No one had applied.I had hoped that an employee would bring more legitimacy to my shop, but perhaps “shop”was a generous descriptor for the hovel I had rented from a miserly human milliner five months ago.It was a three story building of sloppy wooden slats and dirty windows, the highest of which belonged to the landlady herself, Mrs.Lewis.
I shook off my boots and picked up the mallet, pounding a loose nail back into the plaque.It had fallen over this morning, as if giving up on the notion of any interested apprentices.
“Five coppers for every hole you create in these walls, witch girl!”a voice screeched.I looked up, unsurprised to see Mrs.Lewis’s sour face glaring down at me behind moth-eaten curtains.
“Of course, Mrs.Lewis,” I muttered, not bothering to shout back.The woman had the ears of a bat.With a flick of my wrist, the street water seeped from the fine wool of my skirt.They became wobbling orbs in the air before splashing to the cobblestones.
“And no magic!”
I shook my hands off, scowling at the window as the curtains fell back into place.
This was a sorry scene, and certainlynotwhere I had expected to be last spring.
About four months ago, a loud-mouthed court lady had caught wind of the fact that I, the once royal seamstress who dressed Crown Prince Bennett and Lady Narcissa Greenwood to the heights of perfection during their engagement tour last winter, was planning to open a dress shop.I didn’t expect to be recognized—my name was not easily remembered—but somehow the address of my shop ended up in a fashion publication.
The praise was all very well and good, but I hadn’t been prepared for the wave of debutantes that flooded me.
Their pristine hems had no sooner brushed the splintered floorboards of Mrs.Lewis’s building before they fled two streets down to Jeraldine’s Dress Emporium, convinced they were misinformed.Surely the middle-aged and elegant Jeraldine was the former royal seamstress, not the mussed girl they had seen squatting in that hovel of a building, unloading crates.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the same fashion publication had retracted my name and confirmed thatJeraldinewas the former royal seamstress.Thatadded insult to injury.
Last month I had visited Jeraldine’s shop intending to confront her, but one glimpse at her crowded storefront told me that even if she wanted to see me, she did not have the time.And anyhow, who was I to deny a fellow charmwitch success?
I exhaled, leaning my forehead against my shop window.The interior was carpeted and furnished now, the birch shelves stocked with the finest of witch-made fabrics, the mannequins dressed in the latest fashions, the lounge area and fitting room outfitted for nobility.Impressive, considering the sorry state it had been in before.
Behind the freshly wallpapered walls of the back closet were the white, frothy beginnings of Narcissa’s wedding dress—the one commission keeping all this afloat.
At least Jeraldine didn’t have that.
Yet no one had bothered to come inside for an entire week.After all, with Jeraldine’s Dress Emporium already established as arespectablewitch business, there was no need to take chances on another, especially an unproven one in the less-than fashionable side of town.
The tinkle of a bell sounded, high and sweet.My shop door swung shut behind someone who entered, a figure passing by the window.A customer?An interested apprentice?It didn’t matter.It wassomeone.Perhaps my luck was already changing for the better.
I beamed, stepping in after them.
“Good afternoon, how may I assist—” I paused, suddenly remembering that I closed my shop already.There was only one person who visited after business hours.“You.”
“One would think you’d be happier to see your only patron.”
Maddox Greenwood spread his arms and grinned at me, as if expecting a brotherly embrace.Sunlight filtered through the window, illuminating his mud-splattered ensemble.
I shooed him aside to inspect the damage he had done to my jacquard rug.As expected, there was a streak of dirt from his boots.
“You are not myonlypatron,” I said irritably, rounding the polished birch counter for a broom.He watched as I brushed the spot aggressively until the dirt disappeared, returning the rug to its blue and gold glory.“I’m sewing your sister’s wedding gown.We have a fitting this week and I have no doubt I’ll find thatfarmore enjoyable than mending holes in your dirty undergarments.”
“They are not—” Maddox paused and looked me over.“You’re dressed differently today.”
I smoothed the front of my blouse—a lacy, pintucked confection the society darlings favored.It sported a square neckline that showed far more decolletage than I was comfortable with, which was none at all.
“I have an appointment,” I said primly.At least IhopedI did.
“Where?”he asked, making a face.“And what is that on your belt?”
I looked down at the knotted charms hanging at my waist like a tangled chatelaine.The most recent ones were meant to repel stray rocks and dirt as a result of a nasty tumble I had earlier that week.There were a handful more charms that I’d forgotten about, but it seemed I needed one to repel roadside splashes as well.
If luck was a substance, I would have made a good luck charm.But alas, it was an elusive concept that no charmwitch could ever manipulate, so speaking of it was a tad superstitious.
“These are for luck,” I said drily.“And I’m going to that new department store in the city, Blanche de Clare.”
