“Gah,” I said.
“You have no idea,” Alle muttered under her breath. Then, seeing Larkin’s dark look, she trotted out.
Numb Fingers, Itchy Feet
I had always loved sewing. Really, it didn’t matter what kind: hemming sheets, tailoring my brother’s tunics, or doing fancy embroidery. The idea of opening my own shop had glowed like a jewel in my mind. And yet, after just a day of working for Derda, I was starting to rethink my chosen career. Perhaps it was because I didn’t really want to wear a pink gown. Or perhaps it was because whenever I worked on the grey gown for the duchess, Derda hovered over my shoulder inspecting every blessed stitch to make certain that it was up to her standard.
I had wondered how Derda and her girls could possibly wait on customers and get their work done, but that question was answered by the end of my first (very long) day. Fashionable ladies did their shopping at certain times: never before noon, because the morning was taken up with sleeping late and dressing languidly, and never after dusk, because that was when they had their social engagements. So Derda’s shop, like any that catered to the wealthies (as Marta called them), was only open for four or five hours a day. Before and after closing, Derda supervised her employees as we sat around the large table in the back room and sewed and gossiped and sewed some more. Derda had a small table of her own, where she worked on very special commissions, like the skirt with the scarlet ribbons for Princess Amalia.
So it was that within moments of nearly losing my employment for agreeing to sew for the duchess, I was cutting out the grey silk to make her skirt. Beside me lay a neatly folded pile of pink wool that would be used for my own shopgown. Marta told me that it seemed to go faster if you did things “all at once”.
“Do all the cutting you have to do for both projects,” she instructed me, sitting down to a large froth of pale golden silk that would soon be a ten-layered skirt for a countess. “Then do all the pinning, all the hemming, and so on. Trust me, if you only work on one gown at a time, you’ll scream from boredom.”
“If you find it so boring, you can find yourself another job, my girl,” Derda said as she leaned over my shoulder and glared at the seam I was pinning. “Re-pin that,” she barked.
With a sigh I removed the pins, straightened the two slippery pieces of fabric, and pinned them again. The ripples of grey silk reminded me of the pool in Shardas’s cave that he used to talk to Feniul, and I felt a pang of longing for my quiet life there. I hoped that the migration would go well this year, and that Feniul was not bothering Shardas too much. It seemed like three weeks rather than three days since I had left him.
“Thinking of your swain?” Larkin raised her eyebrows at me.
I laughed aloud. “Oh, no,” I told her, sobering at her startled expression. “I was just thinking of an old friend.” A sudden vision of Shardas crouching in the street outside Derda’s shop, knocking on the door with a claw, nearly made me laugh again, but I stifled it.
“Is your ‘old friend’ a prince?” Alle looked at me slyly as she embroidered a narrow sash.
I gave her a bewildered look. “No, why?”
“One of the kitchen maids told me that Ulfrid brought you here as a favour to Prince Luka,” Alle answered, her expression eager.
“The prince was kind enough to direct me to Mistress Ulfrid’s inn,” was all I would say, no matter how Alle pried.
And she did continue to pry. There was nothing else to do while we sewed, hour after hour, than gossip. I, as the new girl, found myself being prodded for any gossip of interest from Carlieff Town (which wasn’t much) or any variations on the same old stories they’d already told each other (which weren’t many). A few days after I arrived, they were going around the table telling stories about sightings of goblins or dragons or trolls where they were from.
“Er,” I said, when it was my turn. “There aren’t any goblins or trolls in Carlieff.”
“Then make something up,” Marta urged me. “We’ve nothing better to do.”
“You could sew,” Derda said sharply from her table.
“Well, ah.” I looked around the table, and they all looked back, expectant. “There is a dragon.”
Larkin looked up at me sharply, and Alle giggled a little. Derda pursed her lips, but didn’t interrupt again.
“The hills around Carlieff have lots of caves,” I went on. “And it’s rumoured that there’s a dragon living in one of them. Years ago he used to carry off children, sheep, goats, but no one’s seen him now for generations and everyone thinks he’s dead.” I bit my lip. “Um, that’s really all.”
Disappointed, my audience looked back to their sewing, and I concentrated for a few minutes on the sleeve I was setting in my pink gown. Another day or two and it would be finished, and I would have the mixed blessing of being able to wait on customers.
“Our dragon is named Ama-something,” Alle announced. “Amaracin, or Amacarin. Anyway, in my great-grandfather’s time, the local laird challenged him to a duel, and Amacarin ate him.”
“I don’t know the name of the dragon my uncle claimed he saw,” Marta said. “He just saw … something … go across the sky, and then later one of the older villagers said it must have been the dragon.”
“The Carlieff dragon’s name is Theoradus,” I said, winking at Alle so that she would think I was spinning a yarn. “He’s brown, with golden eyes and horns. He lives in a cave at the top of one of the highest hills. They say he has a pool of still water through which he can see and speak with other dragons.”
“I wouldn’t know our dragon’s name,” Marta said, laughing at my tale. “But he eats dogs, or something. If you have a really good dog anywhere near our village, it always disappears. My uncle, on my mother’s side, claims to have seen something large and green carrying off our neighbour’s new sheepdog once.”
“Green, and likes dogs?” I laughed.
“Ridiculous, I know,” Marta said with a shrug. “That’s why I came to the King’s Seat.”
I laughed again, thinking of Feniul. “I came to get away from the dragons, myself,” I told her with a grin.
She rolled her eyes at me and we both snickered. Derda cleared her throat, and we concentrated on our work.
It was the next day that my feet started to itch again. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, sewing for myself and a duchess, my feet had to bother me, too. But there I was, sitting between Marta and Alle, stitching away at the hem of my pink skirt, when I felt a sensation not unlike a feather being run across the bottoms of my feet.
“Hey!” I had pricked myself with my needle and a drop of blood fell on the pink cloth before I could catch it. I felt foolish for having pricked myself so many times in the last week. I had never been this clumsy at home; the fine fabrics I was working with now were making me nervous.
“What’s wrong?” Marta stared at me, and then thoughtfully pressed her own handkerchief over the droplet of blood to absorb it.
“It felt like someone tickled my feet,” I said, looking under the table even though I knew it was senseless. Who would be under the table tickling our feet? Besides which, the tickling had now settled into a constant itch that covered every bit of my soles. I paddled my feet against the floor and rubbed them back and forth, but nothing helped.
Larkin also ducked her head down to look at my feet. “I see that you are still wearing your blue slippers,” she said in her soft voice when she straightened up.
“I have only one other pair of shoes, and they’re just old sandals,” I admitted. Then I threw an anxious look at Derda. “These blue slippers will be all right, to wait on customers, won’t they?”
“I don’t care what you wear on your feet,” Derda informed me in a more good-natured tone than she had used with me since I was hired, “as long as you wear something. And they should be clean.”
“Our skirts cover our shoes anyway,” Marta said, after she spat a few pins into her palm. “So it hardly matters. Although the southern fashion
for shorter skirts is catching on …” She had raised her voice at this last comment, casting a hopeful look at Derda.
“My girls dress decently,” was all Derda would say.
“Aaaah!” I dropped my work and ducked under the table, yanking off my shoes and frantically scratching the soles of my feet.
“Are you all right?” Marta’s voice bubbled with laughter.
“I hope you don’t have fleas,” Larkin said with a concern that seemed feigned to my ears.
“Fleas!” Alle shrieked and jumped to her feet. “Fleas?! I’m itching all over, she’s given us fleas!”
“I have not!” I yelled from under the table. Once I had got my shoes off, the itching subsided. “I think my feet are too hot. Or perhaps I’m not used to sitting so long. I did walk all the way here from Carlieff Town,” I lied.
“I’m sure it’s just your calluses or blisters healing,” Marta said, helping me out from under the table.
“She looks clean enough,” Derda said with a grunt. She frowned at Alle. “Now everyone get back to work.”
Red-faced, I pulled my shoes back on, biting my lower lip as my feet began itching all over again. With an effort I returned to my work, speaking only when spoken to and giving all my attention to the seam I was stitching. I hoped that my diligence would be rewarded, either by taking my mind off the itching or by it going away entirely, but it was not to be. When I mounted the narrow stairs with the other girls, heading to our cramped rooms on the second floor, my feet were nearly as numb as my fingers.
Before I fell into an exhausted sleep, I noticed that the itching stopped when I took my slippers off.
“Shardas,” I murmured into my pillow. “Why do my feet itch?”
“What?” Alle, on one side of me, raised herself up on her elbows. “Do you have fleas?” she hissed.
Marta, on the other side, reached across me and swatted Alle. “She doesn’t have fleas, go to sleep.”
“Shardas,” I said into my pillow again. “I miss you.” And I fell sound asleep.
A Plague of Royals
“And I miss you,” Shardas said in my dream. A laugh rumbled from his throat. “Who would have thought it? I haven’t had a human friend since Jerontin’s death. But truly, there is nothing that can compare to conversing with a human. Your brief lifespans give you such strange perspectives on life.”
In my dream we were sitting beside his enchanted pool, sharing a bowl of grapes. I plucked several of the wine-coloured globes from a stem and popped them into my mouth.
“How is Feniul doing with Azarte? Still having trouble?” I grinned.
“See for yourself.” Shardas stirred the pool with one long claw, and I leaned closer to see.
There was Feniul, shaking a claw at the large, woolly wolfhound and scolding him for once again eating all the treats.
“Poor Feniul.” I chuckled. “I don’t think Azarte was meant for life in a dragon’s hoard.”
“Feniul’s had worse trouble. At one point he had a hundred dogs. He used to just take whatever he wanted, we all did,” Shardas said. “But since Milun the First, we have had to become inconspicuous.” He sighed.
“I’m sorry, I guess,” I said. “I mean, it’s better for us humans I suppose. But it’s not as good for you dragons.”
“No,” Shardas said, “it’s better for all of us this way, if we cannot find a balance.”
“I could help you find a balance,” I offered.
The gold dragon gave me a look of infinite sadness. “Please don’t.”
“What?”
“You could kill us all,” Shardas said.
“What do you mean? Shardas!” Everything was fading into a grey haze. “Shardas! I won’t hurt you! I want to help!” I clawed at the haze, trying to see the dragon.
“Oi! Careful!”
Someone was holding my wrists. I twisted and writhed, trying to break free.
“Creel! What’s wrong?”
I stopped fighting and stared up at Marta. She was crouched beside me in the bed, her strawberry blonde hair orange in the dawn light that was coming in through the open shutters. Alle was standing by the washstand, her mouth open in an “O”.
“Who’s Shardas?” Marta let go of my wrists. “We couldn’t wake you, and then you started scratching at the wall, crying.”
“I was not crying. I just had a bad dream,” I said, hastily wiping the tears from my cheeks. “Shardas is an old friend.”
“I see,” Marta said, but she clearly didn’t. “Well, hurry and get dressed. If you don’t get your shopgown finished today, Derda is going to start breathing fire.”
“That doesn’t scare me,” I said with a private smile. “I’ve faced worse than a dressmaker who breathes fire.”
I dressed and went downstairs to continue sewing. The kitchen maids served us tea and scones while we worked, and left towels and finger bowls next to the scones so that we could make sure our fingers were clean before we returned to our work.
“Mistress?” One of the maids came back in and bobbed a worried curtsy at Derda. “There’s a lad here for to see Creel, mistress.”
My eyebrows shot up. Who did I know in the King’s Seat? Had Hagen followed me? Then my jaw dropped. It couldn’t be …
“You know that I don’t allow such a thing,” Derda huffed. “Send him away.” She gave me a sharp look and I dropped my eyes to my hands.
“But, mistress,” the maid said in a hushed voice. “This lad is a prince.”
Alle dropped the shears she’d been using with a clatter, and Marta unconsciously put a hand to her curls.
“What did you say?” Derda rose to her feet.
“It’s the young prince, Prince Luka,” the maid clarified. “He’s here for to see Creel.” Her eyes lit on me, and I could tell that she was dying to know why a prince would want to speak to me.
“Well, girl!” Derda snapped at her. “I hope you didn’t leave the prince standing there! Show him to a comfortable chair and bring him some wine!” She yanked off her plain working apron and ran to the little looking glass to straighten her hair. “I will chaperone you, of course,” she said when she saw my puzzled face. “Now make yourself presentable. I will greet him while you do.” And she bustled out, all smiles for the prince.
I gave Marta a helpless look. Presentable? I was dressed … What more was there?
But Marta hopped to her feet and untied my apron with a single tug. Grabbing one of her own scarlet shop sashes from a hook, she whisked it around my waist and tied a large bow at the back. She pulled a comb from her pocket, untied my braid, raked the comb through it, and rebraided it much more loosely. She snapped her fingers at Alle. Giggling, Alle took a scarlet ribbon out of her dark hair and handed it to Marta, who tied it around my braid. Then Marta spun me around, pinched my cheeks hard, spun me back to face the door, and swatted me on the bottom.
I burst out laughing, too stunned by the rough handling to do anything else.
“Go,” Marta hissed, giving me a push. “But we expect full details when he’s gone!”
Still laughing breathlessly, I went out into the shop, where Prince Luka was sitting across from Derda. My employer was making awkward small talk with the prince, while his massive bodyguard loomed over them both. Tobin winked at me as I approached, and I rolled my eyes by way of reply.
“Your Highness.” I curtsied, my eyes downcast. When I raised them, I found that Luka had got to his feet and was grinning at me.
“Creel.” He gave me a polite bow, clearly amused at my overly formal greeting. “I wanted to know how you were getting on here in Mistress Derda’s fine establishment.”
“I am enjoying my work very much,” I said, hoping that he didn’t notice how red and pricked my fingertips were. “Mistress Derda is most kind.”
“Excellent, excellent.” The prince rocked forward on his toes and then back to his heels. We both looked at Derda, who was now standing between us, still all smiles and batting eyelashes.
“Well!” She slapped her hands together and gave a forced laugh. “I had better go back into the sewing room and make certain that the others aren’t shirking in my absence.” She gave a deep curtsy. “Your Royal Highness.”
“Mistress Derda.” Luka bowed.
“If you need anything, dear Creel, just ring for it,” Derda told me with a fond smile, pointing to a small bell on the round table next to me. Then she went bustling into the back room.
“Hmmm,” I said, staring after her.
“Not usually ‘dear Creel’?” Luka gave me a sly look. “Hardly,” I said, shaking my head. “Shall we sit down?”
“By all means.”
We both sat in the ornately embroidered chairs and stared at each other for a minute. Tobin continued to stand behind his prince’s chair, looking muscular and dangerous.
“Er, Tobin? Do you want to sit down?”
The mute bodyguard shook his head.
“He always remains standing, unless we’re in the palace, or at Ulfrid’s,” Luka explained. He poured a glass of wine for me and then himself.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” I took a deep drink of the wine, feeling awkward.
“You can call me Luka.”
“Are you certain?”
He raised one eyebrow. “Of course I’m certain. It’s my name, after all.”
I blushed. “I’m sorry, your … Luka.”
“Your Luka? I think I like the sound of that,” he mused.
I rolled my eyes, his teasing putting me at ease. “Oh, please!”
“That’s better,” the prince approved. “So, how are you settling in, really? Is Derda treating you well?”
“As well as can be expected,” I said with reluctance. Should I tell Luka that she had planned to use my designs as her own? Marta had assured me that, as much as we both hated it, it was quite common for employers to do such things. It was frustrating, though, to think that the patterns inspired by Shardas’s windows would be taken from me. “Sewing was always relaxing for me, before. You know, better than hoeing a row of potatoes.” I made a face, thinking about how glad I was that I wasn’t working on the farm any more. “But now there’s more pressure to make it perfect, and it’s all I do all day …” I trailed off. “Not that I’m complaining,” I said quickly. “Because if you hadn’t found me and if Ulfrid hadn’t helped me get this job, I would be in deep trouble and I’m very grateful –”
Dragonskin Slippers Page 9
