Dragonskin Slippers by Jessica Day George

Author:Jessica Day George [George, Jessica Day]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Ages 10 and up, Juvenile Fiction, General, Fantasy & Magic
ISBN: 9781408824771
Google: _9cTEbtP5LEC
Amazon: 0747587183
Publisher: A&C Black
Published: 2007-06-04T04:00:00+00:00

Wanting a Dragon, Getting a Prince

Derda made it clear that if I wanted to get that horrid gown reworked for the Merchants’ Ball, I would have to do it in my own time. At first I was confused: she had seemed supportive of the ball before. But then I realised that she had hoped to get several years’ worth of work out of me before I had enough saved to try for the ball. Also, I already had one prestigious client in the Duchess of Mordrel.

So, after sewing morning and evening, marking embroidery patterns on fabric and displaying them to the customers all day, I had to sit and sew some more. Derda didn’t want me wasting her good candles on my gown, either, so I used the last of my wages to buy some of my own. That left me with nothing to spend on embroidery thread, and I needed to decorate the gown with my own handiwork to show it off.

“I’ll pay for it,” Marta offered. “If you’re going to be my mistress, I had better start contributing.”

“I don’t want to take your money,” I argued. “And I’m not sure I want to be your mistress. How about a partner?”

“Then as your partner,” Marta insisted, “I have all the more reason to contribute. Give this money to Derda; she buys the finest embroidery thread in the King’s Seat, so you might as well get it from her.”

Later that day, when the shop was closed and I was sewing next to Marta, Alle nudged me. “I’ll do your hair,” she whispered.

“What?” I dropped my needle, startled.

“For the ball, I’ll do your hair.” She shot a look at Larkin. “It’s not fair, what happened. Marta told me you want to try your luck at the ball. I do beautiful hair.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said.

To my embarrassment, tears welled in my eyes. Marta had also offered to loan me a silk shawl she had received from an admirer. It was cream-coloured, and would go well with the gold gown.

I was touched by the support of the other girls. Except for Larkin. Larkin was ignoring me, wearing an expression that I could only describe as wounded superiority. She kept looking over my head and fiddling with the silver ribbons, smugly drawing attention to this sign of royal favour.

That night I sat in the cushioned seat at the front of the store, saving a candle by using the bright moonlight streaming through the large bay window to see my work. The others had all gone to bed, but I had too much to do.

My first impression of the gold gown had not changed: it was as if the dressmaker had gone completely and utterly insane. In my opinion, even one fist-sized rose on the skirt of a gown was too many. Sixteen of them was outrageous.

My mother had always called sewing her “thinking time”, and now as I sat with my small knife and cut stitches to remove the decorations, I thought. Did

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