Wicked Court by May Sage

Author:May Sage
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy YA Fantasy
Publisher: Twisted Mirth Publishing
Published: 2020-01-25T22:58:45+00:00

thirteen

thorns and silk

We end up at Ma’am Rolo after all; not by my will. Drusk asks me which designer I favor, and when I come up blank, he recommends her. “I hear she’s the best.”

“That also means the dearest.”

He shrugs that off. “It sounds like my problem, not yours.”

I glance at him, wondering at his magnanimous generosity. I’ve never had cause to think soldiers earn quite enough to squander their gold in such a manner.

Ma’am’s twig-limbed brownie assistant greets us, and after opening an account in Drusk’s name, quickly ushers him to what she calls the husbands’ cafe. They’re to be given as much wine as they need to forget that their wives are spending their fortunes next door.

It’s all very scandalous, to me at least.

Then I’m taken to a large room closed with blood-red velvet curtains, where assistants undress and measure me.

I peek at the numbers scribbled on their sketches and sigh. I’m four foot nine, still. I hold myself straighter, imagining that I might earn the last inch that would bring me to a more reasonable height.

The high fae females stand around five foot ten on average. Of course, the pixie females are often under four feet in height, like Meda. When my father didn’t inherit her legacy, she generously passed it down to me.

I wish certain bequests could be returned.

I’m served wine and taken to a room with an endless supply of fabrics; lace, silks, velvets, embroidered satin, of all colors and weights. I’m overwhelmed, hardly knowing where to look, touching everything, finding a new favorite shade at every turn.

It’s just as well I can’t afford to buy from stores like this; I’d waste my life away in here.

I want everything. Having to settle on one piece of cloth seems an impossible feat, until I see it.

A midnight-blue tulle with gold thorns embroidered all along its length; no roses, just the thorns. It’s beautiful and prickly. It’s harsh and soft all at once.

It’s me.

I rush to it and touch the cloth. It’s softer than it appears to be, and warm enough for a winter night.

“This.”

The assistant tells me I need to pick a plainer fabric to complement it; I find blue velvet, and next, I’m taken to Ma’am Rolo herself.

While I’m surprised, I hide it well. I tower over her, and the slightest wind could blow her away. Ma’am Rolo is a pixie, or something close to it, though she has eyes of sea and the long limbs of a spider. Her lumpy trumpet nose and big eyes without pupils, stuck inside of her skull, suggest imp ancestry. Her skin is the green of moth, and she has long white hair braided at the back of her head.

I expected a sprite. That a lower fae has managed to rise as the best-known dressmaker in Hardrock is no small achievement.

“Who are you? I know your kind.”

I’m too stunned to reply immediately.

“Nilieth, Nilian, Niligan, Morigan…”

“Vlari.” I introduce myself, cutting her off. I don’t need to be reminded of the names of all my ancestors.

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