by K. M. Shea
“Of course.”
“So, you need help with something?”
“What makes you think that?” Gemma asked, sipping the rich goat milk.
“I may be old, but I’m not stupid. That applesauce is a bribe if I ever saw one. What has you troubled?”
“Can’t I just come to visit you?” Gemma said, tilting her head as she studied the older woman who had taught her so much.
“Not unless you’re planning to have a picnic on that mighty fine velvet you have in there,” Grandmother Guri said, sticking her head into Gemma’s basket. “That color will set off Linnea’s hair just right.”
“You think so, too?” Gemma said, her joy breaking through her bland mask, making her smile in delight.
“Mmm, of course. You have my eye for color. Now, what’s the problem?”
“I need the gown—the velvet—to fluff out without the extra volume of the kirtle.”
“My girl, even that noble miss of yours has got to have a kirtle. She can’t go running around like a naked jay bird.”
“I never said she wouldn’t have a kirtle,” Gemma said, not at all scandalized by the phrase that would make most fair maidens blush appealingly. (As previously mentioned, Grandmother Guri had taught her so much. The older woman’s blunt way of speaking stopped shocking Gemma before she was old enough to reach the reindeer carving on the door.) “But I want to make the dress more mobile, so I planned to make slits in the side. However, I’m not certain the skirts will fill out then.”
“I see. So she’s still a bloodthirsty miss, then?” Grandmother Guri asked, lifting the violet velvet out of the basket.
“She wants to join the army, yes.”
“Whatever floats your apples. Even nobles are entitled to happiness,” Grandmother Guri said. “Get my sewing basket, would you?”
Gemma ran around the table to pick up the massive basket that was weighed down with threads, scissors, needles, pin cushions, and kinds of sewing materials. After she set down the basket, she retrieved an oil lamp to shed more light on the material.
Grandmother Guri was not related to her—Gemma’s family was one of the few that was not distantly tied to the clever woman—but ever since Grandmother Guri found Gemma crying in a corner of the mill when Guri was coming to pick up her flour order, Grandmother Guri was a part of Gemma’s family. The older woman gave Gemma little gifts for her birthday and the holidays, wiped Gemma’s tears, and mended her hurts. Grandmother Guri even gave Gemma the skill and passion that drove her. She taught Gemma how to sew and continued to help her with the beautiful but complex dress patterns Gemma designed.
Even if the majority of those in Ostfold didn’t believe in Gemma’s skills at sewing, Grandmother Guri did. And Grandmother Guri was more than enough for Gemma.
Gemma drank her milk and watched her teacher fold the cloth.
“If I’m picturing it right, I think you’ll be fine. The slits shouldn’t compromise the volume too much, unless you’re planning to cut actual chunks out?”
“I thought of it, but that seemed like it would be too obvious.”
“It would. No, your idea should work well. You’ll do drooping cuffs?”
“Lined with white fur, yes.”
Grandmother Guri nodded in approval. “It should be a pretty sight when you finish it,” Grandmother Guri said, frowning up at the ceiling when Jo-Jo baaed.
“Thank you,” Gemma said. The faint uptick of her lip betrayed how pleased she was.
“Now. How’s your love life?”
“What?”
“I didn’t say it loud enough? HOW IS YOUR LOVE LIFE?”
“Grandmother,” Gemma frowned.
“Hm? You’re a young and pretty thing; you’re allowed to be in love. Mind you, I’m not sure I know any strapping young men who could match you well,” Grandmother Guri said as she lowered herself into a cushioned chair.
“Match me…” Gemma stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Grandmother Guri had explained the saying to her a hundred times.
“Love is like a pair of horses. They need the same gaits and to be going in the same direction. Our Ostfold boys are handsome, but I don’t think none of ‘em are heading in the same direction as you,” Grandmother Guri said, tilting her head so she looked like a curious owl.
“I don’t want marriage right now. I don’t feel particularly inclined to have children, either,” Gemma said.
“I suppose you’ve had the experience already, taking care of your parents as you have,” Grandmother Guri said, squinting up at her roof as the muffled footfalls of her goat moved across the house. “Oh—snow beans! If you want an easier but equally as thankless task, get a goat,” she advised. “Jo-Jo! You get away from that chimney this instant!” Grandmother Guri shouted.
Gemma finished her milk, her eyes crinkling with untold humor.
“Still, I am surprised no young men have taken to flexing their muscles at you,” Grandmother Guri said.
Gemma snorted. “With the town as critical of my job as it is? Any son that looked twice at me would be paddled by his mama.”
“You’re too critical.”
“You always say a critical person is a sign of weak bones.”
“It is. I wish you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”
“You also say if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”
Grandmother Guri swatted a hand in Gemma’s direction. “You need to start listening to the important things I say, my girl!”
“Everything you say is important, Grandmother.”
Grandmother Guri gave a great cackle of laughter. “I wish you realized that as a child,” she hooted, but her smile was pleased. “I’m glad you have dreams, my girl. You are a talented seamstress—better than I am, in fact.”
“Grandmother, no—,”
“Now, now, I can recognize a gift when I see it. It’s true. You have a mind for patterns and clothes I have never seen. I would hate to see you waste it, but I would also hate to see you throw love away if you happen to find your matching partner.”
“I’m not going to find anyone in Ostfold, Grandmother.”
“When did I say you had to? Hm? I didn’t! No, what I mean is…you are driven, Gemma. You might not realize you’re looking at your love until it’s too late. So while I’m glad you don’t act like a silly girl and swoon over every boy your age…just be open to it.”
“Be open to being silly?” Gemma pertly said, her eyebrow jutted up in a look of disbelief that Grandmother Guri often wore.
“No,” Grandmother Guri said, smacking Gemma upside the head. “Be open to love!”
“Fine, I will. But Grandmother, I am telling you it will take a man of magic to love me.”
“Don’t make such oaths, my girl,” Grandmother Guri chortled. “Life has a funny way of twisting things.”
“As you say. So, about the dress…”
Chapter 3
“Come in,” Gemma said when there was a knock on her workshop door.
The door swung open. “Oh! My apologies, Gemma, My Lady,” Sissel said when she got a look inside the room. Lady Linnea was as still as a portrait painting, looking out the window. Gemma stepped around the dummy Lady Linnea’s dress hung from. The violet gown was almost finished—Gemma was merely fussing with the fur cuffs on the wide, drooping sleeves—but the elaborately embroidered kirtle was barely started.
“Excuse me. I will return,” Sissel said, almost stumbling over her feet in her effort to flee.
“Your timing is perfect, Sissel. I have something for you,” Gemma said, retreating to a chest of drawers.
“What?” Sissel asked, lingering in the doorway out of curiosity.
“Here,” Gemma said, pulling out what appeared to be a shawl. It was made of small squares of blue and purple fabric—Lady Linnea’s favorite colors—and was warm and thick.
“Yes?” Sissel blinked when Gemma held the shawl out.
“It’s for you,” Gemma said. “I had it mostly finished be
fore I measured you, but I needed to make sure it was long enough.”
Sissel stared at the shawl—a patchwork of expensive, beautifully patterned fabric. “I can’t. It’s too grand for the likes of me. Besides, what would My Lady say?” Sissel whispered, her eyes darting in Lady Linnea’s direction.
“I made it with fabric scraps that are too small to use any other way. I was being thrifty. You wear it like this,” Gemma said, looping the shawl around Sissel’s shoulders and neck. “There are three buttons, here, here, and here, so it will stay on your shoulders and leave your hands free,” Gemma said, buttoning the shawl.
“Thank you, Gemma. It’s beautiful—I’ve never owned anything so soft,” Sissel said, reaching up to stroke a square patch.
“You’re welcome,” Gemma said. “Did you need something?”
“I came to check on the fire,” Sissel said, sticking her neck out like a turtle so she could see Gemma’s fireplace without entering the room. “I thought I might clean it out, but it wouldn’t be right to do that with Lady Linnea present,” Sissel added, her voice lower than a whisper.
“Come back in half an hour. She has embroidery lessons then,” Gemma said. “And thank you for your thoughtfulness.”
“No, thank you,” Sissel repeated, pressing her shawl to her cheek. She glanced at Lady Linnea and gave a wobbly curtsey before she hurried away.
Gemma shut the door when the scullery maid disappeared down the hallway.
“You are a fool,” Lady Linnea said.
“Am I?” Gemma asked, returning to the violet gown.
“If you sold clothing items like that to the people who questioned your talent, the nasty rumors about your abilities would be silenced,” Lady Linnea said, turning so she could lean against the wall in a most unlady-like manner. “Instead you give such things—which should be costly and pricy—away to scullery maids and stable boys.”
“That stable boy is keeping it a secret from your mother that you occasionally slip out and ride. He deserved the coat, My Lady,” Gemma said, inspecting her stitches.
“Maybe, but what about the goose girl? Or that baby blanket you made for one of your father’s customers?” Lady Linnea said before she shook her head. “These people should act as your champions. Instead they closet your workmanship away like they were made of gold.”
“Perhaps. But I am well fed and well paid. I have a job I love. I may find the doubts and rumors irksome, but I would rather sew for those who need it and deserve it than raise my esteem in the eyes of people I don’t like and frankly don’t care about,” Gemma said, snipping a loose thread with a scissors.
Lady Linnea tilted her head as she thought. “I redact my comment from before. You are not a fool. Instead, you are filled with an unspeakably horrid amount of good will.”
Gemma scoffed. “Do you know me at all?”
Lady Linnea flopped her upper body on a workbench. “I think your cynical expressions and unrelenting pessimism—,”
“I’m practical and realistic, My Lady, not pessimistic.”
“—hide your gooey, warm feelings. You, Gemma, are exactly like a hedgehog. Or a porcupine.”
“I’m not sure I would ever apply the word ‘gooey’ to an animal covered in quills,” Gemma said.
Lady Linnea smiled, but she wiped the sign of mirth off her face when someone knocked on the workroom door.
“Come in,” Gemma said.
A footman opened the door. He offered a bow in Lady Linnea’s direction. “Lady Linnea,” he murmured before addressing Gemma. “If you would come downstairs with me, please.”
“What’s wrong?” Gemma asked. Had her father gotten drunk and lost somewhere in the city, again?
The footman flatted his lips. He glanced at Lady Linnea and leaned forward to whisper, “A squad of royal guards is here to escort you to the palace.”
“Why?” Gemma said, standing up straighter.
“They would not say.”
“Gemma is being summoned?” Lady Linnea said, her adopted persona briefly failing her at the footman’s words.
“Yes, My Lady,” the footman said, bowing at Lady Linnea.
“Do Mama and Papa know?” Lady Linnea asked. Although her face was smooth like cream, worry accented the noble edge to her voice.
“They are aware, My Lady. I believe Lord Lovland means to go to the palace, as well,” the footman said.
“Very well,” Lady Linnea said, blowing out of the room without further notice, a vision in her ivy green dress.
Gemma shut her eyes. When she opened them, she had a solid grip on her composure. “I will get my cloak,” she said, retreating into her workroom to snatch up a plain, brown cloak. She settled it on her shoulders before she nodded to the footman.
The footman led her through the manor, all the way to the front entrance.
“Have strength,” the footman whispered to Gemma before he bowed to Lord Lovland. “Miss Kielland, My Lord,” he said, backing away.
Lord Lovland was on the slender side. Lady Linnea inherited her tallness from the lord, but the man was more scholar than warrior. He had a kind face, which was covered with a strawberry-blonde beard and was creased with worry.
“Gemma, the King has requested your presence in the palace,” Lord Lovland said. “As your employer, I will follow you,” he hesitated and turned to the guards. “Miss Kielland will join you in a moment,” he said.
Sensing the dismissal behind the words, the squadron bowed to Lord Lovland and trooped through the doors. The footman closed the door behind them.
“Have you done anything to bring the King’s attention to you? Anything at all?” Lord Lovland asked, his voice low pitched and urgent.
“No,” Gemma said, her words firm and certain.
Lord Lovland inhaled. “Then this may involve Linnea. I worried when he denied our request to return to Loire…Gemma, I beg you to protect Linnea. You must step carefully in what you say to him. The King is a madman.”
“My Lord,” Gemma said, taken aback by Lord Lovland’s frankness.
“He is, and the smallest thing might set him off with a desire to see you killed. He is worse than a wild, rabid bear. Do you remember early last fall?”
Gemma grimly nodded.
“Princess Elise’s near death may be your fate if you displease him. Do not be clever; do not be memorable. If the King means to keep an eye on you, I cannot protect you,” Lord Lovland said. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, My Lord,” Gemma said.
“Good girl. Off you go,” Lord Lovland said, stepping aside. The footman opened the door and escorted Gemma out.
The guards had brought a cart, into which they helped Gemma climb before they set off to the palace, the cart horses moving at a steady trot. Naturally, the guards took the most direct route, which wound through Ostfold. Civilians stopped and stared as the cart rolled through the streets. Some people looked at Gemma and her armed escort with sympathy. Others crossed themselves or whispered to their neighbors. A few sneered.
Gemma ignored the reactions and grimly steeled herself. No matter what awaited her, it was never good to be called to King Torgen’s attention. After what seemed like both an eternity and a second, the urban area of Ostfold peeled back, revealing the Verglas Royal Palace.
The palace, built during the Snow Queen’s time, was made to resemble ice and winter. Every part of the castle jutted up into triangular cut-outs that were intricately decorated with snowflakes and the royal family crest—a reindeer. The only tower in the castle was tall and skinny, and it was angled to get a perfect view of the mountains that unfolded behind the palace.
Gemma was stone still as the cart rolled through the palace gates. When it stopped, a guard helped Gemma down. The rest of the guards fell into ranks around her, herding her into the castle.
The interior was gloomy and dark, matching Gemma’s mood. The King must be summoning Gemma about Lady Linnea. Perhaps Lord Lovland was right, and he wanted insider information about her—o
r maybe he meant to hire her to watch Lady Linnea? Gemma bit down on her tongue to clear her mind as the guards escorted her into the throne room.
The throne room was a beautiful masterpiece that overlooked Lake Sno—the snow-fed lake located at the back of the palace. There were two thrones: a central one for the current monarch, which was made of wood and blue velvet and placed on top of a marble dais, and a second one made of glass and crafted to resemble ice. The ice throne was positioned in the far back of the room, facing the lake view instead of the throne room. Tradition said it was occupied by the Snow Queen when she lived, and it hadn’t been moved out of reverence.
The floor was marble covered with blue rugs accented with snowflakes and reindeer, and the sunlight sparkled when it hit the silver-glass- and gold-work at the opposite side of the room, which was crafted to resemble a winter scene.
But Gemma didn’t see any of the beauty of the gorgeous room because when she stepped inside it and took note of those who were present, her worry increased tenfold.
Kneeling before the throne was her sloppy father. Her mother was on the sidelines, squished between an army of clerks, record keepers, and scholars.
This isn’t about Lady Linnea, Gemma realized as she stared at her father, who couldn’t even meet her gaze. It’s about me.
“Gemma Kielland, My Lord,” a guard said, bowing to the king.
“Very good,” King Torgen said, folding his hands over the expanse of his belly.
King Torgen was considered comely in his younger days, but years of hatred, spite, and madness had hardened his features and gave every part of his face the shadow of cruelty. His eyes were the worst. The whites were a sickly yellow, and the dark irises glowed with fires of hatred and insanity. Gemma had seen him before for public spectacles and events, but she had never before born the weight of King Torgen’s sickly, feverish eyes.
“I’ve heard about you, Gemma Kielland…and your unusual ability to spin straw into gold.”
WHAT? Gemma felt her muscles go slack. She must have misheard him. “I beg your pardon, My Lord, my ability to what?”
“To spin straw into gold. I have received a report that your father has run his mouth off singing of your fortunes,” King Torgen said, a mean smile spreading on his lips.
