Her lips lift in a pitiful attempt at a smile.
“But if you’re a fraud, I’m sending you back to Cluain Baile.”
I expect dread, but her face shines with expectancy, her body going still. Does she actuallywantto go back to the cesspool that is the Grounds? That would be utterly absurd. I practically bite my tongue to keep from outright insulting my new dressmaker. “You’re lucky, you know. You get to live in luxury. Not many Grounders get to do that. And you just have one simple task: Make me a dress.”
She purses her lips, her back rigid. Her expression goes flat.
“Do you understand a thing I’m saying?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
She starts to curtsy, but I hold out my hands to stop her. “Please, don’t. Your curtsy is atrocious, and I don’t care for it anyway. But before I go, what do you need in order to make my dress?”
“I…” It takes her a moment to find her words. “I need spun fiber, fabric, and your measurements. Your Highness.”
“Alright.” I turn to head out the door again, and Tiernan steps aside from the open doorway. “You can take my measurements tonightafter supper,” I throw over my shoulder. “And in the morning, Major Kilkenny will accompany you to Barr na Cahar.”
Tiernan gives me a slow nod, but there’s no response from Durvla.
I turn to find her gawking cluelessly at me, with no acknowledgment of anything I’ve just said. Magdin’s tits, tell me I didn’t land myself yet another incompetent dressmaker. “Did you hear me?”
She blinks as if coming out of a trance. “I didn’t. My apologies.” She laces her fingers tightly together in front of her and I catch the slightest wince.
I back off. Perhaps there is more damage than just the bruises on her face. Perhaps she’s been through enough in one day. “I’ll arrange your transport to Barr na Cahar in the morning. That’s the fashion district. I’m sure Ellynne has shown you the library—the last dressmaker sometimes took out books on… well, whatever you needlewomen read.” I pause. “If youcanread, that is.”
A muscle twitches in her cheek. “I can read,” she says, after a brief moment.
“Alright, well… I’d like to see your progress on my dress daily. You have today to settle in, and you can begin your work tomorrow after you return from Barr na Cahar. I’d like to meet for breakfast every day so you can show me your magic.”
Her lips press into a straight line, and she swallows visibly. Grounders are raised to believe that even thementionof magic is treasonous. Poor woman. “It’s just figurative, Durvla.” I sigh and shake my head before turning on my heel to exit her chamber.
As the door closes behind me, I turn to Tiernan. He stares back at me with respectful curiosity.
“Is it me,” I ask, “or is she a bit doltish? She can’t even look me in the eye.”
“I think she’s just nervous, Princess.”
I click my tongue. “I sure hope that’s the case.”
CHAPTER 14
Durvla
Lockingmy eyes on the mirror, I still can’t believe what I see. The swollen gash on my face is scabbing over and fading from red to dark blue against my light brown skin. It’s unsightly but could be far worse, I suppose. My curls are still tame beneath the pins Ellynne strategically placed.
I focus on the nearly unrecognizable reflection as I hold the skirt of this lavish dress and dip into one last curtsy. My legs ache from the repetition, and it’s as if I haven’t slept in ten years—which does nothing to help my nagging headache—but I don’t want to risk another Mainlander laughing in my face the next time I curtsy.
I’ve been in this room for over an hour now, and I still can’t believe that I’m not dreaming. Or having a nightmare. Despite my exhaustion, my nerves crawl every time I try to sit still.
The shadows from the fire in the hearth all resemble Taig’s wild hair. I can seehis goofy smile and his little grabby hands. It’s unnatural that I don’t have to get up to prevent him from putting an object into his mouth. There’s no supper to cook, no bath to give.
I am utterly useless, unsure of how to function without having to take care of someone.
Giving up on any attempt to relax, I approach the shelf beside the former dressmaker’s desk and thumb through the stack of fabrics. There are no spun fibers for knitting, but there is a lot of embroidery thread, measuring tape, and a pincushion. I find a couple of quills, an inkwell, and paper.
Sitting at the table, I dip the quill into the inkwell, but the blank sheet of paper stares back at me. Taunting me. I haven’t measured Princess Carys yet, but I have a good idea of what may suit her body type. I’m average height with wide hips and a soft middle, while Princess Carys is statuesque and slender with a nonexistent waist. She’s small-chested, which makes designing the bodice easier than if she were heavier up top. She would look great in a gown with a wide skirt or even something formfitting. Honestly, she could pull off anything with her confidence, but whatsuitsher?
The quill moves on its own as an image materializes before me. I still need to get a better idea of the princess’s likes and dislikes, but for now, I have an inkling. She wants something bold, something unique, something that would cause her suitors to drop dead—literally, apparently. I smile and shake my head to myself. The princess isn’t what I expected.
