5. Boundaries and Bargains #6
"She is my Canariae." Malec's voice cut in, low and smooth as riverstone.
"The one you've heard about." His storm-dulled wheat colored eyes pinned the woman in place, his pleasant tone sharpened to a deadly point.
"If so much as a word is spoken out of turn, if a single thread is laid on her in malice, I will burn this establishment to its foundations. Personally."
The Madam blinked once.
Surian stepped forward quickly, laughter forced but musical. "Forgive him. He's in one of his moods. Ignore it. Please."
The Madam only inclined her head in silent acknowledgment. But her eyes never left Malec's until she was sure he would not elaborate further.
"We have your measurements, Lady Surian," she said delicately, turning away from him as if he were a troublesome statue.
Surian waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not shopping for myself, we are shopping for her." She gestured to Allora, who stiffened under the sudden attention.
A pause stretched, just long enough to sting.
But when the Madam finally spoke, her tone was smooth as polished silk. "Wonderful." She bowed her head to Allora with the same courtesy she might offer a princess. "If my lady will follow me."
Surian slipped her hand into Allora's and gave it a reassuring squeeze, her fingers cool and steady. Her excitement was palpable, her eyes bright with the joy of someone about to spoil their favorite person.
As they moved past Malec, Allora let out a groan that echoed through the vaulted space.
"I don't want stupid dresses," she whined, dragging her feet like a petulant child.
"I want weapons. Armor. Something practical.
A nice dagger, maybe. Ooo…or a crossbow so I can fuck someone up.
" She made gestures as though she had an imaginary crossbow in her arms and she was shooting it like a machine gun.
"Allora," Malec said pointedly, though the corner of his mouth was already twitching. "Conduct yourself."
But the smile broke through anyway, warm and utterly besotted. His feral little wife, complaining about silk in a temple of luxury. Gods, he adored her.
Surian tugged harder on Allora's arm, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "Oh, hush. You're not going into battle, you're going to dinner parties. Now come along before you embarrass us both."
"I'd rather go into battle," Allora muttered darkly.
"I know you would, sweet one," Surian said with fond patience, as though speaking to a beloved but difficult younger sister. "But unfortunately for you, I'm in charge today. Now march."
Surian's voice floated back over her shoulder toward Malec, bright and pointed. "Stay here. Try not to terrify anyone while we are gone."
Malec arched a brow at her, his mouth fully curved now into an amused smile he didn't bother hiding. "Enjoy yourselves," he drawled, tone infuriatingly pleasant.
Then, unbelievably, he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a slow kiss across her knuckles before letting her go.
Allora still scowled as Surian guided her deeper into the warren of silk-draped alcoves, muttering about “stupid fancy fabric prisons,” but Surian beamed, practically bouncing on her toes with barely contained delight.
Behind them, Malec turned toward the courtyard with that same air of preternatural calm. A waiting attendant approached, hands trembling as she offered a tray of spiced wine and honeyed fruits. He waved her off without looking, eyes fixed on the spot where Allora had disappeared.
He already missed her. But the satisfaction of watching her awe, of seeing her realize what being his truly meant, lingered warm in his chest. And hearing her complain about dresses while asking for weapons?
That was just perfect.
They walked behind the Madam in a line of uneven grace—Surian gliding like royalty, Allora trudging like a prisoner.
As the Madam's plum-colored robes swept across polished marble, Allora's patience cracked.
She stepped a little closer, pitching her voice low but not nearly low enough to keep it private.
"If it's all the same," she began, "I'd rather you make me trousers and tunics. No corsets or freaking skirts. I hate them."
The Madam almost tripped. She turned her head just enough that Allora caught the briefest rise of horror on her elegant features, like she was being asked to dress a queen in burlap sacks.
"Tunics?" she repeated, voice going thin. "Lady, surely you jest."
Allora didn't even blink. "No. I'm serious. I don't mind silk or nice fabrics, it's just that dresses are so impractical. They weigh me down, feel weird around my feet, and I have this fear of small animals climbing up my legs and getting into my vag?—"
"ALLORA!" Surian's hand shot out, pinching her side hard enough to make her yelp. Her face had gone pink, her eyes wide with mortified horror. "If you finish that sentence, I will have your mouth gagged. I swear on every star in the sky."
The Madam looked like she'd just witnessed a murder. Her elegant composure had cracked completely, her mouth hanging open in scandalized shock.
Allora rubbed her side, scowling. "I was just making a valid point about practicality?—"
"You were being vulgar," Surian hissed, though her lips were twitching despite herself. "In front of the most exclusive seamstress in the Capitol. Do you have any idea how many noble families would kill for an appointment here?"
"Then they can have mine," Allora muttered, but there was no real heat in it.
Surian took a deep breath, smoothing her expression back into careful grace as she turned to the still-horrified Madam. "Please forgive her. She was a feral Canariae raised very far from here. Different customs. Very different."
The Madam nodded mutely, clearly trying to process what she'd just heard.
Surian turned back to Allora, her voice dropping to a fond but exasperated whisper.
"Dresses. You're getting dresses. Beautiful, elegant dresses that will make you look like the queen you refuse to admit you're becoming.
And you will wear them without complaining about rodents crawling up your—" She stopped herself, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Gods help me."
Allora's mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. "Fine. Dresses. But if I trip over a hem and break my neck in front of all your stupid rich friends, I'm haunting you first."
"I'll take that risk," Surian said dryly, linking her arm through Allora's again and pulling her forward. "Now come on. And for the love of everything holy, no more talk about small animals and your... anatomy."
"No promises," Allora murmured, but she was smiling now too. Behind them, the Madam had recovered enough to continue walking, though she kept casting nervous glances back at Allora as though expecting another verbal assault at any moment.
They passed through a final set of silken curtains, stepping into a vast chamber lined with mirrors and perfumed with flowers Allora couldn't name, and she immediately spotted the four Awyan noblewomen watching her approach.
The doors to the elaborate women's dressing room sighed open on a wave of warm, jasmine-scented air and the hush of silk curtains.
Inside, four Awyan noblewomen reclined like sleek predators in a den of velvet and gilt, each draped in silver-threaded gowns, their fingers lazily curling around crystal flutes of citrus wine.
Surian stopped so abruptly that Allora nearly collided with her shoulder.
It was just a flutter, a single stiffening of Surian's spine and the smallest catch in her breath. But it was enough.
Allora felt it instantly.
These were not acquaintances or rivals. They were the Capitol's most polished predators. Vipers in pearls. The Madam, all gracious composure, either blissfully ignorant or pretending to be, gestured delicately toward the lounging quartet.
"Lady Surian, this is Lady Kirelle, Lady Maren, Lady Salla, and Mistress Teyel," she intoned with syrupy sweetness.
Then her gaze slid to Allora, and the smile turned brittle around the edges.
"And this is the personal Canariae of Commander Malec."
A pause, thin and brittle as spun glass.
"Commander Malec is currently waiting in the courtyard," she continued, her voice pitched just loud enough to echo off the arched ceilings, "and quite within earshot. So I do expect everyone to act with grace."
She smiled, the threat wrapped neatly in politeness. The noblewomen offered their heads in greeting, smooth as ceremony, eyes cutting the whole while. Measuring her…but mostly Surian.
The Madam swept off to fetch a seamstress, leaving the air so thick it demanded to be felt.
Surian stood rooted to the polished floor, her fingers trembling slightly in the folds of her gown. Allora looked at her. Really looked. And saw it.
Fear.
A cold heaviness settled in Allora’s chest. She could tell by Surian’s reaction that these were the ones who'd made Surian feel small. Who'd carved little wounds into her confidence with smiles and whispers and barbed comments no one else dared to confront.
Well. Allora wasn't "no one."
With a serene little smile, she stepped forward, peeling off her cloak as though she had every right in the world to stand there. She draped the fabric over her arm with theatrical precision.
"Hi," she said brightly, her voice ringing through the vaulted chamber. "Since we're all apparently invested in my wardrobe, do any of you have thoughts on color? What shade screams 'ornamental property' most accurately?"
Silence.
They blinked at her, stunned that she'd spoken. Utterly shocked that she'd dared. Surian's hand found hers, gripping tight. Allora glanced down. Her friend's knuckles were pale.
That did it.
The woman with copper-auburn hair stood, gown whispering as she drifted forward with the self-satisfied grace of a cat bringing home a half-dead mouse.
She didn't even look at Allora.
"Lady Surian," she purred, her voice soft as down and twice as deadly, "you really ought to teach the Commander's pet some manners. If you intend to parade her through respectable establishments."