“Where?”
“To dress.”
“I am dressed.”
Gilda appeared on my other side. “You are wearing boots.”
“They’ve grown on me.”
“You have wedding shoes.”
“They have soles thinner than pastry.”
“You will survive.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re wearing proper shoes.”
Without a word, Gilda lifted the hem of her mulberry gown.
She was barefoot. In winter.
As I stared, she grinned.
Between them, they steered me toward the smaller shelter beside the hall, where my wedding clothes waited on a wooden chest.
I had never imagined myself in a medieval wedding gown, largely because until a few months ago I had considered time travel something that happened in films where sensible people spent half the plot pointing out inconsistencies, but the dress Anya and Hild had made for me was beautiful.
Deep green wool, fitted close through the body before falling in long folds to my ankles, while red and gold embroidery curled around the neckline and cuffs in small interlaced patterns. Gilda claimed they represented eternity, although Wystan had studied one and announced that it looked more like a worm eating its own tail.
A narrow woven belt fastened at my waist, and over the gown went a warm blue cloak lined with rabbit fur.
I touched the embroidery.
“Who did this?”
Anya smiled.
“Everyone.”
That nearly made me cry before the wedding had even begun.
“Well,” I said, clearing my throat. “That was very kind.”
Gilda adjusted the fall of my cloak.
“Wulfric will enjoy removing it.”
Anya made a strangled sound as I closed my eyes.
“What?” Gilda asked innocently.
“You with the filthy jokes.”
“I said nothing filthy.”
“You were heading there.”
“I still am.”
