugged black calf-skin gloves back over his fingers. He then eyed the parade of packages digging into your arms with an amused snort. Beckoning you with one finger, he strolled down the sidewalk.
“Lyle will be arriving in about half an hour to take you home in the Benson. Reeves and I will stay at the townhouse and return tomorrow morning.”
You dodged around a group of cackling middle-aged women. “I understand.”
Sicarius pointed to a paper bag with twine handles. “Be sure Cook gets his spices as soon as you get home. For my stomach’s sake, I strive to keep him happy.”
“Of course,” you replied, scurrying to keep pace with his stride.
“You will want to use the lap harness when riding with Lyle. He obtained his lessons from a man that used to import wine and spirits into Antellas.”
You raised a brow. “I thought the Holy Nation of Antellas was a dry country?”
“It is.” Sicarius smirked. “It makes his driving rather more exciting.”
Your stomach flopped. “Thank you for the warning, Master.”
When you neared the intersection, you came to a halt two steps behind your employer. Tired arms ached from the weight of the luggage. With a deep breath, you rolled back your shoulders and lifted your head. There were five blocks yet to go. You could tough it out.
When the traffic police tweeted for you to cross, your master strode out into the lane as if he owned everything down to the core of the world. You frowned at expensive labels on his purchases. Perhaps he did.
Though the streets were too frozen to be muddy, it was odd that one who could afford such luxuries did not bother to hail a taxi. Then again, as you watched him savor another toffee with pleasure too sinful for temple approval, you thought back to Georgette’s words.
She was correct; all the rich were odd.
On your right side, there arose a chorus of shrieks and a horrific clatter. You looked up from your thoughts only to see a carriage with no driver a few strides away. The lissome beast who pulled it was wild with fright. Panicked eyes bulged from his skull as he stampeded towards the crossway in a hurricane of hooves and hysteria. All the sounds of the world dropped away until only the pounding of your heart throbbed in your ears. All at once, your vision went pitch black.
It took four ragged breaths before you realized the inky dark was not the bowels of the lower world, but the lapels of an elegant wool coat.
Shaking from head to toe, you looked up into an exquisitely carved jaw and teasing blue eyes. Two strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you tight into a firm chest. The smell of burnt sugar was sweet on his breath.
“While I do appreciate a woman who would die for me, I am accustomed to my new hires living longer than five days in my employ.”
With each shallow pant, the surrounding sounds returned to your ears. Above the roar of the crowd, a policeman was screaming for everyone to stand back. You turned and wished you had not. The splintered carriage lay on its side. A lamppost on the corner was bent to the ground. Between them, the poor creature flailed three of its legs. The fourth was pointing the wrong way.
“Come.” Sicarius set you back on your feet, his arm never leaving your waist. “The authorities will handle it.”
Cold and trembling, you nodded.
As he led you away from the scene, that same smile from the funeral stretched across his face. Staring into his strange expression, the hackles on the back of your neck rose. With a deep breath, you swallowed down your unease. Far be it from you to criticize your savior for having an eerie face.