“No help for it now, I suppose. Cliona, draw the blinds. I have a few fabrics set aside. Diedre! Where is that girl?”
As Cliona draws the blinds, another girl slips into the room, this one close to Daphne’s age, with coils of dark brown hair framing her pale face. In her arms she carries a stack of fabric bolts in varying shades of green, though none of them is the pure emerald of Daphne’s original wedding gown.
Mrs. Nattermore ushers Daphne onto the platform and strips off her riding habit so quickly she doesn’t even register it until she’s standing in her chemise and Mrs. Nattermore’s tape measure is wrapped around her shoulders, then her waist, her arm, her hips, measuring the distance from her shoulders to her waistline, from her waistline to her ankles. As the tailor goes, she shouts out numbers, and Diedre jots them down on a pad of paper with a stick of charcoal.
“Give me the first,” Mrs. Nattermore says, and Diedre hurries to grab the top bolt off her pile, rushing it over to Mrs. Nattermore, who holds the free end of the fabric up to Daphne’s face, her eyes narrowing.
“Too pale,” she says, shaking her head. “It will wash her out. The bottle-green one, where is that?”
Diedre rushes to find another bolt, this one still light green, but a richer hue.
“Better,” Diedre says with a nod before her eyes find Daphne’s. “What do you think?” she asks.
Daphne glances at the three-paneled mirror, at her three reflections looking back at her.
This green is the color of grass in springtime. It makes her eyes look a bit brighter. She nods her approval.
“Cliona mentioned you had some Cellarian lace in? If we laid it over the bodice, in white perhaps?”
The words are barely out of her mouth before Cliona lets out a horrified cry and gives Daphne a warning look. Daphne is about to ask her what’s wrong when Mrs. Nattermore speaks.
“Are you telling me how to do my job, Princess?” she asks, her voice icy.
“Oh no,” Daphne says quickly. “Not at all, it was merely a suggestion. I do love Cellarian lace, after all.”
“White is the color of death in Friv, Princess,” Mrs. Nattermore continues. “We have one doomed prince already; would you doom another by wearing it on your wedding day?”
“No, of course not,” Daphne says, startled. She’s learned so many things about Friv, how could she have forgotten that? “I only thought—”
“Perhaps you’d best leave the thinking to me,” the woman says curtly before turning to Diedre. “Take Cliona down to the cellar to show her the new velvets we got in—they should do nicely for the rest of the princess’s wardrobe.”
“Yes, Mrs. Nattermore,” Diedre says, leading Cliona through the back door. As Cliona passes, she shoots Daphne a warning look. When the door closes behind Cliona, Mrs. Nattermore turns back to face Daphne.
The older woman sucks on her teeth, looking Daphne over from head to toe. “You want lace,” she says slowly. “Cellarian lace. On your wedding day. Beyond the color, do you know what people will say? That your loyalty is not to Friv.”
“It’s only lace,” Daphne says.
“Only lace,” the dressmaker repeats, her voice dripping with disdain. “Most people in this country will never meet you, Princess. They will never hear you speak, never hear your wit—they say you’re witty, though I can’t say I believe it. All most people will know of you is what they see. What you think of as only lace, they will read as a message. What message would you like to send?”
The words work themselves under Daphne’s skin, itching with shame. If her mother were here, she would be so disappointed. She raised Daphne better than this; she raised her to be thoughtful and deliberate, not to be swayed by something as useless as a scrap of lace.
“The original wedding dress you made,” Daphne says, pushing the shame aside and forcing herself to meet Mrs. Nattermore’s gaze. “It looked like armor—heavy, strong.”
Mrs. Nattermore lifts an eyebrow and inclines her head in a nod. “A dress fit for the future queen of Friv,” she says. “Not the delicate, frilly nonsense that is popular in Bessemia. Friv is not a delicate country, Princess. We have a bloody history—one that’s barely history at all. We don’t need a delicate princess. We need a princess who can survive the winter.”
Daphne nods slowly. “Ermine, perhaps,” she says after a moment. “As a trim.”
Mrs. Nattermore considers it, her mouth pursing, though Daphne thinks she might be suppressing a smile. “Perhaps,” she says. “Get dressed. I’ll put the kettle on. You should warm your bones with a cup of tea before setting foot in that cold again.”
* * *
—
When Daphne is dressed, she starts for the door the others went through, the one, she imagines, that leads to the kitchen, maybe the connection to Mrs. Nattermore’s house. There she finds a kettle whistling on the stove but no sign of Mrs. Nattermore, Cliona, or Diedre, though the door to a set of stairs is slightly ajar, presumably leading down to the cellar the dressmaker mentioned.
They must be down there looking at the velvets still. Daphne pauses at the entrance, wondering if she should wait for them here, but she does want to see the velvets and make sure they don’t pick out anything too drab for her.
She makes her way down the rickety stairs, following the sound of muffled voices, but when she reaches the basement, she can’t stifle a gasp.
There are no velvets in the storeroom. Instead, every inch of space is stacked high with boxes and barrels, a few of them open, revealing their contents—rifles and pistols, all shining and new, and barrels upon barrels of what she can only guess is gunpowder. Enough weaponry to arm hundreds of people.
“Princess!” a voice cries out, startled, and Daphne turns to see Cliona, standing over one of the barrels, lid in hand, while behind her, Diedre holds a rifle in both hands, inspecting it.
Before Daphne can move, there is a creak on the stairs behind her and a cold, sharp knife comes to rest against her throat, just firmly enough that she feels the edge of it dig into her skin. All it would take is a bit of pressure and the blade would slice through her carotid artery, causing her to bleed out quickly. The thought of death looming so close should frighten Daphne, but instead she wonders if the placement of the knife is a lucky accident, or if this isn’t the first time Mrs. Nattermore has held a knife to someone’s throat.
“Well,” Mrs. Nattermore says in Daphne’s ear, her voice level. “I suppose the tea will have to wait.”
Daphne is forced into a chair, her arms bound with rope, Mrs. Nattermore all the while keeping the knife pressed to her throat. She feels the bite of its edge, though it hasn’t broken the skin—not yet. She knows logically it is a likely outcome—this is not a situation any capable person would allow her to walk out of—but any fear that accompanies that knowledge feels far away, locked out of reach.