by K. M. Shea
The young lady drew a dagger from deep inside the wide sleeves of her dress—Gemma’s design, including the dagger sheath stitched into the upper arm—and stuck it in a wood chair to serve as a target before she began thrusting her sword at it in various military maneuvers.
“I’m honored to hear that,” Gemma said, the words spilled from her lips automatically as she worked with the velvet material.
“Are the servants and villagers getting after you again?” Lady Linnea said, casting Gemma a sympathetic look over her shoulder before landing a sweeping blow on the abused chair.
“A little. They remain uncreative and repetitive as ever, accusing me of doing little work or nothing at all,” Gemma said, cocking her head as she studied the velvet before pawing through a basket of thread spools.
“Ignore them. They’re silly nitwits who haven’t got a clue how talented you are. Why, Papa was furious when Lady Selberg tried to hire you out from under us for her daughter. Thank you for staying, by the way. I don’t know who else would sew pockets in my winter muff for my daggers! I only hope Mama offered to pay you enough.”
“More than enough, My Lady.”
Lady Linnea attacked the chair for a few more minutes before she sighed and straightened up. “I have some bad news.”
“Yes?”
“King Torgen denied Papa’s request to return to Loire to continue with his ambassador duties,” Lady Linnea said, knitting her hands together as her shoulders fell in an unseemly slump.
Gemma shrugged. “I expected he would.”
“You take the news better than I did,” Lady Linnea sighed. “I’m dying to leave this place. Loire wouldn’t be so bad—Prince Severin runs a marvelous military, even if he doesn’t allow females to join the army—but Mother would never let me escape from her grasp. She frets too much over my reputation.”
“If you ever return to Loire, I imagine she will let up some,” Gemma said, comparing threads to the violet fabric. “Wasn’t she more relaxed when you lived there?”
“Yes, but that was four years ago—before I grew to a marriageable age. Mama locks me up when we are in Verglas from fear that King Torgen will force me to marry a Verglas noble. She has her heart set on a obtaining a Loire son-in-law,” Lady Linnea said, sighing in disgust. “I would much rather be in Farset. Have I ever told you they have female captains?”
“Several dozen times, My Lady,” Gemma acknowledged as she tossed thread spools aside and returned to digging through the basket of spools.
“You’re so lucky, Gemma. You don’t have to worry about marriage,” Lady Linnea said. “I want to leave this frozen place so badly it makes my heart ache.”
“It’s not so terrible,” Gemma said, pausing to look outside. The northern mountains were visible in the bright sunshine. “Our government might be less than desirable, but the country is pretty. I like the Snow Queen’s residual magic and the way it makes everything clean and white with snow.”
Lady Linnea shivered. “You are part caribou,” she said. “I thought you wanted to come to Loire with me?”
“I do,” Gemma said. Her sharp, ageless eyes softened to match the childish-ness of her heart-shaped face. “Prince Lucien is said to wear the most daring ensembles, and with Princess Elle established as a fashion idol, it is a wonderful place for a seamstress to visit,” she said. She smiled for a moment and added, “That being said, any country would do. I want to see how the Erlauf dressmakers counter Princess Cinderella’s red hair, and I’ve heard incredible stories about the shoemakers of Trieux.”
“I should have known you would come with me only because of fashion, not because of our friendship,” Lady Linnea said, sliding her sword back in its scabbard. “Unfortunately, it seems we aren’t going anywhere.”
“We can wait,” Gemma said, returning to her work.
“We don’t have any other choice but to wait. And in the meantime, we’re held captive by the desires of a…” Lady Linnea trailed off. She flattened her lips together as she stared at the royal palace. The tower and walls stretched above all the structures in Ostfold. Once it was to hearten the villagers; now it served more as an intimidation technique.
“I have some good news that might brighten your mood,” Gemma said, offering the older girl a smile. (It was hard to believe, but Gemma—jaded and sarcastic—was only seventeen. Lady Linnea, bright and full of dreams, was halfway through her eighteenth year.) “I think I’ve finally found a way to waterproof your cloak.”
“Oh good. Last time I returned with a wet cloak, I had to tell Mama I stepped under an emptying chamber pot so she wouldn’t study me to see that I had fallen in the river like a drown rat. That was embarrassing.”
“I imagine so, My Lady.”
Lady Linnea chatted companionably, discussing foreign armies and the men and women that ruled them, as Gemma started sewing. The pair never dreamed their lives would soon be altered forever.
Chapter 2
Peder the miller was known to be a generally useless man. Although he ground wheat cheaply, the flour he produced was subpar—coarse and prone to mold. His wife was well liked by everyone, and his daughter, Gemma, was nice enough—if not a little stoic and mouthy. Peder, however, was mostly just tolerated and had a reputation as the town drunkard.
It was customary on any given night to find him in the Sno Hauk—that is, the Snow Hawk tavern—in his usual seat at the corner of the dilapidated bar. For the first half hour of his visit, he customarily chugged pints and complained about picky customers. After consuming enough beer to bring a blush to his cheeks, he often tried flirting with the serving girls and (badly) sang duets with the innkeeper’s youngest son who had a great way with the fiddle.
If he had enough coin—which was once in a blue moon—he would then partake in a bottle of honey wine. The honey wine always got him roaring and staggering drunk, so everyone, included the barkeep, was glad Peder rarely had the coin to pay for the luxury.
As such, the other Sno Hauk patrons were less than pleased when, one fall evening, Peder plopped his flabby backside on a stool after slaughtering a Verglas folk song and slapped a gold coin on the bar.
“Barkeeper!” Peder shouted, his vowels already drawled by the addling effects of beer. “Your best honey wine!”
The barkeeper, a large, swarthy fellow named Otto, wiped his hands on a ragged cloth. “You’ve had quite a bit to drink tonight. Ought you not hold on to that coin? You might need it during the winter,” Otto said.
“Never,” Peder said, a crooked smile planted on his face. “There will be plenty more where this one came from.”
“What? How?” Small Tim—who was roughly the size of a bear and was another Sno Hauk regular—asked as Otto held the gold coin up to inspect it in the firelight.
“It’s real,” Otto said after biting it.
“Gemma,” Peder said. “Gave it to her mother—woman can’t hide a thing from me. I’m too smart,” Peder said. He tried to point to his forehead but instead almost jabbed himself in the eye.
“And how did Gemma come by this great fortune?” Big Tim—a stooped older man who used to be the size of a baby giant but had shrunk in his old age—asked.
“She finished a dress for her great mistress,” Peder said, rolling his eyes. “‘Parrently the lady liked it so much she gave it to her on top of room and board.”
“A gold coin for a dress?” Small Tim thundered.
“Yep,” Peder said. “Where’s my honey wine?”
Otto cast the drunkard a look of pity. “Are you sure you do not want to keep it? I doubt Lady Linnea would often repeat such kindness.”
“Nope! Gemma’s getting paid every time now. Some other noble tried hiring her, but the Lovlands like Gemma so much they said they would pay if she stayed,” Peder said, propping his elbows up on the bar. “Now, my honey wine!”
The floor creaked and groaned as Otto disappeared in a back room.
“What do you think Gemma really does for the nobles?” asked
Alf—a squinty-eyed man who had an unfortunate resemblance to a weasel.
“I already said she makes dresses,” Peder said, his forehead creasing.
“It is well known that Gemma is the personal seamstress for Lady Linnea,” Big Tom attested.
“You can’t know for certain,” Alf said, eagerly leaning forward. “The young lady rarely leaves her house, so nobody’s ever seen these great dresses Gemma is said to make.”
“Stop trying to cause trouble, Alf,” another bar patron warned in a rumbling voice, giving a meaningful glance to the four royal guards who were seated around a table at the back of the room.
“I ain’t causing no trouble!” Alf said. “I’m just saying sweet Gemma might not be the dressmaker she’s lauded to be.”
“Don’t you be doubting my daughter,” Peder declared as Otto set his bottle of honey wine in front of him. He ignored the cup Otto presented him with and took a swig directly from the bottle. “She’s a good girl. I think,” Peder said, blinking as he tried to make his rusty mind work.
“Maybe she’s filling Lady Linnea’s ears with gossip about us common folk,” Alf said.
Peder started to complain, but he was already taking another swig of his wine, which sufficiently distracted him.
Small Tim, taking pity on the girl who wasn’t present to defend herself, shook his shaggy head. “I’ve known Gemma since she was a wee girl. Gemma wouldn’t carry tales. If she’s not making dresses, it’s likely she’s being paid to keep the poor Lady Linnea company. The lady has been cooped up for the past few years. She must feel like a stall-bound horse.”
“Gemma makes dresses,” Big Tim said, firmly. “My granddaughter Sissel works at the Lovland house, and she’s seen what Gemma makes. She’s a talented girl.”
“I won’t believe her talent until I see it with my own eyes,” Alf said.
“Of course she’s talented!” Peder said, smacking his honey wine on the bar with more force than necessary. “She’s my daughter! She’s so talented, the Lovlands paid her gold coin to stay,” Peder said, waving a finger at Alf.
“Like I would believe the words of a drunkard,” Alf said with a contemptuous sneer.
“My Gemma has more talent in one hand than you have in your whole self, Alf Skeie!” Peder said. “Why, she’s so talented she could work for the King himself!”
“Peder, settle down, and enjoy your drink,” Small Tim said, glancing at the soldiers’ table.
Alf rolled his eyes. “You’re farting with your mouth, Peder.”
“You!” Peder roared.
“Peder, be quiet, you fool,” Big Tim hissed
“No! Not when someone doubts my fortunes!” Peder said.
“I was insulting your daughter,” Alf said.
“That, too!” Peder said. “Gemma could turn rags into the finest linen. She’ll make me rich!”
“You’re just an old, drunk fool with a beggar daughter,” Alf said.
“What did you call me?” Peder shouted, staggering into a standing position and knocking a stool over.
The rest of the bar patrons quieted down and looked to see what trouble was brewing.
“You are just jealous. My daughter is so talented she could, she could…she could spin straw into gold!” Peder declared.
Alf snorted and opened his mouth to reply, when a stranger clamped a strong hand on his shoulder.
“What,” Alf started, turning around.
A tall man stood behind him. He wore a plain, black cloak with the hood pulled up. Alf couldn’t see much of the man’s face, but he was harpooned by the man’s odd-colored eyes and strong grip. The stranger held himself like a competent man—or worse, someone important.
“A drunkard may utter foolishness in his inebriation, but it is a spiteful fool who goads him on. Shut your mouth, or I will shut it for you in retribution for ruining my evening,” the stranger said.
“Fine,” Alf sulked.
The stranger pushed Alf back in his stool and returned to his spot by the fireplace.
Alf shivered, and Small Tim shrugged. “That’s what you get,” the bear-man said to Alf.
Peder blinked as he stared at the stranger. “Was that a mage?” he asked.
Otto rolled his eyes. “No, Peder. Go back to your drink,” he said.
“My honey wine!” Peder said, gleefully reaching for his bottle.
“Yes, your honey wine. Next time I see Gemma, I will congratulate her,” Otto said.
“Hear, hear,” Big Tim said, raising his pint.
No one thought any further of Peder’s loose mouth. No one except for Alf, who sniveled and sulked over his mug.
“Gemma!”
Gemma glanced behind her before she darted up an alleyway, carefully holding her basket above her head. She had just enough time to crouch behind a stack of wooden crates before two women—Mrs. Hagen and her neighbor, Mrs. Nystrom—peered down the alleyway, looking like vultures with their hooked noses and bobbing heads.
“Gemma! Where did that girl go?” Mrs. Hagen said.
“Perhaps you didn’t see her after all?
“I did so! She so resembles a broomstick, you can pick her out of a village gathering with ease.”
Behind the crates, Gemma heaved her eyes to the sky.
“That pert girl puts on airs far above her. She thinks she’s a seamstress!” Mrs. Hagen sniffed.
“She’s making good money. My husband is friends with Lars Skeilen, and he said Big Tim said Peder the Miller used a gold coin at the Sno Hauk. He claimed Lady Linnea gave it to Gemma for her services,” Mrs. Nystrom said.
“Making money has nothing to do with skill,” Mrs. Hagen snapped. “Lord and Lady Lovland likely see her more as a companion for sweet Lady Linnea.”
“Maybe. You cannot tell me our Gemma made that beautiful hunter green riding habit Lady Linnea was out in not two weeks ago.”
She had, actually. Gemma considered standing up and telling the old harpies so, but it would be a waste of breath; she had endured criticism from all of Ostfold since she first got her seamstress position. So instead, Gemma held in an aggravated sigh and rested her head against the crate.
Go away! Go away! Go away! She thought.
“The scoundrel girl, claiming credit for something that isn’t her work,” Mrs. Hagen said, as if she could hear Gemma’s thoughts.
“What do you expect with a father like Peder?” Mrs. Nystrom asked.
Mrs. Hagen grunted. “I suppose you are right. Hm, is that Malfrid over there?”
“It is. She must be out shopping. I wonder what for…”
“Let’s find out,” Mrs. Hagen suggested.
The older women wandered away from the alley.
Gemma waited for a few extra seconds before she popped upright. “Old goats,” she said, brushing off her skirts with one hand. She kept her basket secure and pressed against her stomach. The basket was covered with worn linen—an old tablecloth ripped up for rags. Gemma pulled the linen snug before she wound her way farther into Ostfold, taking back alleyways to avoid the more quarrelsome residents.
Gemma kept walking, leaving the shopping districts for a residential area that housed most of the farmers, animal herders, and many of the servants employed by the King. In the center of the quiet street was a rustic little house. It was short and squat and had four small fir trees growing on the grass roof—which was normally a bright shade of green but was currently brown with fall.
A sleepy-eyed goat sat on the top of the roof and chewed its cud. Gemma shielded her eyes and called up to the fawn-colored goat, “Are you enjoying the view?”
The goat baaed.
Smoke puffed from the chimney like little clouds, and the shutters were painted a delightful shade of pink.
This was Grandmother Guri’s house.
Gemma knocked on the door. “It’s Gemma,” she called, brushing the nose of the intricately carved reindeer that was posed to prance across the door. The reindeer’s nose was smooth and shiny from hundred
s of fingers touching it.
“Gemma, my girl! I thought I was about due for a visit. Come in!” a voice inside the house croaked.
Gemma pushed the door open and stepped into the Grandmother Guri’s home. The familiar scent of singed wood, goat milk soap, bacon, and kanelgifler—cinnamon rolls—wafted through the air.
Grandmother Guri was stirring a pot. She, like her house, was short and squat. Her long white hair was braided in a halo around her head, and her skin was tan and leathery. She had sharp eyes the color of grey pebbles right after they’re pulled from a riverbed, and the softest hands and the gentlest touch.
“How are you, Grandmother?” Gemma asked as she set her basket on a table and removed her shawl from her shoulders.
“Good, very good! I would be doing better if Jo-Jo would stop eating my linen napkins in her sleep. Do you hear that, you wretched goat?” Grandmother Guri said, using a broom to hit one of the support beams holding up the roof.
Jo-Jo baaed, a sound that was audible even through the greenery growing on the house.
“What cheese are you making?” Gemma asked, eyeing the bubbling pot.
“Prim. I would offer you tea, but I can’t heat a thing until the prim sets into a spread. Would you like milk? Jo-Jo dropped some before she hauled her fat udders onto my roof.”
“Yes, please,” Gemma said, sitting down on a rickety but comfortable wooden chair that was smooth with use. Everything in Grandmother Guri’s house was well-made and old, but majestically beautiful.
“I brought you something,” Gemma said, reaching into her basket.
“Oh?” Grandmother Guri said, squinting in Gemma’s direction.
“A jar of Bard’s applesauce,” Gemma said, placing the jar on the table. “I know it’s your favorite.”
“It is. As I always say, ‘It takes a worm to know an apple.’ Thank you, my girl!” Grandmother Guri said, setting Gemma’s mug of milk on the table.
