Sárait sighed, but Clía could hear a hint of amusement. “For the last time, I’m not here to kill you. However, I am feeling tempted.” She paused for a second, contemplating. “No. It would be too much work. I don’t want to have to wash bloodstains out of this dress; I deal with enough from your fellow warriors. Maybe another day.” Sárait shrugged and continued walking.
Clía followed behind in silence. After telling her the news that she would be staying, Sárait was eager to celebrate. Clía’s idea of celebration consisted of stealing some food from the kitchens and having a midnight picnic, but Sárait had different ideas.
When Sárait first led Clía to the tunnel entrance, Clía couldn’t help but notice how much emptier the whole place felt now. The dismissed daltas had left immediately after the announcement. But Clía wasn’t going to let their absence bring down her mood. She had done it.
She’d drafted a letter to her parents immediately. Would they be excited for her, or would they not care? What would Ó Connor think?
She felt for his latest letter, folded up in her pocket. It was brief—an update on life in Álainndore and a promise for more information later—but it was a reminder that someone in Álainndore cared. It was a reminder of home.
Something woefully needed when traversing the dark tunnels under Caisleán.
A rogue cobblestone loomed up out of nowhere and tripped her.
“When did you first begin working as a tailor?” she asked, hoping a distraction would keep her from thinking too hard about getting lost in these twisting tunnels.
“Four years ago,” Sárait said.
“Four years? You had to be, what, fifteen? How did you even get your start at such a young age?”
“I always had skill with a needle. When I was younger, I would make clothes for myself and my sister. But my parents had higher aspirations for me than being a tailor. They saw their children as a means to further their reach in society. And to settle their debts. My sister married well, appeasing them for a short while, but it didn’t last.
“I didn’t want to be a means to an end. I wanted to work on my designs, but that wasn’t useful for them. So, one day, I left.”
They took another turn in the never-ending tunnel. “You ran away?”
“I had a dream, and I followed it. The life they wanted for me would never have made me happy. So I sought out that joy on my own. I took myself as far away as I could. I traveled south, working in small villages for a while until I heard about a position as a tailor at your palace. I sent my parents and my sister letters to tell them I was okay after I began my first job.”
“Have they stayed in touch?”
Clía stopped suddenly to keep herself from walking into Sárait.
“We’re here.” She led Clía down one final turn, opening a wooden door to reveal a room full of fabrics.
The room was small, not much larger than Clía’s room, butbright with vibrant colors. Swoops of fabric hung from the walls and the ceiling, soft heaps piled on tables scattered across the room.
It was like a dream.
Sárait laughed at Clía’s wondrous expression. “I had a feeling you might appreciate the fabric room as much as I do.”
Clía’s hands trailed over the rainbow array of cotton, taffeta, and silk, until a stunning magenta drew her attention. “Is this velvet?” she asked, idly running her fingers up and down the soft nap.
Sárait nodded. “That color would look amazing on you.”
But Clía’s eyes had already drifted to a shining silver fabric, tucked away in the far corner. It sparkled in the lantern light, the gray shifting from glistening white to a captivating charcoal. The material was cool to the touch, and it clung to the tips of her fingers. “This is beautiful.”
“Isn’t it? I picked it up at the market a few seasons ago. A sweet woman was selling it. She said it was woven by Draoi, infused with iron to strengthen it. She definitely undersold how strong it was; I broke several needles when I tried to sew with it.”
Clía stopped fondling the fabric to look at Sárait. “Infused with iron? How did they do that?”
“Apparently, the Draoi who wove it studied the path of Orlaith, the Stormweaver. She channeled the energy of the Otherworld to fuse the threads with iron shavings. Admittedly, I was more taken by the iridescence than anything else. I thought it might make a lovely dress.”
“No, not a dress.Thisis meant for much more.” Clía ignored Sárait’s questioning look. “Why do you have all of these fabrics?”
“Kordislaen encourages me to keep this room stocked, both for my own personal uses and for whatever might be needed in Caisleán. He calls it an investment, says I would be no use to him if my skill with a needle were to grow dull. As long as I keep up with my work, I’m free to do with the leftover fabrics as I please.”
Clía looked back at the stunning iron-woven textile. “Have you considered trying anything else with this?”
“Not if I can’t get a needle into it.”
