4. Lissy
LISSY
The windows are too bright for a Saturday morning.
I pull the curtains closed and lament the fact that I didn't think to make them out of something like leather to block out the sun. No, instead I had the bright idea of making them out of organza to create a wafty, whimsical look that feels appropriate for an atelier.
But now, with a hangover that pounds in my head like a minotaur trying to escape, I would give anything for the foresight to have made these curtains out of something a bit more substantial to block out the light.
Either that or I need to crawl back to sleep and pray that no one needs a dress alteration at the shop today. I don't have any appointments booked, but someone could still come in on the weekend, and, well, I don't want to let them down, hangover or no.
Maybe I could make those while waiting.
Thinking hurts, but I convince myself that it hurts less than not thinking, and I can use it as an excuse to keep my thoughts off the pounding headache and just do something.
Because I won't be able to make dresses today. And while my fabric costs may go up in the future, wedding dresses made out of leather aren't very popular, so I'm fairly sure I would just be using a textile that would otherwise sit on the shelf for another few years.
Fine, I'll do it.
I go over to my drawers, where I keep all of my materials, and pull them out one by one. If my headache weren't so bad, I could remember which drawer I keep the leather in, but I don't, so I just keep searching.
"Ah! There we are," I exclaim to myself as I pull out the single roll of leather that I keep in stock. It's white leather, finely made and processed, and if I were in a different headspace, I wouldn't want to use it for a set of curtains, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Speaking of desperate measures, I put the roll on my cutting table, measuring it out. There is just enough for the front window, and I can pretend — for now — that the white leather purchase was specifically for days like this and that I still want it to fit the concept of a bridal shop.
"Ah, Lissy," I murmur, checking the measurements. "You're a genius."
Why, thank you, my reflection in the mirrors would say back to me. Except the headache really puts a damper on my excitement.
Maybe I've just invented something new. Hangover curtains that keep the light from searing into the backs of your eyeballs. Maybe I've found my hit product other than wedding dresses, and I'll be famous the world over for having something different.
It isn't the happily ever after that I imagined, but maybe I'm just meant to be a dressmaker, and hangover curtains are the cure for headaches everywhere.
Lisette Sunfell, savior of hangovers realm-wide. She lived and died alone in her dress shop, making tea on the side.
The thought of being alone sobers me a little, but I could really go for some tea at the moment. My grandmother always says that tea cures all ailments, and while it isn't one of Noemi's spells, I would certainly feel a lot better with some tea to sip while working on my curtains.
I put down the textile and move to the back of the shop, busying myself getting the tea brewed so I can start on the curtains.
The bell on my front door jingles as soon as I turn my back.
"Ah, I told you, this is perfect, Ysolde!" says a female voice, one that sounds both kind and gruff at the same time. "Everything any bride would ever need for looking glamorous at her own wedding."
That is exactly what I was going for, and the praise cuts through the fog of my hangover. I stand up to welcome my next guest, my hangover briefly forgotten.
"Welc— ow, fuck!"
While straightening up, I miscalculate how far I am from the open cupboard, and I ram the crown of my head right into the corner.
Pain, different from my previous headache but a new headache all the same, explodes across my skull, and I groan.
I fold forward, clutching at my head. For a moment, it truly feels like my vision is going black and I'm going to pass out in front of new customers.
Right in front of the female who just said my little dress shop is perfect.
"Oh my!" another female voice exclaims, and I feel strong hands support my elbows before I topple over. "Here, have a seat, Miss…"
"Lissy," I supply, although it comes out as more of a grumble. I feel the chair beneath me and surrender my weight to it. "Thank you, sorry about that, I just…" I hiss in pain as I touch the top of my head.
Shit, a goose egg is already forming. And I'm so blinded by pain that I can't see the two women who are helping me.
"Oh, it does look bad," the first voice says. "Torgan, can you come over here to help? Maybe some ice or something?"
The name Torgan echoes in my aching head. I've never heard the name before, but it sounds vaguely orcish, and I know that it's rare for orcs to come through Starling Vale, especially after that one went to Noemi's spell shop a few days ago.
"I don't have ice," I say.
"A spell then," one of the females says eagerly. "Do you have something for pain?"
Before I can answer, a male voice joins the fray. "There's a spell shop down the road. I can get her some pain medicine there."
I freeze, and between my fingers, I look up and see the male orc I saw in Noemi's shop a few days ago.
He's wearing different clothing from our earlier encounter — and I would know, because I fisted his 120-thread linen tunic, and this one is made out of silk, as though this is a special-occasion outing, while before he was trying to look inconspicuous.
Except there is no way this orc could ever look inconspicuous.
Shit, maybe I do see what Lyra sees in orcs.
Or maybe it's my aching head.
There is zero recognition in his gaze as he looks down at me. Okay, there is a sneer, so maybe he does recognize me, but he doesn't say anything that would give anything away to the others — orcs as well, I see now, and the resemblance is enough for me to realize that they're all family.
The Oakenshades, I remember. Noemi called him Lord Oakenshade.
"How do you know there's a spell shop nearby?" one of the females asks him. "You've never been here before. Have you been here before, Ysolde?" she asks the other female, who shakes her head in response.
He freezes. "No. I have not." Again, there is that flash of recognition as he looks down at me. A warning not to oust him as having been in Starling Vale before.
"It's Noemi's Spell Shop," I say, deciding to cover for him. If anything, I rationalize that I need to be nice in order for this sale to come through. "It's a famous establishment in Starling Vale. He probably heard of it." And I give him what I hope is a pointed look.
You owe me.
And I hope he pays me back with something from Noemi's. Quickly. It wouldn't be the first time I've smashed my head into my own things — she'll know exactly what I need.
"Exactly," he says in a hurried, gruff voice. "I will be right back."
The doorbell jingles again. I let out a breath when he is gone. The two female orcs seem much less intimidating than their brother.
I let out a deep exhale, regretting it as my brain takes that moment to remind me that I also have a hangover.
"Here, maybe have some of your tea while we wait," the first one says kindly, handing me my teacup and saucer. "Is it too hot?"
I blow on it. "No, I'm fine." I take a sip, glad that I made ginger and lemon tea — this will help ease the pain in my head. "Thank you."
"No, thank you," she says, giving me a smile.
"How can I help you ladies?" I ask, squinting over at them.
And maybe it's because I took such a bad knock to my noggin, but now, giving them a proper look, I realize these two orc women are beautiful.
One is tall and willowy, her skin a mossy green color and her tusks not as prominent as is common with orcs.
Her thick dark hair is pulled into a braid that goes all the way to her waist. The other is a little shorter, but more muscular, and her hair is cut into a severe bob that makes her look both fierce and stylish.
The taller one speaks, in a softer, more serene voice. "We're here to check out your wedding dresses for my wedding."
"And mine, too," the other one adds eagerly.
I laugh despite myself. "I do have lots of them."
The first one smiles. "I'm Ysolde Oakenshade."
"Brynna Oakenshade," chimes in her sister.
I give a pathetic wave. "Lisette Sunfell. But you can call me Lissy." I clear my throat and look around my shop, trying to figure out how best to serve these two orcs.
I've created plenty of wedding dresses for a wide variety of creatures, but this will be different. I've even dressed centaurs like Kentaria before. Orcs? Never. And through the fog, I can't for the life of me remember what their traditions are when it comes to their wedding dresses.
My grandmother would be ashamed of me if she knew.
As if sensing my thoughts, Ysolde goes over to my cutting table, feeling the leather through her fingers. "This leather you have out is the perfect material for my bodice," she says. "Almost like you were planning on having orcish customers."
My heart sinks for a moment when I realize that my grandiose plans for leather hangover-cure curtains will have to be put on hold for these orc women, but my mind quickly starts working through the best way of fitting it to Ysolde's frame, making the leather mold to her, showing off her assets as a proud orcish woman while making her feel every bit the bride she deserves to be.
"Sometimes the universe works out that way," I say, remembering the words of my grandmother. There's a fabric for every customer, Lissy. That is certainly true in this moment. "So leather for the bodice? I can certainly do that."
"Yes, but I want silk for the skirt and train," Ysolde says. "I'm marrying Duran Ironhoof. A minotaur," she adds quickly. "So it needs to be a blend of our cultures and traditions."