Despite having all of Wildrose in which to eat, including an elegant dining room with stools for chairs and a chandelier made out of tree branches, with green candles to burn, Isadora chose the kitchen.
The snug space heated faster. Not to mention an easy-to-access woodpile just outside the kitchen, thanks to the young lad Ean, whom she hadn’t yet met. A table on the far side provided plenty of space for both Isadora and Max. Using the kitchen lessened the need to clean another room later.
How Faye kept up with this place, she’d never fathom.
Isadora’s cup clinked gently when she set it back on the saucer. Blunted morning light brightened outside. Max peered at her from over the top of his coffee. She met his gaze, eyebrows high. He lowered his cup, gaze filled with smoky question.
“Well?” he asked.
His deep rumble flipped her stomach. Isadora swallowed. He’d been working like a madman for days, barely home except to eat dinner and fall into bed. Sitting with him in such a normal setting stirred her up inside.
The rhythm resembled the one they shared in the Southern Network—perhaps a prelude to what life with Max would be—and had been soothing while she grappled to find her footing in a new world.
Yet again.
“Well, what?” she asked, then sipped. The taste of lavender and honey flooded her mouth. Max set aside the newsscroll, stretched an arm over the chair next to him.
“What do you think of my idea?”
In fact, she had fidgeted over his idea for the last ten minutes. You are in need of more dresses, I’ve noticed, he said when she entered the kitchen. Would you be interested in shopping for them together? I have some opinions on current styles.
The offer had been arresting and . . . sweet. Max spotted a necessity, a detail she hadn’t pointed out to him, and offered to go with her. Such an event would have been mildly daunting on her own. Mam had always sewn her dresses. Though she’d experienced much of Network life the past two years, there were things that still terrified her. Basic things, like dress fittings.
Besides, Chatham City dressmakers were known for intensity of purpose in their work, and their social power. They were teeming hothouses of gossip. Maximillion’s offer to go with her might have been a way to make a statement about their handfasting.
Or it might be an offer he felt obligated to give, considering the list she sent him days ago. If nothing else, he tried.
She’d honor that.
Isadora swallowed another mouthful of tea, not tasting its comforting palette anymore. It went down like a gulp.
“I think,” she said slowly, running the edge of her finger along the rim, “that it’s a good idea. If you go with me?”
Max paused, ceramic mug halfway to his mouth. He lifted an eyebrow, as if startled that she accepted. She fought back a chuckle. Oh, how hard he tried, even if sloppily executed. He set the mug back down.
“Then the dressmaker is prepared to see us at noon today. I managed to procure an appointment.”
“Aren’t wait lists six months long?”
“Yes.”
Her fingers toyed with the end of her sleeve as she waited for an explanation that didn’t come. She refused to feel embarrassed over the disheveled state of her clothes. No one wore fresh fabric or finery these days. No one she knew, anyway.
Some hesitation rose.
The dissolution of all the border wars had eased food demands on the Network, allowing more to distribute to the populace instead of the Guardians. Disbanding Guardians and the remnants of so many battles, however, left haunted witches everywhere. Textiles were far from resuming their usual market.
If nothing else, going to the dressmaker provided the perfect opportunity to satisfy a burning question: could they survive routine life and extraordinary circumstances?
Mundane events would constitute most of their marriage, she’d wager. Handfasting was more than a string of wild, unanticipated happenings in different Networks.
“You have an eye for fashion, Max, whether or not it’s something you’ll admit to yourself. I look forward to your opinions and I trust your fashion sense.”
He blinked, his lip twitching with the words I trust.
Though, I still don’t trust you with my heart, she silently added.
He hid a glassy expression behind another sip of coffee. The flashing headlines from a Chatterer scroll illuminated the table near his breakfast plate. Max had woken early and set out several fried eggs, bread warmed over the fire on a grate, and a small crock of salt and one of butter.
Max had the capacity to care for himself—and her—that she’d never credited to him. Just because the man commanded Assistants and servants in the castle didn’t mean he required them at home, a revelation that surprised her.
To great effect.
“I am happy to accompany you, fashion opinions notwithstanding.”
“Well.” Isadora lifted her teacup in silent salute, smiling. “I suppose I’ll see you later at the dressmakers, Max.”
She ended in a chortle.
He ignored her.
* * *
Bella’s Dressmaker Shop was a narrow building set in between a painting boutique and a tobacco store. The air smelled like pipe leaves and turpentine.
Bright candlelight illuminated the interior. Sparkling mirrors made the thin store appear wider than normal. Along each wall, dresses. So many dresses. Most hung on velvet hangers, others on wooden. Flounced, petticoated, thin, silk, cotton. An overabundance of options awaited.
Isadora stalled in the doorway.
Max put a hand on her back. “Believe it or not,” he murmured, “they won’t eat you.”
His cloying tone—one could almost say he joked with her—sent a thrill through her toes. Max pressed forward, bringing her with him.
“Miss Trusseau?”
A woman with wide, blonde curls and a pert nose popped into view. She sat behind a table littered with fabric and spools of thread. With a squeak, she straightened up.
“Welcome back, Max.”
Max stiffened through the arms. “Bella. Good to see you again.”
Color infused Bella’s cheeks as she bustled over, a simple dress hanging off of ample hips. With curiosity, she studied Isadora. Her gaze lingered on Isadora’s shoulders, chest, and hips, leaving a calculating sensation in the air. After inspecting Isadora’s current fashion, Bella regarded her face.
A softening surprised Isadora.
“What has brought you here?” Bella inquired. Astonishment thickened her tone. A piece of lace drifted behind her left shoulder, trailing out. Fluffs of fabric and bits of string clung to the edges of her skirt.
Max opened his mouth to speak, but Isadora beat him to it. “Bella Trusseau.” She stepped forward, a hand outstretched the way most Network witches appreciated. “I’ve heard so much about you. My name is Isadora Sinclair.”
“Hopefully good things?”
“Yes, all of them.”
“I’ve heard—”
Max stepped forward. Professional courtesy frosted his voice as he said, “Bella, my wife is here for a dress. Several of them. Will you be able to help her? We’ll need a full collection, from formal wear to day dresses.” He glanced at Isadora. “Something for outside as well?”
Gratified that he’d know her preferences, Isadora nodded. The awkwardness of how much currency this would cost lingered in her thoughts, but she let it go. If they were to remain handfasted, it would be their currency.
She had to think that way now, odd as it seemed.
Something in the situation lifted the hair on the back of her neck. Bella’s darting gaze hid bewilderment—perhaps pain. All of a sudden, Isadora remembered Max’s willingness to come with her to this shop, where he’d procured a slot despite a six-month waiting list.
There were other dressmaker shops, of course, but Bella Trusseau was known to be the most popular, according to rumors. Bella’s broad range, yet affordable prices, sent regular witches and High Priestesses here alike.
Was Max making a statement today, or satisfying some of his own curiosity?
Bella drew in a deep breath, shoulders expanding with the motion. Her chin elevated. All vestiges of curiosity stuffed away.
“We have many styles that may be of interest to you, Mrs. Sinclair. If you will come with me, you may see them.” She sent Max a hard glance as she bustled toward a back closet. “You may stay here.”
Max returned her glittering stare.
Isadora froze.
She didn’t want to go anywhere with that woman, and she didn’t want to be in this store. Not with two hostile witches that seethed animosity. Bella continued across the room, shoes clacking in their path. As if reading her mind, Max leaned over to whisper in Isadora’s ear.
“I’ll explain everything once you have a satisfactory wardrobe. I promise.”
The strength of his voice relieved some of the prickling hesitation. She glanced up. He met her gaze, his own unyielding. Not even a goddess could read a stare like that.
“Is there nowhere else?”
“There are other shops if you don’t find anything you like, but . . . let’s just say this meeting had to happen first if we are to satisfy your list.”
A dozen questions surfaced with his reply, but Isadora ignored them. His pleading look asked for more than silence. He wanted trust—for at least an hour.
She warred within. She’d much rather call this confrontation for what it was: a reveal of his wife to society.
“I’ll choose to trust you until you can explain.”
His hold on her arm loosened. He nodded her toward the back, then peeled away to a bright pink divan near a cluster of mirrors and an elevated platform. His greatcoat billowed as he lowered to the edge of the seat, his jaw tight, knee bouncing.
Isadora found Bella at a long rack of dresses on the other side of the room. Bella glanced at her out of the corner of her eye as she approached, then swiveled with a stiff smile.
“How about this style?”
Isadora braced herself.
She couldn’t wait for this to end.