by Megan Hart
“It’s Alyrian,” said the merchant, like that should make a difference. “Old Alyrian, not new. From before they broke the borders. This is rare, this is. You won’t find cloth like this anyplace else in the market. Or the city, for that matter.”
“I don’t doubt it.” She stroked it. “I’ve never seen finer.”
The merchant rolled one blue eye at her; the other was blind white. “And I doubt you ever will. Go on, hold up the linen, too. You’ll fall in love with it.”
Quilla didn’t want to waste the merchant’s time, but a quick glance around showed her nobody waited to buy this particular cloth. The merchant knew that, too, and urged her to drape an additional length of the linen over her arm.
“Banded with this fringe of gold, I can see it on you. A lovely gown. For a party, or for a wedding, perhaps?” The merchant grinned, showing gapped teeth, surprisingly white.
“Even the flaxen is too dear for my pockets, I’m afraid.” Quilla put the cloth down with regret. “Though ’tis truly gorgeous. I haven’t any place to wear it, even if I could afford it.”
The merchant’s good eye flickered over her unadorned gown. “Maybe a patron would be pleased to see you in’t?”
Quilla quirked a grin at him. “You are trying to play upon my sense of duty, sir. How utterly unfair.”
The merchant spread his fingers with a shrug, but looked un-apologetic despite the gesture. “Just speaking true.”
“If ’twould please my patron to dress me in cloth this fine, then I shall leave it to him to buy it. He was most adequate with his coin, but not generous enough for me to buy this.” She let her hand linger once more on the silk. Softer than any cloth she’d ever felt, superb in design and craftsmanship, the liquid, flowing colors almost made her want to weep at their beauty.
“ ’Twould look magnificent against your skin.”
She turned at the sound of the voice, meaning to chastise the merchant for trying to tease her into the purchase again, but stopped herself. The man standing next to her was tall and fair-haired, with bright, laughing, blue-sky eyes and clothing of high quality. His vest, bright blue, made his eyes seem even bluer, and she got an immediate sense he’d chosen it for that exact reason. He looked back at the cloth.
“It suits you.”
Quilla took her hands away. “It doesn’t suit my purse, unfortunately.”
The man nodded. “Alyrian fabric, especially Old Alyrian, is costly. Worth the price, but costly.”
“See?” cried the merchant, clapping gnarled hands. “What did I tells you?”
“Nevertheless, I can’t afford it.” Quilla replaced the bolt firmly. “Thank you. I will take three lengths of the dark blue flaxen, however.”
The merchant nodded and plucked up the bolt, taking it to the measuring table to cut the piece for her. Quilla looked at the other offerings at the fabric booth, aware the fair-haired man had not moved away.
“Wait,” he called out to the merchant, who’d lifted his pair of silver shears to cut the fabric. “She doesn’t really want that.”
The merchant turned. “She don’t?”
“I don’t?” Quilla wasn’t sure whether to laugh or frown at his presumptuousness. “How do you know?”
“Because you don’t want another gown of dark color.” The man shook his head, his eyes twinkling with good humor she felt compelled to return, even though his assumption annoyed her.
“No?”
“No.”
She looked down at the dress she had on. “And why not? It’s served me well enough before.”
He shook his head again. “Perhaps in function, not necessarily in form. Dark colors are well enough if you want to be solely functional. But not if you want to bring beauty to that function.”
Quilla pursed her mouth, taken aback. The merchant had begun to grumble, putting back the bolt of material she’d chosen.
“Let me know when yer ready,” he said sourly, moving around the booth’s edge to help another customer.
“And who are you to presume anything about me?” His unsubtle accusation that she was less than beautiful stung, not because she thought herself as such, but because she did not believe herself not to be.
“What woman doesn’t wish to present herself in the most flattering way at all times?”
Quilla crossed her arms, tilting her head to frown at him. “And you don’t find the gown I’m wearing flattering?”
He gave her a sly, sideways grin, then a wink that made her press her lips together. “I think you’d be perfectly lovely in a burlap sack. But the dress is not flattering, no. The color does not bring out your eyes, which would benefit greatly from a color like this.”
He reached for a bolt of vivid green fabric, not so bright as to be an unreasonable choice, but far more vibrant than she usually wore. The color of emeralds, the weave of it seemed to shimmer slightly, though the cloth itself was of fabric inexpensive enough not to overburden her purse.
“And with your skin tone, against the black silk beauty of your hair, a gown of this material will make you glimmer and shimmer like a goddess herself.”
Quilla had been touching the cloth, enjoying the smoothness of it, imagining how it would look sewn into a gown. At his words, she took her hand away and looked up.
“I’m no goddess.”
“Woman you begin and woman you shall end,” he quoted with a half bow, never taking his eyes from hers. “But do you not also know that every woman has a bit of goddess inside her, my lady?”
His use of one of the Order’s principles did nothing to help his case. “I’m not a lady, yours or otherwise. I’ll take the dark blue.”
The man put his hand over his heart, pouting as though wounded. “At least don’t deny yourself the pleasure of that fabric merely to spite me. It really would make a delightful gown for you. And,” he pointed out, “ ’tis less expensive than the blue. You could buy the green and another length, too, for the same expense.”
“Know you the contents of my purse, as well?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips. “You’re an arrogant swain, aren’t you?”
“I am, indeed. And completely without shame.”
Quilla regarded him for a moment, realizing something interesting. She liked this stranger, even with his blatant flirting. Much of the time, attention she garnered from men bordered on lewdness, if not outright rudeness. Or else men seemed afraid to approach her. Very few seemed able to speak to her normally, as a man to a woman, with all the verbal dancing that went along with it.
“And if I buy the green, as you suggest, what other cloth should I buy as well?”
“The crimson,” he said without hesitation, “though I can tell you right now, you won’t.”
That set her back on her heels for a moment. “No? You are so certain? And why not?”
“Because you’d only wear a color like that to entertain a lover,” he said simply, without a hint of lasciviousness, though nevertheless her cheeks burned. “And you are not a woman who takes lovers.”
Most of the time, Quilla knew what to say or how to stay silent when she did not. Now, silence was a necessity, not an option, for though she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out.
“I’ve stunned you into speechlessness. I apologize.” The man gave another half bow, hand over his heart. “You asked me a question and I gave you an answer.”
“You don’t even know me!”
“Does the bee need to know the flower before it sups? A bird know the wind before it takes flight? The sea know the shore before it creeps upon it?” The man smiled. “Does a man need to know a woman before he loves her?”
“Yes!” Quilla cried, angry now, an emotion in which she rarely indulged because too often it served no purpose in her life. “Yes, he does! And you don’t know me at all!”
Quilla stalked away from the fabric booth without buying anything, her cheeks flushed and her heart pounding. Does a man need to know a woman before he loves her? What rubbish! What n
onsense! What an arrogant cad! Fuming, she pushed through the crowd without heeding the people who complained as she forced her way past them.
By the time she reached the other side of the marketplace, she’d returned herself to some semblance of serenity. Deep breaths. Meditation. True patience is its own reward, repeated over and over until she began to believe it. It was imperfect, but better than the anger had been.
That he’d been correct did not make her feel better. Of course she was not a woman who took lovers. When she was in the service of a patron, she belonged to that patron. Sometimes, but not always, and far less often than people understood, that service included sex. She did not consider patrons, even those with whom she had sex, to be lovers.
When not in the service of a patron, Quilla did not have time to tumble from bed to bed. And what man would willingly allow his lover or wife to leave him for service to another? Love might be the most powerful of human emotions, but even jealousy could overpower it. No. Though many might consider Handmaidens one more breed of whore, the fact was, Quilla was more often celibate than not.
Her stomach panged, and Quilla put a hand to it. Spotting a small café ahead, she sat at one of the tables and ordered a flagon of warmed, spiced wine to combat the chill in the air and a crock of vegetable stew. It arrived along with a hunk of fresh brown bread, oozing with creamy butter, and she dug in at once.
“Excuse me, mistress?”
Quilla looked up from her meal to see a young lad clutching a paper-wrapped package. “Yes?”
He held out the bundle. “Gentleman in blue said to give you this.”
Quilla looked around but saw nobody fitting the description. “What gentleman?”
“The fancy-talking one.”
Quilla took the package and dug in her waistpurse for a coin to give the lad, who looked at it shrewdly and said, “He gave me two.”
“Then you don’t need mine,” Quilla said and made as though to grab it, laughing when the lad darted away into the crowd.
She undid the cord holding the paper closed, and let out a gasp when she saw what was inside. The green fabric, along with the same material in deep crimson. Quilla touched the fabric and looked around again for her benefactor, but saw no sign of him.
“Arrogant swain,” she murmured, but with a smile.
She tucked the fabric back up in the paper and retied the cord. Then she finished her meal, thinking about the fair-haired man who’d gifted her with such expensive treasures. No sign of him.
She’d received expensive presents before, been decked with jewels and cloth of gold, with live butterflies to adorn her hair. Somehow, the simplicity of this gift moved her more than any she’d had.
Does a man need to know a woman before he loves her?
“Foolish,” she murmured, dipping her bread again into the stew.
By the time the sixchime sounded, Quilla was well ready to return to Glad Tidings. She’d spent a fair amount of her coin on winter-weight leggings, new boots, fur-trimmed gloves. Delessan had been generous with his purse this first time, and though she could have spent the money on baubles and trinkets, Quilla thought it was better used to provide herself with practical things. She had little need for cosmetics and perfume. She’d also purchased several books, a sheaf of fine writing paper, several pens and pots of ink, and a leather-bound journal she intended to give to Gabriel for use in his work. The sturdy cover would hold up better than the one that had been ruined. She’d also bought a small peg and block game for Dane, meant not only to entertain but to engage the mind.
“Finally, her ladyship arrives.” Florentine stuck her head out through the carriage window, but her usual brusqueness was toned down. Her plump cheeks were pink, and her mouth kept darting in and out of a smile. “Shake your moneymaker, Handmaiden!”
“’Tis impossible to shake my brain,” Quilla replied with a chuckle, handing her packages to Billy to stow. “And I’m not late. The sixchime has not yet finished ringing.”
“’Tis your arse I was referring to, and I know you can shake that. Get in. Let’s go.”
Quilla thanked Billy for opening the carriage door, and grabbed hold of the handle to pull herself up and into the carriage. “I thought you were supposed to be picking up Master Jericho, Florentine.”
“We did, you daft lass,” retorted Florentine, and as Quilla’s eyes adjusted to the carriage’s dim interior, she saw the man sitting on the seat.
A fair-haired man with eyes she knew to be a deep, twinkling blue. The man from the fabric booth.
“Jericho Delessan, at your service,” he said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
If Florentine guessed the pair had already met, she didn’t let on. Instead, she made swift introductions between Quilla and Jericho, then settled back in her seat, her kerchief over her face, and began to snore.
Delessan’s carriage was large enough to seat four, but with Florentine sprawled across the seat, Jericho soon had to scoot ever closer to the door. After a moment, he smiled at Quilla.
“Would it be all right if I sit next to you for the rest of the ride? This is rather uncomfortable.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
He switched seats, and she made certain to give him plenty of room. “Thank you for the material,” she said after a few moments, deciding there was no point in pretending he hadn’t given it to her.
“If I’d known we were going to be sharing an abode, I’d have given it to you in person.”
He thinks his smile is charming. “If you knew that, you shouldn’t have given it to me at all.”
His eyebrows lifted, giving her a clearer view of his vivid blue-sky eyes. “No?”
Quilla shook her head, not smiling in return. “No. I know you know what I am. If you know anything about my place in the household, you would know ’tis inappropriate.”
“A Handmaiden is not allowed to have friends?”
She gazed at him for a long moment designed to make him uncomfortable in the silence. It didn’t seem to work, because he only continued smiling pleasantly at her, leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest and one leg propped on the other.
“We are not friends. We are strangers, sir.”
His smile became a sunny grin, far less studiedly charming and supremely more appealing because of it. “But now we have been introduced. We are not strangers.”
“Then we are no more than acquaintances. Certainly not friends.”
“All friends begin as strangers.”
Quilla bit the inside of her cheek. “Indeed.”
“So I ask you again. Handmaidens are not allowed to have friends?”
She studied him. “Is that what you wish? To be my friend?”
“Certainly.” He spoke as though she ought to have no doubt as to the purity of his intentions, but his smile and the gleam in his eye told her otherwise.
“’Tis too early in our acquaintance to know if we shall be friends, or not.” Quilla’s reply was meant to set him back, but Jericho didn’t seem at all put off.
“And too early for us to be enemies, as well.”
Again, she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at his irredeemable cockiness. “I concede that to be true.”
“Fine,” he said, as though that settled everything. Then he turned to look out the window and said nothing more to her for the rest of the trip.
Uncle Jericho!”
“Nephew Dane!” Jericho got on one knee, mindless of his fine trousers and the mud on the cobblestones, to gather the boy into his arms. “Have you been well?”
“He has been abominably behaved.” Gabriel’s reply made his brother look up, and Jericho stood to offer his hand.
“And I suppose the blame for that lies upon me, does it?”
Gabriel shook Jericho’s hand with no more expression than he would have had the other man been a stranger. “He comes home from trips with you far too used to being indulged.”
Jericho looked down to Dane, w
ho was hugging his legs. “Is this true? Have you been getting into trouble?”
Dane had the grace to look shamefaced. “Yes, Uncle.”
Quilla handed Billy most of her packages as she stepped out of the carriage, keeping only one bag. Gabriel’s gaze found and caught her, and the frown creasing his brow eased a bit. She could not help the smile that crossed her lips when she saw him. Jericho looked from her to his brother and back again, and he smiled, too, but as though he were assessing the situation, not out of any great pleasure.
“I was not aware you’d gone to the market, Handmaiden.”
She stepped forward. “I plead your mercy, my lord. Were you missing me?”
“Yes, brother. Were you missing her?”
The smile Gabriel had put on for Quilla faded at his brother’s remark. “No. I know I told you I did not require your presence today.”
“Next time, I will be certain to tell you if I am going away from the house.” Quilla watched Dane, who danced around his uncle, trying to dig into his pockets. “Young Master Delessan, I have brought something for you.”
Dane’s face brightened, and he ran to her. “Have you? Oh, have you, Quilla Caden?”
She held out the small wooden game, which consisted of a block of wood drilled with holes in the form of a triangle. The leather bag of fitted pegs fit on the back of the game, and they clacked as Dane took the present from her. He looked at it, then gave her an unabashed squeeze around the middle that knocked away her breath.
“Thank you!”
He was not really an ill-mannered lad, she thought, returning his hug. “You are most welcome.”
“So the sweets in my pockets shall go unclaimed?” Jericho’s words made Dane turn and run back to his uncle.
Gabriel frowned. “Jericho, the boy doesn’t need—”
“No, maybe not,” Quilla murmured. “But what child doesn’t want them?”
Gabriel’s head swiveled to look at her. “Want and need are not the same thing, Handmaiden.”
She couldn’t deny the truth of his words. “No. But both hold equal power, don’t they?”
“If I had sweets in my pockets, would you dance around me the way he does?”
