Jerin glanced at his wedding chest, thinking of the clothes within. What would he wear for dinner?
“We’ve got an hour before the tailors come,” Eldest said. “Let’s hurry with the baths.”
The tailors were a family of at least seven women, with a goodly chance of many more not in attendance.
The eldest was a small, bird-boned woman with sharp features and a bright chirpy voice. Her salt-and-pepper hair was twirled up into a bun by way of a charcoal pencil, joined by a hemming guide and a pattern roller. A flock of younger sisters followed in her wake, carrying colorful ribbons and swatches of fabric. It was obvious by the way they migrated about the room, emitting pleased twitters over the rich appointments, that it was the first time the younger sisters visited the palace.
“My, my, my, what a pretty little brother you have here.” The eldest tailor circled Jerin. “Certainly makes my job more pleasant. Nothing is worse than trying to make an ugly toad of a boy into something someone would want in their bed.”
“Someone bedded their mothers,” Eldest said.
“Fathers are bought, not mothers.” The tailor grinned at her own wit. “I’ll enjoy making this one radiant.
I could even use him to set the next rage.”
“Rage?” Eldest asked.
“The most popular fashion at the moment,” the tailor explained. “They’re started by the powerful or the beautiful. The rage this season is to dress the family in a theme, say a dark blue silk.” She snapped her fingers. One of the younger sisters thumbed through her stack of fabric swatches to select out several shimmering blues. “A shirt for the boy, a vest for the Eldest, trousers for the Mother Elder-that sort of thing. In a glance, you can see who belongs to who.”
“If this season is just starting,” Summer asked, “how do you know what is the rage?”
A chorus of twittering laughter broke out from the flock of younger tailors, silenced by a look from their eldest. “Oh, orders for clothes start as early as the end of last season.” She took the blue silks, and examined each carefully in turn. “Normally a rage starts the last week or so of a season and hits full force at the beginning weeks of the next season. The ladies of Avonar started the family-theme rage the last season while courting for a husband, and one could not have asked for a better starter of a rage.
Powerful and beautiful in one package.”
“You recommend a blue?” Eldest asked.
“This one would be perfect.” The tailor held a swatch of cobalt-blue silk stamped with a shimmering design to Jerin’s chest. The intimate touch of a complete stranger made him blush, especially with so many people watching. “To bring out his eyes, not that they don’t jump out and grab you already.
Landed gentry you might be, but I think you’ll find no end to offers.”
Eldest also seemed bothered by the tailor’s encroachment. She rested a hand on Jerin’s back. Jerin more felt than saw the gaze his older sister directed over his shoulder at the tailor.
Summer drifted closer. “Are there ever brothers stolen?”
“Oh, yes.” The tailor backed off unhurriedly, perhaps well used to possessive sisters. “Not out from under the Queens’ eyes, I would think, but a number of boys are snatched each season. Oh, it’s not the peers you have to watch; they aren’t the desperate ones. It’s those poor of resources: street vendors, house guards, maids-”
“Tailors,” Summer added to the list.
The tailor laughed, unembarrassed. “Yes, there was at least one case of such.” She sobered then, and looked levelly at Eldest. “Some boys end up in a crib, whored out to father children for the desperate.
Disease runs rampant in those houses; there’s a reason the gods forbid us from sharing our husband with the less fortunate. Even if you find the boy and free him, most families won’t run the risk of a disease taking out wives and children in the future. Guard this little sweetie well.”
“We always have.” Eldest glowered at the tailor.
“Well”-the tailor turned away-“there is much to do, so let us start. It will take several days to prepare a wardrobe for your family: until then, you will need something suitable. Princess Odelia advised us on your build, and we’ve brought some clothes that should fit with some alterations. The peers of the realm-” She shook her head. “They order clothes and then change their mind, usually after they see the bill. Funny thing is, money is never the reason for them. No, no, the color is wrong, or the cut, or the fit; they’re always too proud to say they cannot afford our clothes.”
Raven waited for Ren at the palace stable.
Ren swung down off her horse, and threw her reins to her groom as a grin bloomed on her face. He’s here! Jerin’s finally here!
“I wish I could believe that smile was for me.” Raven nodded in greeting to Ren.
“I’m glad to see you too.” Ren swatted at Raven. “How is he?”
“He’s fine. The trip went well. No attempted kidnappings and only one offer to stud him out-which was politely but firmly refused. You might be interested to know that they’re planning to hold out for four thousand crowns.”
Ren paused. “They know we’re going to offer?”
“Actually, I don’t think they have a clue. Sometimes they’re refreshingly naive about the whole thing.
They reason if they can get two thousand out of landed gentry, they should be able to get four thousand out of nobility.”
Ren shrugged, said, “Not unreasonable,” and headed for the palace in long strides. The city clocks had rung five o’clock during her ride up-she had missed the dressing gong, and dinner would be soon. “I’m willing to pay four thousand. He’s worth it.”
“More the point of their plan,” Raven said, falling in step with her, “is that it lets them afford a husband of good breeding, and the mercantile at Heron Landing.”
“The one run by those tiny old ladies? What was the name? Picker?”
“The same.”
Ren started to strip off her sweat-stained clothes as soon as she entered her bedroom. Raven leaned against the mantel, looking entirely pleased with herself.
“So what do you think of him,” Ren asked, “now that you’ve had a chance to spend time with him?”
It was Raven’s turn to shrug. “Keep in mind that I have known only three men in my life. Your father, Keifer, and your cousin Cullen.”
Interesting, she doesn’t consider Keifer as my husband, Ren thought, washing off dirt and sweat.
“Of the three,” Raven continued, “I would say Jerin is most like your father, but only in the way apples are like oranges.”
“What does that mean?”
Raven looked annoyed at her own analogy. “Forget I said that.”
“Tell me.” Ren toweled dry. A middle Barnes sister had laid out her dinner clothes, knowing Ren liked privacy for discussing matters with Raven before dinner.
“Jerin is stronger of character than your father. I don’t think Jerin would have let Keifer rule the roost like your father did. He certainly wouldn’t have let what happened to Trini occur in the next bedroom.”
Ren froze in the act of reaching for her shirt. “Don’t say that.”
“Keifer was poison for your family. Worse yet, Eldest and the others took it willingly. No one would put their foot down, so he got away with everything.”
Ren forced herself to continue dressing, her fingers suddenly seeming too thick to deal with the buttons.
“True, but that’s over; Keifer is dead, and Jerin’s nothing like him.”
Raven considered, her eyes distant. “The more time I spend with Mr. Whistler, the more I like him,” she finally admitted. “I think he’s a good man, but I could be wrong. I’ve only known three men in my life, Ren, and only one of them was a responsible, reasonable human being. If I am wrong, Jerin could be far more dangerous than Keifer.”
“Meaning?” Ren tried not to let panic in. It was her captain’s job to be paranoid, to seek danger where it might not be found.
Raven reached into her coat and took out a small pistol that she sat on the mantel beside her. A long slim knife joined the pistol. “Keifer was never this well armed, and certainly never trained by thieves, spies, and assassins.”
