That is what I sell.
Confidence to start a new happily ever after.
"The silk and leather," I finish, "is just what it's made of."
Torgan is silent for a long time. On the dais, Ysolde laughs at something Mirelle said — full, unguarded, at her whole height already, here, in my shop.
"She’s always been conscious of her height," he says.
I blink. "What?"
"We have a cousin. Brakka. He was always such an asshole, teasing all of us, but especially Ysolde for her height. She always wanted to be small." He's not looking at me anymore; he's looking at Ysolde. "At my grandfather's fiftieth war feast, she left before the dancing. Said she had a headache. I walked her to the door myself, and I never—" The jaw sets. "I never figured out how to give her that confidence back." He turns back to me. Candlelight does something to orc eyes I hadn't known — banks them, like coals. "You saw it in her consultation."
"I see it in every second bride who walks through that door. It's the job. The measuring tape is just—" I shrug. "What it's made of."
And then — I watch it happen — he reaches over and picks up the tea.
He doesn't drink it. But he holds it, the cup like a thimble in that enormous hand, steam curling up between us, and he gives me a single nod.
"Lissy!" Ysolde calls. "Come settle this — Saskia says orc custom demands she be allowed a sword on the dais?—"
"A ceremonial sword?—"
"—no swords in the shop," I call back, already turning, already smiling. "There's silk everywhere, are you mad?—"
The fitting winds down the way the good ones do — slowly, with nobody wanting to be first to leave. Ysolde changes back into her traveling clothes, and the dress goes onto its form.
It is done. Done. Ready for its wedding.
And there's a moment where Ysolde stands in front of it with her hand pressed flat over her mouth that I will keep with theother things in my memory with the other things I can't throw away.
At the door, they pour out like water over rapids — swatches, laughter, Saskia reminding Ysolde of the sword ruling — and I say, without thinking about it first: "Thank you, Torgan."
Not Lord Oakenshade. It's out before I can dress it properly. His name, plain, in my mouth, in front of everyone.
Torgan pauses in my doorway — filling it — and grunts.
I'm fluent enough now to translate this one. You're welcome.
Then they're gone, a head above the crowd, and my shop is quiet.
After all the color and chaos of the fitting, I am alone with a cup of tea gone cold on the windowsill.
It’s empty.
He drank it after all. Somewhere between him telling me about Brakka and going out the door.
"It means nothing," I tell the shop.
The shop, I know, doesn’t believe me. I’m not sure I do either.
8
LISSY
"You're allowed to simply attend a thing, you know."
"The bride is wearing three weeks of my life, Grammy." I force the clasp of my bag shut that holds the needle case, three different weights of thread, spare boning, a vial of Noemi's stain-lifter, silk patches matched to the exact color of the train, beeswax, and clips and pins. The bag closes on the third try. "If a cousin steps on the train, I am not going to be standing there holding a canapé."
