Her face stops the hum dead in my throat.
I have seen Saskia delighted, Saskia bored, Saskia mid-battle-form in a half-pinned mock-up. But I have never seen this. Her jaw is set. Her eyes are flat. Her hands keep curling and uncurling at her sides like they're searching for a weapon.
"Good morning," I say slowly. "The fitting isn't for a week. Not that you're not welcome, but—" I look from face to face. Gray. Shielded. Blank. Murderous. All four of them wear difference expressions. "What happened?"
I look behind them. "Where's Torgan?"
"At the Hall," Saskia says. Her voice quivers with the anger brewing inside her. "Where he'd better stay until I decide how I'm going to kill him."
"Saskia," Ysolde breathes.
"What, Ysolde?" Saskia throws up her hands. "She's going to hear all of it in the next ten minutes. Let her know that her lover ruined our sister's life."
Saskia looks at me, and there's something in her eyes besides murder now.
Something that hurts worse.
Distrust.
"Hello, Lissy," Mirelle says pleasantly, stepping around her sisters. "I'm glad you're open. I need to settle my account."
She sets a purse on my counter.
"I'm canceling the dress. There won't be a wedding." She says it the way you'd report the weather to a stranger. "I've brought payment for the work done, and I apologize for the inconvenience. If the fabric can be reused for another client, keep the difference. It's good fabric."
I look at Mirelle.
Gentle Mirelle, who always talked about how her turn was coming next. Who floated through a wedding breakfast three days ago, flashing her ring in everyone's face.
She'd been so happy.
And now?
Now she looks back at me with mild, pleasant patience. Nothing behind her eyes. No grief. No anger. Not even relief.
A blank spot where a person used to be.
"Mirelle." My mouth has gone dry. I reach for her, and she startles like a lost puppy. "What happened? Did you and Caden fight?"
"Nothing happened. I thought about it, and it was a mistake. The families won't work well together." She smiles. It's a polite smile, and that's all it is. She has never once given me this smile. "It's better that it ends now rather than later."
I've fitted brides for eleven years. I've seen cold feet. I've seen women break off engagements in that chair, in tears or in rage.
Ended love always looks like something detonated or broke.
This looks like nothing.
Not a heart broken.
It’s like her heart was removed.
The floor tilts, because I've heard this described before, months ago.
At a spell shop where an orc bought an anti-love potion.
"No," I whisper.
"Torgan bought a potion months ago," Ysolde says, not noticing my shock. "An anti-love draught. For Mirelle. To endthe courtship before it began." Her voice stays level the whole way through. "He swears he never used it. But someone took it and did."
