Penryn swallowed thickly. The carts arriving. More provisions than the last few days combined.
“Today?” she breathed out, trying and failing to keep her nerves carefully locked away.
“Today,” Henrik agreed, a hint of compassion in his eyes, and again she was struck with the feeling that if she was anybody else, he would have reached out and patted her arm in comfort. So he had to settle for looks and nods, and she had to pretend that it was enough.
Penryn chewed at her lip. She should have her boots on. She should have checked her hair before she opened the door lest the wind had made it untidy. The shawl should have been exchanged for a cloak. Perhaps not hers, as the hem was travel-worn, even with Mara’s careful ministrations, but something that inspired more than what she was currently wearing.
“Would you like me to send Mara up to help you with anything?” he asked gently, and she felt a sudden wave of relief. She could mind her tongue for that long, and Mara understood the finer gowns in the wardrobe. And it was not lost on her that the phrasing of his query was carefully chosen. If she wished to go as she was, he would say nothing, but if she wished it to be different... “I will send her to you and return within the hour. People should have assembled by then.”
Her stomach clenched just to think of that, the seats downstairs filled to the brim, of her facing them all.
At least when she had been paraded before the initiates for her guardianship, there had been excitement to temper some of the anxious tension.
Now there was only dread of what would come next.
Penryn retreated and shut the door as Henrik departed, and when next it opened, Mara appeared, Penryn already at the wardrobe, peering inside bemusedly.
“You would like help, my lady?” There was no mistaking the strain in Mara’s voice, and Penryn felt a brief moment of guilt at being the cause for it. She had been dismissed abruptly, and that was unkind, regardless of its necessity.
Penryn waved a hand before the wardrobe, finding little need for playacting when all she had to do was allow some of her rigid control to slip and the worry to become paramount and she sounded just as harried as she had intended. “I do not know what is suitable,” she confessed, stepping backward and allowing room for Mara to come give an opinion.
She could add that there had never been a choice in her attire before—at least not for formal events. There was a small wardrobe in her chamber back home, for when it was just her and her books and no one of consequence would see her. But on days when she would be paraded and gawked at, her clothing would be waiting for her when she returned from her bath, down to the stockings themselves.
Mara gave a nod and there was perhaps a wisp of a smile about her lips, although it vanished just as quickly. “Everyone is very excited about today,” she confided, her voice low as if there was anyone about them to overhear. “I wasn’t sure you’d call for me.”
“I appreciate your willingness to help,” Penryn answered in lieu of an outright apology. That might lead to soft words, to the baring of too much, of words that were never meant to be shared.
Mara delved into the clothing, sifting and pulling with purpose, as if she already had the gown in mind and would not be satisfied until it was found.
Her smile was triumphant when she pulled it forth, holding it up for Penryn’s approval. “What about this?”
It was lovely in its way. The skirt itself was long enough that it would doubtlessly brush the floor if not puddle a little unless she kept her back very rigid and shoulders back. The sleeves were long and came to a sharp point, the stitch-work in sharp black against the swathe of garnet. The fabric itself appeared similar to the one of her outermost bedding, but she was not going to say so. If it was appropriate to be a gown as well as a coverlet, she was not going to complain.
“A fine choice,” Penryn complimented, releasing her hold on her shawl with some reluctance. The one in Mara’s hands would be warmer, and that was a welcome thing, most especially if she was to forego wearing her cloak.
There was no point in hiding, not now. Not when she was where she was meant to be, even if it did not feel that way in the least.
“I made it myself,” Mara said, beaming at even such inadequate praise. “Most of the others were by others, some very old, but I thought there should be something new amongst them.” If they were old, they did not appear so, so well kept were they, likely stored in chests lined with papers dedicated to keeping moisture and pests at bay. But there was no hint of mustiness about them, nothing that suggested they had not been plucked from a typical wardrobe and settled into hers. The only thing that might betray the variation in age was the subtle changes in style. The nip of the waist, sometimes higher, others lower. The absence of sleeve and the dip of the neckline, while others were more modest in comparison.
Penryn eased out of her own dress, keeping on the shift beneath so Mara would not see even a hint of her scars. The fine gown shimmied over her head with little resistance, the placket at the back unlaced fully allowing the movement to be a smooth one, and Penryn had only to stand still before Mara and her deft fingers had her laced up fully, the outermost fabric coming to secure overtop so all was hidden
