“In all my years working with your father,” the tailor remarks, his sharp eyes taking in the proud arch of the princess’s head, the dip at her throat, the sturdy limbs and capable hands, “I’ve never seen a piece like this, Pirouette. Magnificent!”
I flush. This is high praise from another master, from a man I respect as much as I did my own father.
“You truly are a puppetmaster in your own right, Piro.”
“Thank you, tailor.”
“Yes,” quips Laszlo, a little too brightly. “Isn’t our little Pirouette a marvel?”
Ignoring the sickly sweet way Laszlo jabbers about me to the tailor, as though I were a coin plucked from the gutter, I change the subject. I hope he soon tires of maker talk and will scuttle back to his own rooms.
When the Margrave isn’t in here, I think he’s sifting through the vast tomes in his library like a fiend, trying to uncover anything else he can about the blue moon and its power. I suspect he is eating and sleeping even less, for he has grown increasingly pallid.
Tailor Soren lays the box with the gown on the table, gently pulling back the tissue. I am astonished. In the few days that have passed since he received his commission, I can’t comprehend how he constructed such a dress. The bodice is a pure, creamy white, edged with gold piping, and is a near match to the Lady Cosima’s. It’s sleeveless, just as I requested, knowing it would be too dangerous to pull narrow sleeves over newly sculpted hands. The waist gathers high, just below the bust where the gown descends in a riotous waterfall of ivory and gold, each layer of the skirt interlaid with intricate swirls of flowers and leaves stitched in gold threads. It is perfection. Just the dress for a bride of nobility.
The tailor and I lift her torso from the table and carefully fit the top over her head and maneuver each limb into place, ever so slowly. Tailor Soren talks me through the process of dressing her quietly and calmly, with a needle and thread pursed in his lips, whipping out his small scissors to snip an errant thread here or tuck a seam in line there.
It takes us quite a while, with Laszlo looking on anxiously, interjecting such helpful advice as: “Watch her arm there, Pirouette, you’re going to break it clean off!” and “Do be cautious, tailor, she mustn’t be so sewn into that thing!” He’s nearly out of breath during the whole process, though the tailor and I are doing all the work.
The tailor remains unfazed by Laszlo’s blather and somehow, together, we manage to get Prima fully dressed, elegant hose, pretty shoes, and all. I suspect that working with six children constantly on hand at The Golden Needle has sharpened his ability to focus on his work in the face of constant distraction.
I step back, looking the princess over from head to toe. The Margrave is too excited now; I see no chance of him leaving me alone with Benito, not even for a moment. With less than four days remaining, I still must refine and polish Prima’s face, add some color to her skin and lips, and attach her hair. Right now, her scalp is smooth as an egg, and I have plans to create a special cap to which I’ll sew swathes of horsehair to create a wig of dark locks. But even now, without her hair or any warmth to her skin, she is still lovely in a simple, unadorned way.
Laszlo stands with arms crossed. “It is the very dress for a princess,” he says gravely. “Well done, Tailor Soren.” As he swoops about, fingering the fabric and straightening her skirt within an inch of its life, he continues. “Such a shame you had to build this without the help of your son. I assume he is enjoying his time in the Keep?”
The tailor holds his tongue, quietly packing up his things.
“Thankfully, your little stitching shop doesn’t depend on your apprentice’s assistance. You are the finest tailor around. I’ve checked.”
Just as the tailor is about to join the guards who will escort him out, Tailor Soren stops, as though remembering something. Quickly he comes back into the gallery and tucks a small fabric envelope into my hands.
“A sewing kit, Piro. Just in case you need to do any last-minute alterations to the gown. I trust your fingers have enough skill with needle and thread to do them.” His dark eyes spark, reminding me of Bran’s.
I nod, and take it, watching helplessly as the tailor is hustled from the room, nearly like he is a prisoner himself. Laszlo follows, pausing for a long look back at me.
“Don’t get any ideas about visiting the tailor’s son in the Keep, Pirouette Leiter. You have a task to finish and until it’s complete you shall remain here. Now, seeing as my bride is still hairless …” He raises his pale eyebrows to indicate I should get on with it before slamming the door shut behind him.
My anger at him burns hot and slow. At the princess’s side, observing her frozen loveliness, I realize I know exactly what gift she should have from Bran, the final addition to make her complete. I must act quickly, so Laszlo won’t see.
Picking up a carving knife, I pull back the bodice of Prima’s new gown and expose the pale swell of wood where her heart will be. With a steadying breath, I plunge the knife in deep.
During the final days leading up to the blue moon, I work at a frenzied pace, stitching segments of long, silky strands of hair to the spiderweb-style cap I wrought together. The horse hair I receive from Wolfspire Hall’s stable hand is black as midnight. Though Laszlo initially wanted golden, I managed to convince him that dark hair, like his mother’s, would best match the princess’s coloring and regal features. It helped that there’s
