In that moment, the whisper of a plan seeded itself in her mind. She chuckled, positive it would be deliciously clever and properly nasty, as the old lecher deserved. He had to be the judge who had helped cheat the miller's son.
"Are you finished, Granny?" The baker's assistant bent down to Merrigan where she sat on the steps. "Would you like more?"
"No, thank you. It was lovely." Merrigan didn't mind giving a compliment to the rosy-cheeked boy. She had seen him take the bun from the long tray fresh from the oven, when his master told him to help her as she walked into the bakery. Such kindness touched her heart. Maybe when she got her looks and her kingdom back, she would send someone with a gold coin to reward them.
That would certainly make liars of the people who called her an ungrateful brat.
She got up off the steps and made her way to the tailor's little house at the far end of the main street of Smilpotz. Her steps were slow, in contrast with her racing thoughts.
Her mother had taught her to sew, as an entirely proper occupation for a princess. She enjoyed sewing. As a child, Merrigan had loved taking scraps of cloth and bits of braid and beads, and turning them into gowns for her dolls. She had also enjoyed the admiration and envy of the other girls her age among the nobility in the court of Avylyn. Sewing in her mother's garden had been among the happiest parts of her childhood. She hadn't been that happy in many years.
Merrigan stopped in the middle of the street, startled by the single tear that trickled hot down her cheek. She blotted it with the back of her fingerless black glove and muffled a sigh.
Nanny Tulip, however, believed sewing wasn't a proper occupation for a princess. Except when used in magical pursuits, such as the choking collar. Merrigan could never reconcile the conflict between her mother's teaching and her beloved nanny's. Well, Nanny Tulip would certainly approve of the plan that slowly clarified in her mind. She had been a stickler for propriety. Judge Brimble was abusing his power. A mayor and a wedding certainly trumped a fat old lecher's desire for a new wardrobe.
"Can I help you, Mistress?" Master Twilby, the tailor, rose from his chair behind the long worktable in the front room of the house and shop as she stepped up to the open door.
"Would you have some work for these old fingers?" Merrigan held out her spindly hand, proud that it didn't shake. "I don't need much, just a blanket, some bread, and a roof over my head."
"Sorry, but even though we could use some help, it wouldn't be for long. The boy who works for me is due back in ten days."
"Oh, that would suit me perfectly. I just need a place to rest my feet, catch my breath, so to say."
"Can you sew seams?"
Merrigan most definitely did not want to sew boring seams. What she wanted was the fancy work, the ruffles and embroidery and stiff collars—especially the collars. However, she needed to get her foot in the door. Then Master Twilby would see the common sense of handing over the fancy work to her, and leave the drudgery to his daughter and apprentice. It would be easy. Peasants were so simple-minded and so easily led.
"Faster than the dawn, and straight and tight. So tight it'd take you a fortnight to rip one out," she added, tipping her head at that slight angle guaranteed to convince him she was adorable, if not slightly daft.
For some reason, everyone assumed the slightly not-right-in-the-head were trustworthy and good-hearted. Merrigan couldn't see it herself. She was positive most people only pretended to be daft to avoid doing an honest day's work, or to perform some deception. As she did now.
Master Twilby would thank her someday, when he learned the truth.
She imagined him kneeling before her, shaking in terror when he realized he had hired Queen Merrigan of Carlion to sew seams. He would profess undying gratitude for her help in protecting his daughter from that lecherous Judge Brimble. It made such a pleasant mental picture, Merrigan almost missed the quick, low discussion between Master and Mistress Twilby when the lady of the house came in from the kitchen. She had the impression the wife was far more willing to hire the old woman. Perhaps just because she was an old woman who needed work.
Just for that, Merrigan took extra pains with the test job they gave her. Let them doubt her ability to do anything she set her mind to. Master Twilby's smile and slow nod of approval, as he inspected the vest she had put together in good order, generated a warmth in Merrigan's chest she hadn't felt in a long time. Actually, she couldn't really remember the last time she had felt it.
By dinnertime, she and Mistress Twilby had done the main seams on the matching vests for the mayor and his two sons and future son-in-law. He was a minor nobleman in Carnpotz, a major city twice the size of Smilpotz. Merrigan thought the brocade for the vests entirely suitable for a wedding. The mayor's daughter had good taste. Merrigan was grateful for the subdued color scheme. After all, she didn't want to suffer eye strain the entire time she labored in the tailor shop. She intended to be given Judge Brimble's wardrobe order, as soon as Master Twilby realized he could now handle both jobs.
Mistress Twilby became almost chatty, as they put away the vests to make dinner. Merrigan faced a moment of dread. She wouldn't have to cook, would she? She had never learned, and had no interest in learning. It seemed so utterly messy, and rather alchemical. Cooking made her think of enchanters working in dark, damp dungeons, throwing together potions. Spells were fine, but potions and
