Chapter 14
Durvla
Locking my eyes on the mirror, I still can’t believe what I see. The swollen gash on my face is scabbing over and fading from red to dark blue against my light brown skin. It’s unsightly but could be far worse, I suppose. My curls are still tame beneath the pins Ellynne strategically placed.
I focus on the nearly unrecognizable reflection as I hold the skirt of this lavish dress and dip into one last curtsy.
My legs ache from the repetition, and it’s as if I haven’t slept in ten years—which does nothing to help my nagging headache—but I don’t want to risk another Mainlander laughing in my face the next time I curtsy.
I’ve been in this room for over an hour now, and I still can’t believe that I’m not dreaming. Or having a nightmare. Despite my exhaustion, my nerves crawl every time I try to sit still.
The shadows from the fire in the hearth all resemble Taig’s wild hair. I can see his goofy smile and his little grabby hands. It’s unnatural that I don’t have to get up to prevent him from putting an object into his mouth. There’s no supper to cook, no bath to give.
I am utterly useless, unsure of how to function without having to take care of someone.
Giving up on any attempt to relax, I approach the shelf beside the former dressmaker’s desk and thumb through the stack of fabrics. There are no spun fibers for knitting, but there is a lot of embroidery thread, measuring tape, and a pincushion. I find a couple of quills, an inkwell, and paper.
Sitting at the table, I dip the quill into the inkwell, but the blank sheet of paper stares back at me.
Taunting me. I haven’t measured Princess Carys yet, but I have a good idea of what may suit her body type.
I’m average height with wide hips and a soft middle, while Princess Carys is statuesque and slender with a nonexistent waist. She’s small-chested, which makes designing the bodice easier than if she were heavier up top.
She would look great in a gown with a wide skirt or even something formfitting.
Honestly, she could pull off anything with her confidence, but what suits her?
The quill moves on its own as an image materializes before me.
I still need to get a better idea of the princess’s likes and dislikes, but for now, I have an inkling.
She wants something bold, something unique, something that would cause her suitors to drop dead—literally, apparently.
I smile and shake my head to myself. The princess isn’t what I expected.
In the paintings I’ve seen of the royal family, they’re often in light colored, full-coverage gowns. Maybe the opposite is exactly what Carys wants. I jot down a few notes, my penmanship somewhat careless in my haste.
I wish I could send a letter to Osheen, but he has always refused to let me teach him how to read or write.
It isn’t necessary for my survival, he’s always said.
It turns out it just might be necessary for mine.
The evening creeps in as I sit at the window, gazing into the gathering darkness.
I can’t get my thoughts off Taig. The guilt is predatory, eating away at my conscience.
At some point, I change into a flowy nightgown, but I have to keep my mind busy to keep the tears at bay.
I light all the candles I can find until the desk is lit up like the starry sky.
Then I get back to revising my dress design for the princess.
I’m not sure how much time passes before something touches my shoulder.
I recoil so hard that the tip of the pen tears a hole in the paper, the ink bleeding right through part of the design.
My heart tries to figure out how to beat normally again as Princess Carys stares down at me with raised brows.
I shove my chair back and push myself out of it, dropping into a curtsy. “Apologies, Your Highness.” My words come out in a single, rushed exhalation. “I was a little too focused on …” I stare down at the paper. It’s ruined.
I sigh as Carys lifts the paper and peers at it. “Is this my dress?” Her focus briefly flicks to me before returning to the torn, ink-stained paper, her fingers tapping along the back of the parchment.
I nod. “It’s just a rough idea for now. I have to take your measurements and get more specifics on what you want.”
“Looks like you actually do know what you’re doing.”
I shrug. Part of me wants to play the fool card in hopes I get sent back home sooner, but doing this job well is the smarter option. “Since you’re here, may I take your measurements now?”
“Of course.” She analyzes the sketch again.
I open one of the desk drawers and rummage through it for the tape measure. “I’ll need your height, waist, bust—”
“I’m aware of how measurements go,” she says, impatience hardening her features as she sets my design down and reaches over her shoulder, struggling with the buttons on the back of her dress.
“Right. Apologies.”
“Stop apologizing.”
I nod as she continues to struggle. “Would you like … help with that?”
She casts me an exasperated glower and I somehow manage to hold my ground. “Would you rather gawk at me while I struggle?”
Before I can think of a response, she turns her narrow back to me.
I make quick work of her buttons, praying she doesn’t say anything of importance while her back is to me.
Mercifully, she’s down to her silky shift in no time, her corset tossed aside.
When she faces me again, she’s restless, idly spinning the sun-shaped amulet of her necklace between her fingers.
I take a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer and grab my measuring tape before stepping behind her again.
She remains stationary as I take her height, but as I move on to her waist, her hand taps against the side of her thigh.
She’s fidgeting with her underdress as I take her bust measurement.
By the time I’m done, she’s heaved about a dozen sighs, and I’m honestly surprised she didn’t walk off whenever I paused to jot down the numbers.
“There,” I say with a grimace of a smile as I roll up the tape measure and set it aside.
Her perfectly arched brows rise with surprise, even as she fiddles with her necklace again. “You’re finished?”
I nod.
“That was quick.”
I’ve only ever measured Taig, and that is quite a feat. Her impatient fidgeting can hardly compare, but it’s also … curious. “What color would you like your dress to be?” I ask, trying to keep my mind on the present.
She purses her lips for a moment. “Not ivory or any other shade of white,” she says after a while. “I also have substantial amounts of green and blue in my wardrobe, so something other than those would be great.”
I nod.
The princess glances at my sketch again. “I want the neckline to be a little less …”
The last word I don’t quite make out and my pulse jumps at the fear that she’ll discover my communication challenges.
“Less what?” I ask.
“Stuffy. There isn’t much to show, but I’m not afraid to show what I do have.”
“Oh, understood.” I chuckle, more relieved than amused.
Carys begins to pace in front of me, but she glances at me often enough for me to read the words on her lips. “I want … that is mysterious and … gerous. People need … that I’m not to be toyed with.”
“Mysterious and … dangerous?” I ask. “And that you’re not to be toyed with.”
Her pacing halts, her eyes narrowing. “Yes,” she says, though she clearly wants to pummel me into the ground. I stand firm and breathe through the urge to recoil. I try especially hard to keep myself from asking what constitutes a dangerous dress.
“But if you can’t do that …” She lets the sentence hang.
I’m not sure I can. I swallow around the lump in my throat.
“Durvla, if you make the dress of my dreams, I’ll reward you with anything you want.”
That piques my interest. “Anything?”
“Name it and it’s yours. Within reason, of course.” Her smile is slow, almost practiced.
I falter as I consider asking for wealth and comfort—clemency for harboring an Undesirable and being one myself.
“Well?” she demands.
I settle for the safest request that still works in my favor. “I’d like permission to go back home to Cluain Baile. And an exemption from all future Quarterly Raids.”
She blinks and stares at me. Have I baffled her?
Here I am in the Fortress on the Mount, in the presence of the princess; it should be unlikely that I’d want to leave all of this behind.
But my life’s purpose is not here in the castle—it’s back home with my brother.
Not being a dressmaker, but being a caregiver. It’s what I do best.
“Very well,” says Carys. “But only if you can truly impress me.”
I nod. “That sounds fair.”
Incredulity crosses her face. “Well then, Durvla. Impress me.” She walks backward for a couple of steps, then turns and strides out of my room.
I collapse into the chair, limp with relief. It’s possible that I can go back home. It’s possible that I’d be able to see Taig, my dog Finn, Osheen, Orla, and Granny again. Even Eemer and Grawnye. I crumple my original sketch and begin afresh, my new motivation propelling me through.
I saunter around my temporary room. It’s extravagant yet rigid, lacking the coziness I’m accustomed to, but Taig could flourish here.
He lights up any room. His crooked little smile, his too-hard hugs, and his amusing nuzzles with his head against my cheek are guaranteed to lift my mood, even on the most miserable of days.
He is the epitome of making the best of a situation—of living life with inexplicable and unapologetic joy despite his limitations.
We began hiding him when he was three years old, aware that the Forayers who raided our homes would notice his atypical behavior and have our heads. Worse, they would’ve sent him straight to the Wastelands or wherever they send Undesirable children. I shudder to even fathom it.
To the village, we announced Taig’s death.
It was safer having everyone believe that he no longer lived, safer that the Forayers chronicled his death in their records.
The lie saved his life and ours. Osheen kept the secret from his parents.
He’s the most loyal person I know. When my mother died, he stepped up without even being asked.
There wasn’t much time for grief—I had another little human being to look after.
Keeping Taig alive meant being his person all day, every day.
The older he got, the more attention he needed, and the more I dove deeper and deeper, latching on to my caregiver role. I wouldn’t trade it. I wouldn’t trade my brother. Not for all the luxury in the world.