5. Lissy
LISSY
"Just one more clip."
I add the clip and then release it, stepping back to admire the shape of Ysolde's wedding-dress bodice.
I haven't worked with leather as much as I would have liked during my career, as it isn't as forgiving as some other textiles, but seeing how the leather gives support and shape to the dress, making it perfectly suited for her, I make a mental note to use it more often.
It adds a bit of mystery and diversity to the dress, rewarding anyone who looks at it with swirls of designs, both cut-out and gathered fabric that appear as a work of art all by themselves.
I look up at Ysolde and give her a thumbs up. "Beautiful."
She sucks in a deep breath and turns to the mirrors, seeing herself reflected from the front and back, a stunning bride-to-be, all elegance and nature.
"Oh, Lissy," she murmurs, not taking her eyes off her reflection.
She smooths the front and turns, checking the back where I've put the clips.
I just need to take it in a little bit, and then, other than some finishing touches and the embroidery I plan to add, I've made a completed wedding dress in a week.
I've outdone myself, and I am not ashamed to admit it.
"It's beautiful," Ysolde says, her expression turning watery. "How did you manage it so quickly?"
"Magic," I say, giving her a wink. "Not really." I hadn't even used one of Noemi's potions. I wanted to push myself to do this without causing an accident that would require a potion to correct. "I just wanted to give you the dress that you deserve. Like all the brides that come through here."
Ysolde looks down at me from her dais and smiles. "It's perfect."
We are immediately interrupted by what seems to be a swarm of orc women, who come up to the dais to look at the finery up close.
"Oh, Ysolde!" Ysolde's younger sister Saskia gushes. "It's stunning. Duran is going to fall in love with you all over again."
"Well, it's easy with a bride as beautiful as Ysolde," Brynna says defensively.
"Oh, I hope this will be me one day," the youngest of the Oakenshade sisters, Mirelle, says wistfully, playing with the skirt fabric in her hands.
I step back, letting the orc family look at the dress, giving them space to critique my choices or ask questions. It doesn't seem like they have much in the way of changes — truly, most of their comments are just about how beautiful the dress is.
I did a good job. And I am proud of myself for it.
I can't help my smile as I slip my scissors back into my apron. I amaze myself sometimes, and today is one of those days. And the best part is, the family thinks the same way, which makes all this worthwhile.
Well, most of the family. One brother does not seem to want anything to do with the dress fitting.
I twist my head over my shoulder to look at the brooding orc lord in the corner.
Torgan has been brought along again — dragged along, if his attitude is any indication of what happened before they came here.
He sits in a chair that seems comically too small for his big frame, one boot crossed over his knee while he reads the newspaper he brought with him.
I catch a glimpse of the title: The Battle Times.
"Human frippery," he mutters under his breath, not looking my way.
I tilt my head, shocked at the insult, but Mirelle comes to my aid before I say anything that would get me in trouble with the oldest of the Oakenshade children.
"What was that, dear brother?" she asks tensely.
Torgan's eyes peer at me from above the top of the newspaper before he goes back to the articles. "Nothing."
"Thought so," Mirelle says, visibly bristling. "Don't insult our dressmaker. She'd even make your sorry ass look great in a dress."
"Can you imagine!" Brynna asks, barking a laugh, and Mirelle joins her. I have the sense that the two younger sisters are the closest in the family, as thick as thieves. "Torgan in a dress."
"Now, now," Saskia mutters. "The only dress we care about right now is Ysolde's."
"Yeah." Mirelle snickers. "Because no one in their right mind would ever marry Torgan."
I blink, feeling the heat rush to my face as I steal another glance at Torgan. Shit. Our eyes meet, and the slight rise of his eyebrow tells me he can see my embarrassment. I turn away and go to my desk, wanting to get some tea, something to busy myself. "Would anyone like some tea?"
"Please," all four sisters answer at the same time before dissolving into a fit of giggles.
"Here, I'll help," Saskia says, coming up on my right.
"Oh, you don't have to…"
"Don't worry about it." Saskia places five teacups on their saucers, as though she knows my own tea set better than I do. "I love some good tea."
"I'll help Ysolde out of the dress then," I say, feeling oddly put out of place by Saskia taking over the tea. "Wouldn't want to get tea on it…"
"We'll help her, Lissy," Brynna says. "You've done so much, just sit down."
"But…" So many things could go wrong while they're gossiping and not paying attention, but Brynna waves me away.
"Sit down, Lissy."
I do, and realize too late that I have sat down next to Torgan, who scowls over at me.
Shit.
I don't want to do this. I don't want to be sitting right next to him, when at any moment, I could say something stupid that would ruin this and make a fool out of myself.
"Just follow orders," he says, not looking my way. "It's easier that way."
"Damn right," Mirelle shoots back at him.
He heaves a weary sigh without looking up from the paper. "See what I mean?" He gives the paper an irritated flick.
But the thing is, I don't like sitting without anything to do. Because sitting this close to Torgan lets my traitorous thoughts drift toward him, wondering why he is so grumpy, what it was like growing up with four sisters.
Who the anti-love potion was for.
I sneak another glance at him. This close, I can see the little details I missed at Noemi's — the faint scar that nicks through one eyebrow, the way he presses his mouth closed around words he will not let out. He smells like cedar, and I hate that I notice and like it.
He catches me looking.
"Do I have something on my face?" he says. It isn't really a question. More of an accusation at this point.
"No." I turn back to the room, cheeks hot. "Just wondering what a warrior reads about in a newspaper. Aside from battles, I suppose."
"Grain prices." He turns a page. "Border disputes. The occasional wedding announcement, when a lord marries off a daughter he should have kept from marrying."
There's something under that last one, and before I can think better of it I say, "You don't approve of weddings?" I cross my arms as I shift my body toward him.
"I approve of weddings fine." His gaze moves to the dais, to Ysolde laughing as Brynna and Mirelle work through the hidden clasps of the dress. "Just like I approve of my sisters less when they're being ridiculous."
"They seem happy," I say, watching him closely to see what he says.
"They seem loud."
But he says it softly, and he doesn't look away from them, and I suddenly understand that this male wears grumpiness like armor.
I know a thing or two about that. After all, I make a living dressing people in exactly what they want the world to notice, so that they don't have to show the rest of what's underneath.
"That too," I agree finally. "But you'll miss them." It is not a question.
I don't mean to say it. It just falls out, the way things do with me.
His newspaper drops into his lap.
“I’ll survive,” he says. Then he raises it again, ending our conversation right there.
Across the room, Ysolde steps down off the dais in her shift, Brynna and Mirelle carrying the dress like a museum artifact.
"You're so talented," Ysolde says to me now, warm. "Ma's going to be a mess over it. She's been a wreck about weddings ever since — well." She gives a small pause. "Ever since everything with Pa."
The laughter in the shop drops slightly. I don't understand it, but I feel it.
"Ysolde," Torgan says, his voice nearly a growl. Quiet. A warning.
"I'm only saying Ma feels things more these days." Ysolde smooths the shift over her arms, not meeting her brother's eyes. "She's softer since she was hurt. That's all. It isn't a secret."
"This is not a story for the dress shop."
His mouth tightens, and he raises the newspaper between us.
I do what I always do when the conversation during a fitting takes a wrong turn.
I reach for the tea that Saskia offers me.
"Well," I say brightly, "I think your mother will be thrilled.
That's what mothers are for at weddings.
And tears are okay, except you don't want her taking away from the wedding.
I remember hearing about one wedding where they had to pause it because a mother was sobbing so loudly, the congregation couldn't hear the celebrant. "
It works.
Mirelle laughs, and Saskia says something about how she plans to make everyone cry on purpose, and Torgan's expression eases by a fraction — not a smile, nothing so overt as that, but his jaw unclenches. He goes back to his newspaper.
I notice he doesn't turn the page, which means he is still listening.
We drink the tea. The sisters gossip and bicker and refill their cups without asking, completely at home in my little shop, and I let myself pretend for an hour that this warm, loud crowd of them is the kind of family gathering I get to have.
It would have been so nice to have a family like this.
Ysolde schedules her final fitting. Brynna promises to come next for her own consultation — hers is the next wedding in the succession of the orc family, and she wants to talk embroidery, which she says like a woman who has been thinking about this very thing for months.
Then Mirelle hugs me on the way out — actually hugs me, quick and fierce, like we've known each other for years — and then they pour back out, a river of green skin and dark hair into the chaos of the main street.
Torgan stands a head above all of them, herding them like they're sheep, not his sisters.
The bell jingles. The door shuts.
And then the shop is quiet again.
And I'm alone.
I gather the teacups. I sweep up the thread ends and the scraps of leather. I'm crouched by the little footstool Torgan dragged into the corner, wiping it down, when I see it.
One strand of dark thread. Dark and twisted, sitting on top of the armrest of the chair where he sat. I recognize the color as being from his vest, the 120-thread-count vest he wore today.
I pick it up with two fingers and stand there like a fool, holding it up to the candlelight. It's just thread.
It means nothing.
I carry it to the wastebasket, holding it over the mouth of the bin.
I don't let go.
I actually can't let go.
"Lissy," I chide myself out loud, to no one, to my empty shop. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Am I turning into some strange, obsessive, heartsick person? Torgan doesn't see me as anyone but the person dressing his sister for her wedding. Nothing more than that. And I should really, really not be clinging to a single piece of thread like this.
But I still can't get rid of it.
Fuck it, then.
I open the little drawer in my work desk where I keep the things I can't bear to throw out — a scrap of my mother's ribbon, a thimble that isn't mine, the first crooked cross-stitch I ever sewed, which Grammy saved and gave to me when I was old enough to be sentimental, not embarrassed.
And I lay the single dark strand inside.
Then I shut the drawer, blow out the candles, and go up to bed before I can think too hard about why.