Barring a few crumbs, they left the breakfast room in a reasonable state and, giggling, went to organize Hannalinde’s dressing room. The ladies’ maid had accomplished most of the heavy unpacking, hanging gowns to air and folding smaller garments, but she’d left a few things out for Hanna to decide.
The plain, patched dresses she’d worn before her marriage were easy to discard, as were the stained stays that no longer fit her new figure. Soon, the only thing left was her wedding dress.
It hung on the back of the dressing-room door. The ivory silk was still beautiful, even in its ruined state. The bodice was intact, the gold thread catching the afternoon light from the bedroom window. But below it, the graceful sleeves and skirt fell in ragged strips.
“Hm. You should probably throw it out,” Carlijn said, eyeing it. “You can’t wear it like that, and you can’t reuse the fabric for something else.”
“I want to keep it.”
“Use the excuse to have another one made just like it,” Carlijn suggested. “So what if it’s expensive? You know Rikard won’t deny you anything.”
Hanna flushed. She would not test the theory, but she suspected it was true. He was always overgenerous with her. She took the dress down, fingering the silk. “I don’t want another one. I want this one.”
Carlijn sighed and shook her head, moving to organize the perfume bottles on the dressing tray. “All right, suit yourself.”
She stood there a few minutes, enjoying the feel of the fine fabric, while Carlijn tested out her rouges and powders. The dress was like her marriage, she supposed. It might look like a disaster to another’s eye, but to her it was precious. More beautiful for its imperfections.
The cuts she’d made were clean. She’d used good shears, and slashed across the grain, leaving edges that frayed a little but didn’t ravel. She saw possibilities where others might see irreparable damage. She could make the ruin beautiful. It was begging for her needle.
When Carlijn excused herself to visit the market, Hannalinde sat in the window seat of her new sewing room with her wedding dress spread across her lap. The former lady’s bedchamber had the best light and the best view of the garden. Though the temperature was chilly outside, the afternoon sun was warm through the glass, and the hours stretched in front of her.
She selected some ivory silk thread and a fine needle and began.
The work was absorbing. It silenced the chatter of anxiety that lived in the back of her mind. She stitched a row of leaves to join the raw edges of the first slash. Where the silk had torn unevenly, she followed the tear, incorporating its shape into the design so the damage became the curve of a vine.
In just a few hours, the first sleeve was transformed. The shredded edge was now a cascade of subtle leaves and tiny flowers, tumbling down the silk as though they’d been embroidered first and the sleeve cut to display them.
She held it up to the fading light. The light caught on the silk threads, and the effect was luminous. The sleeve looked fae-wrought, like the edge of a wildflower field.
Carlijn appeared in the doorway with a cup of tea and a biscuit and stopped dead. “Fallen gods, Hanna. You did that while I was gone?”
“Just the one sleeve.”
“It’s gorgeous.” Carlijn crossed the room and took the sleeve between her fingers, turning it in the light. “You’ve made the cuts look like they were always meant to be there. Like the dress was designed this way from the start.”
“You think I should keep going?”
Carlijn gave a fervent nod. “Do the whole dress.”
She showed Rikard as soon as he woke, pouncing on him so he could not even leave the bed. She thrust the gown into his hands as soon as the dust fell away. “Look!”
“What is this?” He sat up, staring at the sleeve in his hands.
“My wedding dress. I decided to fix it so I can wear it again. I hope to finish before the baby is born.”
His face fell. “Ah,” he said, voice still rough with daysleep. He absentmindedly petted the tatters of the other sleeve while he examined her work. “You’ve done a lovely job with the repairs.” He handed it back with a sad smile.
She sat back, dismayed. “I thought you would like to see me in it again. It seemed to please you when I wore it the first time, but maybe I was mistaken.”
“Ah, wife.” He pulled her down beside him. “The dress pleased me very much, both then and now. It only reminded me that some things can be fixed and others cannot.”
He meant his wings. Oh, how her heart ached. “I could embroider them, too,” she mused. “Unless you think it would hurt too much.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your wings. Would you let me? I think, if I were very careful and used a clean needle, it wouldn’t hurt too much. Then we would match again.”
His silence was immediate and total, and she was afraid she’d offended him. But then he spoke, his voice harsh. “What good would it do? The scars are old. Even stitched, I still wouldn’t heal.”
