Yes, the crown prince was handsome. I had acknowledged it before, but somehow the fact never bothered me until now. And I couldn’t seem to stopnoticingthings about him.
I curtsied instead, the action awkward in the cramped space. “I must go. All the best with your gelding, Your Highness.”
He nodded and I headed out of the stables as gracefully as I could.
The moment I was out of his sight, I broke into a trot, scouring the building for Giselle.
The seamstress sat in the common area of her chambers, her work sprawled out in front of her. She was mending a pair of dark brown breeches.
“Close the door. Don’t let the cold air in,” she mumbled over the pins between her lips.
“I need a gift for...Bennett,” I said, leaning back into the door. It clicked shut.
Giselle raised her brows. “Oh.Bennettnow, is it?”
My throat clenched, punishing me for speaking his name when I didn’t have permission. I schooled my features into composure. “It’s his birthday next week. Did you know?”
“Now I do,” the witch said. She removed the pins from her mouth and gave me her full attention. “What kind of gift?”
I sighed and explained to her the crown prince’s penchant for clothing.
“Huh,” she said, refocusing on her work. “You’d never know from the way he treats his breeches. This is the third pair he’s worn out this month. Must be all the riding.”
I shrunk against the door frame. “If you could make something, I can give it to him and—”
She laughed. “My dear, dear girl, that is what he’s paying me for. It won’t mean anything if I make him something.”
“Who else is going to do it then?”
Giselle’s expression grew mischievous. “You are.”
“I don’t know how to sew,” I protested, but she was busy rummaging through her bag.
“Don’t you society girls embroider all the time?” Giselle asked, voice muffled.
“That is not the same as garment making.”
“Oh, pooh. As long as you know how to handle a needle, you’ll be fine.”
I swallowed, looking askance. The last time I handled a needle, it wasn’t for sewing or embroidery.
Giselle emerged with a bundle of beige wool. “What do you think about breeches?”
I took a step back. “Absolutely not.”
She made a face, tossing the fabric aside. “Fine. A shirt, then.”
I protested again, but Giselle pulled out a mass of ivory linen and spread it over the floor. She whipped out a charcoal pencil and a spool of measuring tape.
“So. The body of the shirt should be roughly twice as wide as his shoulders. As you probably noticed, His Highness’s shoulders are rather broad.” Giselle gave me a sly smile. “We may require extra yardage.”
I thought it proper not to comment. After thirty minutes of instructions and cutting, the seamstress let me return to my room.
“Show me when you’re done,” she called out. “I’ll have to make sure it’s wearable.”
I heaved a sigh.
Why did I let Giselle convince me to do this?
