“Keda!” Teagan hisses warningly. “As we’ve discussed already. It’s not an option.”
I perk up. “What’s the idea?”
“Our chat yesterday got me thinking. There’s a dressmaker here in the city—an old friend of mine from our early years of schooling. She’s married to a member of the Ember Guild, so we don’t see much of each other anymore. Different social circles, you understand.” The brown skin of her cheeks tinges pink, but she perseveres. “We still keep in touch every now and then. And I just know, if I bring you to her, she’ll be honored to create a dress fit for the Remnant of Air.”
“Keda,” Teagan scolds. “You know Queen Vanora has a gown being prepared for her already by the royal dressmakers!”
“She does?” I ask.
Keda’s slim face contorts in a grimace. “Thatawful thing? You cannot be serious! It’s the color of pus! Not at all suited to Lady Rhya’s coloring. Not that you’ll even be able to see her face with so many ruffles at the collar…”
My lips twist. “How very…considerate…of Her Royal Majesty to think of me.”
“You’re a lovely woman. You’ll look…” Even while wringing her hands in distress, Teagan cannot bring herself to lie. “You’ll make the best of it, no matter what the gown looks like.”
“She’s to be presented to the whole city!” Keda practically screeches. “You’d have her look like a pustule?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Keda! You know I don’t want Lady Rhya looking like a pustule!”
“I also would prefer not to look like a pustule,” I chime in. “For the record.”
They both ignore me, busy glaring at each other.
“Are we certain I even have to attend?”
“You have to attend,” they say in unison.
“Then I vote we pay this dressmaker friend a visit.” I rise to my feet. “Gods know, right now, I’d walk to the guillotine just for a chance to stretch my legs.”
“It’s settled, then. We’ll pay her a call this afternoon. You can speak to her while we run our errands at the market, and we’ll collect you on our way home.”
Teagan makes one final appeal. “The prince won’t be pleased when he hears of this…”
Keda plants her hands on her hips in defiance. “What do you think will displease the prince more—returning to find she’s slipped out of the tower for a few hours under our close supervision? Or splattered against the rocks beneath the falls because she’s been driven mad by boredom in his absence?”
“I’m guessing the latter,” I murmur.
Both women studiously ignore me for the second time in as many minutes.
“Come now, Teagan. Surely you can agree she’s in need of some diversion,” Keda wheedles. “I don’t see the harm in it. We’ll be with her practically the whole time!”
“But the prince—”
“Stay here, then!” Keda throws up her hands in frustration. “If you’re so worried about breaking protocol, stay here. We’ll be gone but a few hours.”
“I’m not staying here! Gods only know what kind of trouble the two of you will find yourselves in without me there to talk you out of it!”
And so we go—the three of us, together. No one moves to stop us as we make our way down the many stairs and through the drafty stone passages of the keep below. No one pays us anymind whatsoever. Keda was right; everyone is far too busy preparing for the upcoming festival to notice two brown-clad maids and their blue-cloaked charge slipping out the front gates and hurrying across the bridge.
The minute the sun hits my face, my spirits soar. To either side of us, the lake sparkles like facets of a teal gemstone. We pass a fleet of arriving tradesmen, their horse-drawn wagons piled high with foodstuffs, flowers, fireworks, fresh vegetables, and festive decorations. Some are strapped down with cages of chickens, geese, and other live fowl; others have pigs leashed behind them, waddling to their deaths with smiling snouts. The line of merchants stretches nearly the length of the bridge, all waiting for their chance to unload at the front gates.
The market is similarly crowded—even more so than the first time I saw it, each stall packed with shoppers. Keda marches through the bustle with a purposeful stride, clearing a path with the sheer force of her gaze. People scurry out of our way like cockroaches in torchlight. With her in the lead, it does not take us long to clear the throng.
Only moments later, we are in a part of town I’ve never seen before. The streets are cobbled, the sidewalks lined with flickering lampposts. The buildings are cramped close together, one running right into the next—a mix of shops and storage depots, narrow alleyways and stone-faced warehouses. We bypass a stately bank building, where a constant stream of patrons flows in and out the tall front doors, exchanging crowns from fat purses at their belts.
Eventually, we turn off the main thoroughfare onto a pleasant avenue lined with squat manicured trees and several glass-fronted shops that exude elegance. I note an apothecary, a cobbler, and a delicious-smelling chocolatier before we come to a stop outside a pale blue building at the end of the block.
Several fabulous ball gowns are on display in the window, a blend of intricate beading, bold cuts, and eye-catching needlework. One looks like a golden bird in flight, with a feathered bodice and fluttering wing sleeves. Another seems fit for a mermaid beneath the sea, with a pearl-lined bodice and a long train of shiny disks that shine like scales. The front door is propped open to allow the breeze inside. The wooden shingle hanging above it declaresPREMIER CLOTHIERin ornate carved letters.