by M. J. Scott
She spun around, nerves retreating as guilt replaced them. She doubted Cameron was excited at the prospect of this ball either. And she was the reason he would have to endure it. “You were exactly the right point!”
His mouth twitched. “Be that as it may, this is the result. So, we should go inside before the Designys send a footman or whatever people have for servants here to chase us away from their doorstep.”
“They won’t chase us away. Not when the maistre requested the appointment.”
“No, but no point being rude. They’ll stick you full of pins during fittings and make you look like you’re wearing a sack.”
“I’d be happy to wear a sack. No one would pay any attention to me.”
“Actually, I think the opposite is likely to be true.” Cameron reached past her and tugged on the chain hanging from the neatly polished brass bell on the doorjamb. The chime was louder than the size warranted. Sophie peered a little more closely at the bell. Yes. There. A faint shimmer ran over the metal. Some sort of spell to enhance the sound.
Apparently the maistre hadn’t been lying about the quality of the Designys’ work. Anyone who could afford to pay a practitioner of the Arts of Air to bespell their doorbell was doing quite well for themselves.
The door swung inwards, revealing a young woman wearing a deep blue dress that fit her perfectly despite its simplicity. Her dark hair was pulled up into a bun so smooth, Sophie wanted to reach and touch it to see if it were real.
“Yes?” the woman said, looking them up and down.
Sophie fought the urge to smooth out her skirts. Her dress was somewhat crushed after a morning of being hidden beneath her robes, but in her experience, dressmakers were more respectful to customers who behaved as if they were dressed for court, regardless of what they actually wore. “I am Lady Scardale. I believe Maistre Matin arranged an appointment for me?”
The woman’s expression didn’t change significantly but she nodded. “Yes, my lady. Welcome to Designys’.” She looked past Sophie. “Is this Lord Scardale?”
“Yes,” Sophie said. She wasn’t sure who else the woman thought would be accompanying her to a dressmaker’s appointment. “It is.”
“Does he also require clothing?” The woman studied Cameron a moment, then ushered them inside with a graceful gesture. “We know some excellent tailors.”
“The maistre has also made a recommendation on that front,” Cameron said smoothly. “But thank you.”
Inside the store smelled like gillflowers. Heady and rich. Sophie paused just inside the door, caught in unexpected memory by the scent. Her mother loved gillflowers, grew any number of them in the gardens at their estate. The striped pink flowers were a fixture in their house throughout the long hot summer months.
A wrench of longing tugged at her stomach. Home. Goddess, what she wouldn’t give to be home.
“Lady Scardale?” the woman prompted.
Sophie nodded, forcing the memory from her mind. She stepped forward, the heels of her boots sinking into carpets so rich they muffled any sound of their footsteps. There were no dresses on display in the room. In fact it was close to empty. The only furniture was several low couches upholstered in striped blue and white silk, the blue several shades lighter than the dress their escort wore, and one small oval table standing near the wall farthest from them. The walls were hung with paintings of extravagant bouquets but she couldn’t see any actual gillflowers. Was the scent another spell like the doorbell? She’d never heard of such a thing. Not that she could claim great knowledge of the Arts of Air.
The whole place was silent, the only sound the swish of Sophie’s skirt over the carpet. Their escort’s skirts ended a precise inch above the soles of the black leather boots she wore, as though designed to avoid precisely that effect.
The woman glided across to the table. Its mirror-polished surface held only a leather-bound ledger. Which was opened, their names written on one of the pages, and then closed again after the ink had been blotted.
“Please wait here a moment,” the woman said. There was no time to respond before she opened a door that was so well fitted into the wall beyond the table that Sophie hadn’t even noticed it, then vanished through it.
“Interesting style of service,” Cameron said.
“Not so unusual. Haven’t you spent any time with dressmakers before?” she said. In her experience, the expensive kind of dressmaker liked to make a performance out of the process.
“Tailors are more my thing.”
“And tailors don’t go in for superior attitudes, expensive furniture, and invisible flowers?” Sophie asked, turning back to wave her hand at the room.
“Not in my experience. The men who make the Red Guard’s uniforms definitely don’t,” Cameron said with a smile. “I will confess to meeting a superior tailor or two when I had to get clothes for court. But no, there was a lack of invisible flowers. And empty rooms. Tailors tend to be full of shelves of cloth and pattern books.”
“Pattern books are so dull,” a male voice said from behind them.
Sophie turned. The woman in the blue dress hadn’t returned, but in her place, a man and a woman stood by the table. They had identical bright blue eyes and hair an odd, almost bronze shade of blond. Not quite red. Not quite yellow. The woman’s was curled and piled high on her hair whereas her… brother’s—surely not a husband when they looked so alike—was cropped short. They wore clothes that were a testament to their skill. The woman’s dress, a deep blue silk, was severely elegant. Her companion was more flamboyant, wearing a dark purple velvet jacket over a green shirt with a waistcoat embroidered with both those colors and black and silver. The colors may have clashed, but the garments were all made with the same elegance of line and skilled construction as the dress.
“You are the Designys?” Sophie asked.
“Yes.” It was the woman who spoke. “I am Helene and this is Marx.” She didn’t explain further. She wore no rings though, so Sophie thought perhaps that her assessment of brother and sister was correct.
“And you are Lady Scardale,” the woman continued.
“Yes,” Sophie said. “I am Sophia Mackenzie. This is my husband, Cameron, Lord Scardale.”
“You, sir, are enough to make me wish that I had taken up tailoring after all,” said Marx, looking Cameron up and down. His voice was rich and rolling. The sort of voice that Sophie had heard amongst the actors who performed at court but had rarely encountered elsewhere. Was this a performance, too?
“Why didn’t you?” Cameron asked.
“As I said, my lord, pattern books are dull. In my experience, most men lack a certain imagination when it comes to their clothes. Or else, where they have imagination, they lack taste. That seems to be the prevailing sin in the emperor’s courtiers, at least. Women’s clothing has so much more . . . scope.” Marx smiled widely, revealing neat white teeth, then moved his focus back to Sophie. “And you, my lady, appear to be in need of some scope.” He frowned suddenly, brow wrinkling. “Who made what you are wearing?”
“That hardly matters,” Helene interjected. “She has come for ball gowns, not day dresses.”
“Ball gown,” Sophie said. “I only need one.”
That earned her a head shake. “Oh no, Maistre Matin was quite exacting in his instructions. Three gowns. If you are pleased with those, then perhaps we can reconvene on the matter of other items to . . . supplement your existing wardrobe, my lady.” It was clear from her tone that by “existing wardrobe” she meant something closer to “appalling rags.”
The dresses that Cameron had bought her were hardly rags but they were not exciting. Nor, from the glimpses she’d caught of the clothes worn by the other students, were they at the forefront of fashion. She was content with that. Simple and serviceable made far more sense. After all, her clothing was concealed by her robes for most of her day. Clothes that blended in rather than stood out would be an asset if she and Cameron ever had to run again. So, even if Helene Design
y’s dresses were the most glorious creations ever seen, such clothes were currently of little use.
Besides, even if she were concerned with fashion, buying a wardrobe designed by the Designys would probably cost her several more of Eloisa’s pearls. And they needed that money for other things. So she would be shopping elsewhere. She only hoped Maistre Matin was footing the bill for the day’s acquisitions.
“Perhaps,” she agreed, not wishing to be rude. Helene looked perfectly capable of stabbing a client who displeased her with pins, as Cameron had suggested. “But the gowns are our priority.”
“You and half the noblewomen in the city,” Marx said. “The emperor’s whims are good for business. He rarely throws a ball on this scale at this time of year. Too many of the court travel to their estates during the summer to attend to harvest and other such rural mysteries. They don’t generally return until well into autumn. So he has caught everyone off guard. But the maistre has asked so nicely, we have moved you right to the head of our queue, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said, tempted to ask for a list of the names of the women she had displaced. In Kingswell, securing the services of the various dressmakers who went in and out of fashion had been something of a blood sport amongst the ladies of Eloisa’s court. If it was the same in Lumia, it might well be better to be forewarned about whose noses she might have put out of joint before she even met them. But asking would be futile.
“Shall we begin?” Helene said. She gestured gracefully to the door behind her. “Our fitting rooms are this way.”
The fitting rooms were no less elegant than the store below. Just more busy. Here there was noise, though tones were still soft, voices carefully courteous. The woman who’d greeted them was introduced as Clara and was soon busy bringing bolts of fabric for the Designys’ consideration.
Sophie, it seemed, wasn’t going to be given much choice in the matter.
There were several other girls and women clothed in the same style dress as Clara moving around the space, presumably doing the same for other clients.
While Clara was still fetching fabrics, Helene whisked Sophie into a curtained alcove and asked her to remove her dress.
She refrained from commenting on the very plain chemise and underthings Sophie wore beneath her gown, but the arched eyebrow spoke volumes.
For a minute or so, Helene simply studied Sophie, every so often instructing her to turn, raise her arms, or stand in a slightly different position. Then she produced a measure tape from a pocket and began to wrap it around almost every part of Sophie’s body, first over her corset and then without it. Her movements were brisk and practiced, pausing at the end of each wrap of the tape to note each measurement in a small leather-bound book with a pencil that disappeared into another pocket when she was done.
“At least we are working with good bones,” she said at last after she had fastened Sophie back into her corset and helped her into her dress. “One could wish for a little more curve in the bust perhaps . . . .” Her hand sketched an absent line in the air that suggested more than a “little more” curve to Sophie’s eyes. “But we can do much with corsets and structure to assist there.” She snapped the book closed and opened the curtains.
“Marx,” she called as she stepped out. “Come, consider these.”
Sophie, following her, saw her pass the book to her brother, who opened it and glanced down at the rows of figures. He smiled, looking smug.
“This will do nicely.” He passed the book back and came over to Sophie, tilting his head first one way and then another as he considered her.
“Now, my lady, from what we have been told, you have not been here long enough to know much of Illvyan fashions, let alone the court. You would hardly be able to see even what the women at the Academe wear under those dull robes. So the question becomes are you willing to trust Helene and me, or do you wish to see some examples?”
“Is there anything in current court fashions I should know about?” Sophie said. “Anything . . . risqué?” She knew enough about the whims of courts to know that very strange things could become popular. She’d been lucky in her time in Kingswell. The preference was for gowns that harked back to previous years, which had been a little cumbersome at times—though she had to admit the wider skirts on her Illvyan dresses were more so—but that was nothing compared to what she had read in her history books. Periods where women wore sheer laces with nothing underneath or fine silk robes that also left little to the imagination.
Marx inclined his head at her, expression approving. “No, my lady. The emperor has grown conservative as he has grown older. Not a bare breast or ankle in sight these days.”
Bare breasts? Sophie couldn’t stop her brows lifting at that.
“I think we’ll stick to decently covered,” Cameron added from where he stood to one side, observing. “Regardless of the fashions.”
Helene nodded at him. “Of course, Lord Scardale. You will wish to make a good impression, not a scandal.”
She and Marx started talking rapidly. Sophie struggled to follow. Her Illvyan classes had not included dressmaking terms. She was still working on the basics. So she really was going to have to put herself in the Designys’ hands.
The conversation came to an end when Marx nodded decisively. “Yes. That exactly. Now, as to fabric.” He walked over to the table where Clara was standing next to her stack of bolts and lifted one from the pile. A silk in a deep golden shade that reminded Sophie too much of Eloisa’s coronation gown. He freed a length and then came back to Sophie to drape it around her.
“No,” Helene said firmly. Marx nodded his agreement, to Sophie’s relief. The process was repeated a dozen times, with the Designys making decisions rapidly on most of them. Two of the fabrics, an emerald green satin embroidered with black flourishes and a deep raspberry pink silk shot with silver, were ultimately dismissed. Which left a fiery red satin, a silk in a beautiful blue-green shade, and an unusual dark purple velvet, the color of the darkest part of twilight.
“These three are all excellent choices,” Marx said.
“Yes,” Helene agreed. “But for this first ball, it has to be the red.”
“Isn’t that somewhat bright?” Sophie asked, eyeing the fabric. “I thought the aim was to create a good impression, not a scandal.” In Anglion, the red would be a bold choice indeed. Sophie couldn’t actually remember seeing a court dress in such color. The court, as a whole, didn’t wear much red. Perhaps because they were constantly surrounded by the color in the coats of the Red Guard.
“A good impression but also a strong one,” Helene said thoughtfully. “You do not want the court to think you are an Anglion mouse, seeking to hide away. They are quick to sense weakness and pounce. This color is not weak. And the cut of the dress will ensure you do not offend any sensibilities. Besides, if you are studying earth magic, which I think from the tinge in your hair you are, you have a limited time to wear this shade. It would not go so well with earth red hair. Which in your case is a pity as it flatters your complexion brilliantly.”
Was that a compliment? Sophie relaxed a little. Perhaps the Designys could pull this off after all.
“So,” Marx said. “That is all we need you for today, my lady. Tomorrow morning, one of the girls will come to the Academe with the muslin and make any adjustments. Then a final fitting or two the day before the ball.”
“That seems very fast.”
“Your maistre is paying us well,” Helene murmured. “The other two dresses can wait until next week. But the deadline is not moveable for this one.”
“Then we will leave you to your work.” Cameron came over to stand beside Sophie, bowing slightly to the clothiers.
“Yes, thank you,” Sophie said. “I’m sure the dress will be perfect.”
“Of course.” Marx sniffed. “Ours are never anything less.”
Chapter 8
The dress—gown, really—was indeed perfection. It fit Sophie like a glove, the belled skirts fall
ing in layers of pleats and tucks in the rear before spreading in a small train, making her waist appear tiny. The sleeves were also shaped by pleats to curve around her arms then fan at the cuffs. The triumph though, she thought as she studied herself in the mirror, was the neckline. Which was deeper than she was accustomed to. But it was also edged and shaped by cunning folds that made it appear that she was revealing more than she actually was.
The Designys had sent a maid with the gown, who had dressed Sophie’s hair, coiling it in sleek waves around her head. Somehow, they had procured hairpins beaded in a heavy gold that matched her betrothal ring and large teardrop earrings fashioned from the same metal.
The gold gleamed against her skin. Any other jewels would have been overkill. The gold and the dress were enough to make her status clear without being ostentatious.
The maid had also painted her face, the makeup heavier than it would have been in Anglion, her lips a shade that matched the dress exactly and a black substance lining her eyes.
She spritzed Sophie with a bottle of perfume that was heavy and spicy, the scent warmed by an element Sophie didn’t recognize, before declaring her work done.
Cameron, when he was readmitted to the chamber, did a gratifying double take at the sight of her.
Indeed, his blue eyes turned heated and she held up a warning finger. “You cannot rumple me. I have no hope of recreating any of this. So stay there and let me admire you instead.”
Whoever Henri’s tailor was, he had done an admirable job. Cameron wore sleek black trousers and a long jacket of black satin, embroidered at cuffs and collar with a filigree pattern in black thread. It was lined with the same shade as Sophie’s dress but otherwise was a stark contrast. The white shirt beneath was very bright, the black cravat stuck through with a pin in heavy gold like Sophie’s jewels. Only this also had a ruby—or a very good imitation of one—winking in the head of it, adding another flash of red. “You’ll do,” she said, reaching for her fan. She’d seen Cameron in evening clothes and his uniforms many times, of course, but there was something about this particular suit that seemed to make him seem taller and broader than ever.
