The Moonfire Bride by Sylvia Mercedes

Author:Sylvia Mercedes [Mercedes, Sylvia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: FireWyrm Books
Published: 2021-03-01T23:00:00+00:00

For two days, I work on the gown. I stitch and adjust and pin and drape, and slowly, slowly, the ideas in my head begin to manifest in reality.

When fear freezes my hand, I pull one of the gowns from the chest, chop it to pieces, and use large swaths of cloth to make mock-ups, to see if the ideas leading me wildly down the road of inspiration are even feasible. But these mock-ups taunt me, for even when they work, they are only creations of ordinary silk or satin, nothing like the petal-blossom fabric. I can’t know for certain how it will turn out unless I am brave, unless I take risks.

Then, one evening, it all comes crashing down.

I’ve been hours at work, pleating along the waistline of the pink gown—tiny, painstaking pleats, dozens of them, held together with silver pins. I’m so close to my work, and the vision in my head is so clear, so perfect, that I don’t think to step back and check my progress until I’ve gone around the entire circumference of the waist. Only then, blinking and sore-shouldered, do I scoot back on my knees.

I frown.

I scoot a little farther. Stand. Turn my head to one side.

Oh, great gods above. It’s all wrong. It’s all wrong.

That night, I can’t eat. Ellie tries to drag me out to the banquet table for supper, but I send her away with a growl and a wave of my hand. Instead, I kneel on the seat of my upholstered chair, my arms folded along the headrest, my chin resting on my elbows, and stare at the dress. The hideous, horrible abomination with its awful pleats and its terrible silhouette, and its . . . its . . . Oh, how I hate it.

I bury my face in my arms, then slowly melt down into the chair, curling my knees up to my chest. Exhaustion aches through my limbs, throbs in my temples. I’ve spent too much time on this project over the last three days. It can’t possibly be healthy. But how can I bear to leave it? It’s meant to be something so wonderful, so exquisite! I can feel it, I can feel the shape just at my fingertips.

Only I’ve gone and ruined the whole thing with those wretched, wretched pleats.

I sink into a doze, not quite sleep, not quite wakefulness. Merely a numb space of self-loathing and frustration unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. The closest I’ve ever come to this feeling was two years ago when Mistress Petren gave me a chance to drape a lady’s ballgown according to the latest trend for large, voluminous sleeves. During my work I had a sudden burst of inspiration for a new silhouette that would go so well with the gown’s basic lines, with the soft, shimmering fabric, with the lovely silver trim. How I longed to pursue that image so tantalizing and clear in my head!

But I had my orders. The lady wanted voluminous sleeves, so voluminous sleeves she must have.

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