by Annette Lyon
Table of Contents
TAILOR MADEBy Annette LyonAcknowledgments
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
A Note from the Author
To read other works by Annette Lyon, visit herAmazon Author Page.
Text copyright ©2016 by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Sariah Wilson. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original The Royals of Monterra remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Sariah Wilson, or their affiliates or licensors.
For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds
TAILOR MADE
By Annette Lyon
Acknowledgments
I always enjoy new and exciting writing opportunities, and creating a story set in another writer’s fictional setting provided a particularly rewarding and fun challenge.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Sariah Wilson, who wrote a novel with so much fertile soil that it deserved its own Kindle World. Special thanks to her for inviting me to be part of the launch for the Royals of Monterra.
A big thank you also goes to Julie Bellon, Rebecca Blevins, and Kimberly Vanderhorst for their aid in getting the story polished and shiny, and to the talented Victorine Lieske, who designed the gorgeous cover.
I am beyond grateful to Luisa Perkins, my long-time accountability partner. Without her friendship and unwavering faith in me, this story wouldn’t exist.
As always, I must thank my sweet family for their support. I love you all.
Chapter One
Royal Clothier of Monterra — May 3, 1883
Antonio knelt before Prince Enrico, not to receive a knighthood, but to pin the second leg of the young prince’s two-month-old suit.
“This will be the last time I can let these trousers out,” he said, with two straight pins between his teeth. “I’ll take new measurements and have several new pairs made for you as soon as possible.” He added the last two pins to the trousers, stood, and inspected his work. “Just don’t you dare grow any more until they’re done,” he added with an affectionate smile.
Fourteen-year-old Prince Enrico grinned back. “I can’t promise any such thing.” He stood as tall as he could, straightening his posture and even lifting his chin to make the point. “My goal is to be taller than my brother.”
“Taller than the Crown Prince?” Antonio clucked his tongue with mock disapproval. “Shouldn’t the future king be the tallest of the family? I may have to chat with Cook about this — see if she’ll cut back your food to be sure that the height of His Royal Highness isn’t surpassed by the younger prince.”
“Gregorio will simply have to accept the fact that his ‘baby’ brother will tower over him.” He puffed out his chest and eyed his stance in the full-length mirror.
Antonio chuckled and pointed to the changing area, which was blocked off by a large screen for privacy. Prince Enrico hopped off the platform and disappeared behind the screen, where he changed back into the clothes he’d arrived in. Moments later, the prince reemerged and handed off the trousers on his way out. Antonio quickened his pace to open the door for the prince, but when they were a few steps away, a knock sounded from the other side. A tinge of worry twisted in the back of Antonio’s mind; hopefully the person knocking hadn’t heard his casual conversation with the young prince. They would disapprove of the informality.
Nothing I can do about that now. He reached forward and turned the elaborate bronze handle, opening the heavy door.
Across the threshold stood Marcell, valet to Crown Prince Gregorio, holding several pieces of paper.
“Good day, Marcell,” the tailor said with a half bow. He stepped to the side to give Enrico room, bowing deeper as he did so. “And good day to you, Your Royal Highness.”
Enrico passed into the corridor but turned around and grinned at Antonio, clearly ready to laugh at the sudden return to formality. Instead, to Antonio’s great relief, the Prince turned about and walked away.
“Marcell,” the tailor said, arm out to welcome the valet. “Please come in.”
Does he have an appointment no one recorded on the log book? Or worse, does Prince Gregorio?
The afternoon was supposed to have been one of light work. With no appointments save that with the younger prince, Antonio had arranged for his staff to have their monthly day off, all at the same time. He certainly hadn’t counted on a visit from Marcell or anyone else.
The valet took his time sauntering into the workshop. Antonio shoved his worry aside as he closed the door and followed behind. He put on a smile as he asked, “How may I be of service?”
The valet gestured toward the papers. “I’ve come with the royal family’s needs for His Royal Highness’s impending nuptials.”
“Oh, yes.” Antonio would have preferred to discuss the matter during an appointment, but didn’t say so.
Marcell headed straight for the adjoining alcove, to the table used for designing patterns and cutting fabrics. Antonio reached the valet’s side as he spread the papers on the long worktable. “First of all, I suppose you should be informed that the date for the royal wedding has been changed.” He continued to arrange the papers into two rows, all without paying Antonio any mind.
The engagement had been announced only the night before, with no date mentioned. A change to a time months or years away mattered little. What everyone in the castle — likely everyone in the kingdom — knew was that the match was an effort at diplomacy. The alliance would appease King Dangelo of neighboring Florenzia, who regularly threatened to conquer Monterra. The kingdom had a growing tourism economy as well as enviable trade routes leading to both Italy and Switzerland, but not many natural resources, which is why King Dangelo also threatened to block supply roads in an attempt to starve Monterra into submission. Antonio’s hope, and that of the rest of the kingdom, was that King Dangelo wouldn’t starve his own daughter.
The latest talks had been tense, or so said the whisperings in the servants’ quarters over meals. Those who served the Queen had a captive audience every time they returned to the servants’ kitchen.
“When is the celebration to be?” Antonio scanned the papers with interest. He reached for a blank log book to take notes, which he’d then use to assign tasks to his staff and create a schedule to keep everything moving smoothly.
“The wedding will be in one month’s time.”
Antonio froze, the nib of his pen suspended above the page. As he stared at Marcell’s papers, the orders seemed to double and then triple before his eyes. “One month?” he asked, turning to the valet. “Are you quite certain?”
“I am not such a fool as to not remember when my master will wed.” Marcell’s tone sounded entirely too superior.
He gestured toward the paper at the top left of the rows he’d created. “Here you’ll find the items the Prince has personally requested for his wardrobe — he expects several ensembles to wear throughout the day, including a traveling suit fit for the people to send him and his bride off in.” His finger moved to the next page. “Here you’ll find the dresses the Prince wishes his bride to have ready on her arrival. She must feel welcome and at home, with a full wardrobe. An
d she must have several traveling dresses for their wedding trip across the continent, of course.”
“But—”
Marcell waved a hand as if anticipating Antonio’s concern. “His fiancée won’t arrive in time for fittings, but we’ve sent word for her measurements, and you should have them in a day or two at most.”
“What about her—”
“Wedding gown? No need to worry yourself over that; a designer in Florenzia is making it.” Marcell spoke as casually as if he were relaying a message about an upcoming delivery of spun wool. “Now, on this third page, you’ll find the items needed by Her Majesty the Queen, then Prince Enrico, and the other pages list all of the required clothing for the servants involved in the wedding: the Queen’s lady’s maid, the butler, the coachman, bridesmaids, the Prince’s valet” —he tilted his head with feigned humility at that one— “and so on.”
By the time Marcell finished speaking, his voice had become a buzz in Antonio’s head.
One month to do all of this work? He resisted the panic rising in his chest. Even if his entire staff worked day and night for thirty days, it couldn’t be done. Not without a magic wand like the cinder girl’s godmother had in the Brothers Grimm tale.
Antonio tried to count how many pairs of silk stockings would need to be made and how many hours of work they alone would require. On top of that would be complicated dresses, coats, trousers, gloves, tunics...
“With such a limited timeframe, perhaps the Prince would be willing to shorten the list in a few areas. That would allow us to dedicate our utmost to every item.”
The valet raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. “This is the official order from the Crown Prince himself,” he said with a voice that bordered on threatening. “Nothing less will suffice.”
The Prince clearly hadn’t the slightest inkling about the work that went into a single waistcoat made by hand from start to finish. Thanks to his position, he had no reason to know such things. But his own valet should have had some inclination — and should have explained the limitations of mere mortals.
Antonio tried again. “This isn’t poss—”
Marcell held up a hand, cutting off the tailor’s words. “We must provide the best for the royal family to assure King Dangelo that his daughter’s marriage to Prince Gregorio is the right decision. Are you genuinely suggesting that we put the nation at risk of invasion?” He drew half a step closer. “Are you?”
“No,” Antonio said. He sighed. “The well-being of the nation matters dearly to me. But—”
“But. What?” Marcell’s voice had lowered to a growl.
Antonio refused to be cowed. He straightened, standing taller, much as young Enrico had minutes before. “With such a short engagement, and with so little time to prepare, perhaps the wedding could be less...”
“Lavish?” Marcell suggested, with the patronizing tone of a teacher speaking to a foolish child.
Yet due to his short stature, he had to lift his chin to address to Antonio, for the tailor did not have a slight frame like many others of the same trade. He had broad shoulders, where Marcell’s were narrow. Antonio’s olive complexion was tan compared to Marcell’s, which appeared so thin it was a wonder the man’s veins weren’t visible through it. Prince Enrico already stood taller than the valet. If Antonio chose to, he could have snapped the man in half.
But a castle servant didn’t behave in such ways, especially not toward higher-ranking servants. So instead of agreeing on lavish — and instead of breaking the man in two — Antonio chose his words carefully.
“Due to time constraints, perhaps the wedding could be less elaborate. Doing so would help us bolster the image of the royal family, as every piece of clothing, from hat to stocking, would be of the utmost quality. Even the best tailor or seamstress cannot do his or her best work when rushed. Monterra and the royal family will be viewed by the world much more admirably if the clothing they wear is not sewn in a harried manner.”
Marcell clasped his hands behind his back and considered. “What do you suggest? How much of this do you think your workers can confidently complete while maintaining the high standards Monterra requires?”
The high standards I require, Antonio silently amended. At least the valet offered a glimmer of reason. Antonio let out a breath and gestured toward the orders. “There isn’t enough time by half to get everything done with a full staff. They are all gone today, and when they return tomorrow, I’ll still be missing two of our best — and fastest — seamstresses. Teresa has almost two weeks remaining of her summer vacation, and as she’s traveling across Portugal, Spain, France, and Italy, the Queen herself would be unable to send word requesting an early return. Mara departed two days ago — with Her Majesty’s blessing — to be at her dying father’s bedside. I don’t know when she’ll be back.”
Antonio hoped the valet would make note of the last part. No servant, not even the valet of Crown Prince Gregorio, would dare contradict the Queen.
“In that case, I have good news for you.” Marcell smiled.
Antonio wanted to believe the little man, but after everything else he’d said, genuinely good news wasn’t likely. “Oh?”
“A week ago, word arrived of a particularly skilled young woman in Provenza, a small village only half a day’s journey from the castle.”
“Skilled,” Antonio repeated. “In what way?” He had to ask; the woman could easily be known as an excellent tutor or housekeeper, neither of which would be of any benefit to his workshop.
“Skilled in making clothing, of course,” Marcell said with an exaggerated eye roll. “She possesses a particular talent for knitting fine silk fabrics. You’ll find several items on the list that she will be most helpful with.” He smiled again, rather pleased with himself. He gathered the papers into a single stack and tapped the bottom edge to straighten them. “I suggest you study the orders and make a plan. The girl should arrive near sundown. If she’s as talented as reported, she’ll be worth Teresa’s and Mara’s efforts combined.” He held the papers out. Antonio reluctantly took them.
“I look forward to seeing the fruits of your labors,” Marcell said.
He grinned as if he knew full well that any “fruits” had the distinct possibility of humiliating the royal family. At best, such a result would get Antonio dismissed in shame, At worst, it would get the country invaded. Fortunately, the Queen wasn’t like some monarchs he’d heard of; she wouldn’t sentence him to the stocks or throw him into a cold stone cell. But he would lose his position, and he’d never again be able to ply the trade he loved and had devoted his life to mastering.
Marcell headed for the door and patted Antonio’s arm on the way. “Remember, you’re doing this for the good of the kingdom.” He closed the door behind him.
A moment later, Antonio could have sworn he heard a laugh echoing down the stone corridor in Marcell’s wake.
Chapter Two
Sofia worked quietly at her ailing mother’s bedside, grateful that her trade as a knitter and seamstress didn’t keep her from home. Over the last year, she’d sent many prayers of thanks heavenward to that effect. Her sack of knitting supplies could quite easily be toted about from place to place, and Sofia pulled out her needles wherever she happened to be, earning much-needed income for the family.
Mother coughed a few times, then deeper and more fiercely, which woke her — if she had been asleep at all. Mother often moaned and shifted in her sleep, but even when she was awake, she was no longer entirely coherent.
Sofia pushed the tips of her thin knitting needles into the ball of silk thread. She set her work aside and leaned toward her mother, holding a chipped ceramic cup to her mouth with one hand. She put her other hand on her mother’s back in hope of offering some measure of comfort. The racking coughs produced yellow-green mucus as well as blood, which fell into the cup.
“There,” Sofia said softly. “That’s better.”
The coughs slowly abated, although they didn’t disappear a
ltogether even after Mother had leaned against her pillows. Sofia set the cup on the side table and reached for an old handkerchief to wipe the corners of Mother’s mouth. Whether she was aware of her daughter’s care didn’t matter; Sofia was bound and determined that her mother would be tended to in the best way she could provide.
Theirs was a situation that had become more tenuous in the last few years. Father had collapsed unexpectedly while bringing the cattle in for the night. Later, the village doctor said the strain of climbing up and down the mountainside had been too much on his heart. Perhaps the doctor was right. But Sofia would always suspect that his heart had given out in large measure due to Mother’s illness, the decrease in their cows’ milk production — and the resulting decrease in the family income — and the resulting financial and emotional strain. His final climb up their little valley of the Alps might have simply been the last straw.
Ever since, Sofia’s younger brother, Sergio, had taken on the responsibility of the cattle, but with Mother still sick — and the medicine she needed costing more than their cottage was worth — they lived day to day without knowing for certain if they’d eat tomorrow. However, Sofia’s remarkable skill at knitting fine silk stockings for both men and women had spread across the small kingdom of Monterra. As a result, she’d received many requests, which she granted on one stipulation: that the rich individual commissioning the stockings provide the thread.
Most customers assumed the request was to ensure that the style and color were ones they personally preferred, so no one balked at the requirement, which was good, as Sofia could never have afforded the expensive silk thread up front. Making the rows even and smooth took a special touch — and much time and patience. The stitches were so tiny that the length of her thumb equaled sixty-five. She’d tried to do the arithmetic to determine how many went into a pair of stockings, but after reaching ten thousand, gave up.
