Torn, p.4
Torn, page 4
The door creaked open and clattered closed again, and I was on my feet before Kristos stumbled into the room.
“Sister o’mine!” He grappled me into a bear hug that reeked of sweet wine. “Which for supper—the mutton hand pie or the chicken?”
“Why did you come home with two of them? They’re huge!” I replied, taking the flimsily wrapped pastries from him and setting them on the table. One could feed both of us. And they smelled divine.
“Don’t scold me,” he said with a devilish smile. “They were a gift.”
“Did I forget your birthday? Is there some celebration in order that I’m unaware of?” I asked, jabbing him in the ribs. “Your wrist better?”
“Yes—well, not enough to work today. Tomorrow. Jack’s got me on a crew taking down some dead trees by the wharf.”
“So what did you do today to earn a pair of hand pies?”
“I met with one of the university lecturers. He sends these with his compliments,” he said. Hope flared—perhaps a lecturer could offer my brother some sort of work in the university itself, perhaps even allowing him to study. “He wants to help the Laborers’ League.”
My hopes fell. “What help is he offering? Mathematics tutelage?”
“Very funny. No, he’s one of the faculty offering public lectures. It turns out he’s like-minded,” he said. “With the League. He’s going to help us draft demands for the Council of Nobles.”
“Demands?” I almost choked. “What position are you making demands from?”
“He suggested that it would be the only way to get their attention on what we want—and he’s right. If they see us as a rabble of malcontents, they’re not going to do anything but chase us off when we get too loud in the streets. If we have an actual platform—”
“A platform to hang you from,” I retorted. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to be accused of treason instead of merely being a loudmouth.”
“Of course I’m careful. I’m being very careful, for instance, not to gobble up this entire pasty by myself,” he said, tearing some flaky crust from the pasty nearest him. The rich mutton filling seeped out onto the table. His meaning was clear—I was being a worrywart and he wasn’t interested in arguing with me. My concerns about the Laborers’ League weren’t new, and I acknowledged that some of my fears were over-reactionary, but a word like demands carried enough weight to provoke a new brand of concern.
No point in cautioning him—he was going to make his decisions regardless of what I said. “Well, sit down and hand me a plate, then.”
He forked over half the meat pie and tucked into the remaining half himself. “I wish,” he said through a bite, “that you’d work up a little more enthusiasm. If for nothing else, for the pasty.”
No matter how much Kristos extolled the virtues of reforming the economic system so that the nobility had less control and instituting representation of the working classes in government, I couldn’t get too attached to the idea. Our lives couldn’t change much, I figured. I’d still make clothes; he would still labor at the warehouses and on building crews. The only change I could see was a mass exodus of wealthier patrons, like minor nobles, who were my best clients, if things got dicey in the city.
Nobles. I grinned. “You’ll never guess who came into the shop today,” I said.
“Probably not,” he replied.
I ignored his disinterest. “The lady’s maid of the Lady—”
“Again? Another rich noble? Sophie, I wish you would use the talents you have for more … I don’t know, more worthy work.”
I snapped my jaw shut. Of course Kristos wouldn’t be excited about my latest lead. Even if the money I earned from whatever commission Lady Snowmont gave me could very likely heat our house all winter. The nobility’s very existence offended him. Even if I understood his argument, it didn’t change reality. Reality demanded money for food and fuel. I pointedly ignored Kristos and relished a bite of my pasty.
Kristos stared into his plate, remorseful. “I didn’t mean to shout. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” I said crisply. “I should stop expecting my work to interest you.”
“Actually, I … I kind of hoped you could help me.”
I let a smile slip back into my tone. “What, a love charm? There’s some girl who won’t talk to you and you want to woo her? Tell me all about it, brother dear.”
“Not that! As if I needed help,” he said, flexing his shoulders. I rolled my eyes. “We’re gathering a group on Fountain Square next week,” he said, his voice growing serious. “A demonstration, probably a hundred people. Maybe more.”
“A hundred?” Kristos’s meetings had always been small affairs, a few men in the café after work or a half dozen laborers gathered on Sunday morning outside the churches to hand out pamphlets. “But the soldiers—Kristos.”
“What of the soldiers? We’re lecturing, not rioting. People are listening, Sophie, listening enough to join with us. Consider it a celebration of our accomplishments, or a public lecture, not a demonstration, if it makes you more comfortable.”
“You said you needed my help,” I said with growing apprehension. I couldn’t be seen with a laborer protest—not if I wanted to keep my noble and upper-class clientele. Which I did, because as much as Kristos didn’t seem to care, I enjoyed eating and living under a roof that leaked sometimes.
“I don’t expect any problems,” he said quickly, a little too hurried. “But the soldiers might … interfere. And if they do, some of the lads might get sore about it.”
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I said.
“No, it’s fine. Really. The chances of anything happening are so small, but I had hoped—maybe you could make us a few charmed caps,” he asked in a loud rush, then shot me a hopeful grin before sopping the last of his meat pie’s gravy off his plate with the remainder of the crust. “This is delicious—not quite like Ma’s pilla and spinach, huh? How come you never cook like she did?”
I made a face thinking of the soggy spinach pie our mother said was a Pellian specialty—we hadn’t eaten it in years. “Caps.” I pursed my lips. “What kind of caps?”
“I left out the best part!” He smacked his head in mock self-punishment. “Of course, the caps. We’re all going to wear red wool caps—ancient Pellian design. There was a lecture at the university last week on ancient Pellian democracy—did you know that the Pellians had a democratic form of governance?” I shook my head, not really caring if our ancestral homeland was, at one time, governed by parrots—the study of history and government didn’t interest me as it did Kristos. “When they voted or participated in public debates, they wore these special caps.”
“Red wool caps.”
“I have a sketch.”
“Of course you do.” I took the paper. “These look ridiculous. You do realize that everyone in Galitha City who missed that particular lecture is going to think you’re wearing a phallus on your head, right?”
“Then they’ll ask us and we’ll explain what they mean.”
“What do the Pellians in the League think about this?” I asked, considering what Emmi had told me. Would using ancient Pellian motifs draw more ire into the Pellian quarter?
“Sophie, we are Pellian,” Kristos said with a laugh.
“I mean Pellians who live in the Pellian quarter. Who come from Pellia, who speak Pellian.”
“Niko came to that lecture and thought it was a good idea. Everyone does.” I glanced again at the ridiculous design, wondering if Kristos had a good handle on “everyone” and their opinions. “The whole point of the League is that it’s uniting all the workers across the city—across Galitha, really. It shouldn’t matter if they’re Pellian or provincial or born and raised in the city.”
“Shouldn’t and doesn’t are two different things.” I shook my head.
“It doesn’t matter to us,” Kristos said grandly. “The League is egalitarian—no disparity between those born in the southern provinces and those from the mountain province and those born in the city and those who’ve adopted Galitha—those divisions are artificial and encouraged by the nobility to keep us from uniting.” How artificial, I wondered, when plenty of Pellians preferred to live in their own communities, and plenty of provincials still spoke different Galatine dialects? The customs of the southernmost provinces, hundreds of miles away, were nearly as foreign to city-born Galatines as Pellian norms. “All the workers in Galitha have common grievances,” he stated as though it were a motto.
“It may not matter to you,” I cautioned him. The League’s intentions and others’ perceptions were not necessarily the same thing.
Kristos just shrugged me off. “Well, no one in the League has any problems with the caps.”
If nothing else, I’d make a cap with a protection charm for my brother. “How many caps do you need? There’s no way I’m making a hundred of them.”
“I know, that’s asking far too much. Ten to start? That way we can spread them out among the group and have a protection charm on the whole gathering. Right? That’s how it works, isn’t it?”
I shook my head. “It’s not quite so simple. Each charm bleeds over onto the people around the wearer. But it’s not like there’s a way to have them all connect together or anything.” At least, not that I was aware of. “You’ll wear one, won’t you?” I caught his hand, growing more concerned by the moment about his plan.
“In the interest of fairness, we were going to throw the charmed ones in among the rest and let everyone pull one. Like drawing straws, you know?”
“I won’t do it unless you wear one. You’re my brother. I’m going to protect you first. Good heavens, I’m only even considering this so you’ll be protected. I don’t care about brawling dockworkers and farmhands.”
Kristos shot me one of his best scolding looks. He’d inherited that look from Mother. “Yes, you do care. You don’t want anyone to get hurt. I know you.”
“Fine, you’re right. But I’m serious, Kristos—I won’t make a single cap unless you promise to wear one.”
He hesitated.
“Promise!” I squeaked.
“All right, all right! I surrender.” He smiled. “I’ve got a couple yards of wool in my pack.”
“And you’re going to clean up in here, right?”
“Sure,” he replied with an easy smile that told me he would leave the dishes on the table and the floor unswept.
4
I STOOD OUTSIDE THE GATE OF THE LIMESTONE TOWN HOUSE, its address printed in swirling type on the card I held clutched in my hand, just underneath the name Viola Snowmont. I was grateful for my blush-pink leather gloves—they kept the sweat coating my palms from smudging the card I had kept in my pocket the past week, never losing the thrill of nerves and anticipation each time my fingers brushed the corners.
I lifted the latch with a steadying breath, and as the heavy wrought iron gate swung away from the fence, a trilling melody of chimes rang across the courtyard. I looked around for the source and found a set of bells, tucked in a viney tangle of roses and linked by a delicate golden chain to the gate.
I was still marveling at this clever design when the aqua-blue double doors at the top of an impressive flight of stairs flung wide and revealed a meticulously dressed housemaid in blue and white.
“Are you expected?” Her clear soprano voice floated down to me.
“Yes, I am Miss Sophie Balstrade, the seamstress she has engaged for a private consultation,” I replied, forcing the shake out of my voice. I was speaking to a maid, for pity’s sake—if I couldn’t hold it together with the hired help, what chance did I have making a favorable impression on Lady Snowmont?
“Indeed, please come inside.” She bowed her head, golden hair gleaming in the crisp sunlight, as I climbed the stairs and passed through the doorway. The warm blue paint made it feel as though I were walking into the sky, an illusion maintained by the long hallway I entered papered in diaphanous silver-and-blue florals.
The maid took my cloak and gloves, as the town house was warm enough without them. I was almost disappointed—the peacock-blue cloak with its caned hood, matched with the pink gloves, made a striking impression. Strawberry sellers and fishmongers hawked their wares in the streets with singsong rhymes; I wore brilliantly colored silks and fine cottons crafted into fashionably draped and painstakingly stitched gowns and jackets. For Lady Viola, I had worn the best example of my work that I owned—a jacket with wide pleats cascading from the shoulder to the hips, the forest-green silk laced tightly over an intricately embroidered stomacher. Glancing at the maid, however, I felt a twinge of envy for women who had someone else to dress their hair. Mine was neatly fixed and piled high, but it lacked the complicated curls and braids of a fashionable hairstyle.
I had never had a client of Lady Snowmont’s prestige before. For the first time in years, my Pellian background concerned me. Would Lady Viola trust a Pellian seamstress to produce Galatine couture, clothing that was fit for her fashionable salon, for the social gatherings she frequented and hosted? The prospect of one of my pieces attending a royal event at the palace was exhilarating but reminded me of the seriousness of the commission. This could be my entry into a new level of clientele—or a quick rejection from it. Galatine nobility intermarried regularly with foreign nobility, and delegates from Kvyset, Serafan, and other foreign aristocracy were commonplace enough in Galitha City. Still, I wondered if a commoner, clearly Pellian by her golden complexion and tall, broad-shouldered frame, would receive the same kind of welcome.
The maid led me to Lady Snowmont’s salon. I fussed with my skirts and checked to make sure that my jacket wasn’t crooked. The room was bustling with ladies in exquisite silks and velvets. One played a harp while several others watched intently; another read aloud from a book. The Lady Snowmont’s salon—known as the center of culture through all of Galitha. And here I was.
With, I realized, no clue at all as to which lady was the Lady Snowmont.
I pressed my lips together, ready to hover in the doorway until I was called for, but the maid shoved me forward with a light but persuasive hand. “This way,” she whispered, and led me to the chaise where my prospective client reclined behind a screen.
I hadn’t been sure what to expect. Lady Viola Snowmont was so well-known and rumored to be pretty that I had imagined she was a stunning beauty, but I speculated as I waited for the maid to present to me what she looked like. Would she be a golden-haired, fair-skinned lady, like a gilded angel in a church? Or a striking beauty with dark hair, and lips painted a fiery hue?
Neither, I saw as she leapt up from the couch and greeted me. Her face was pretty but not the perfect doll’s face I had assumed. And her light brown hair, though thick and wavy, was quite ordinary.
It was her eyes, I saw quickly, that made the entire country say she was a beauty. Huge, fringed with thick lashes, and the rich color of liquid chocolate, their intelligence and expressiveness turned her from a plain woman into an extraordinary one. They seemed to see everything, everyone at once—and of course they did. After all, she was the court painter. In fact, she let several sheets of heavy linen paper covered with graphite sketches of a nearby bouquet flutter to the chaise as she came to greet me.
“Sophie!” she said, extending a hand. “I do hope we can dispense with formalities and use first names alone? It’s my own rule, here in the salon—no one is a miss or a Mrs. or a lady or even a queen.” She winked.
“Of course,” I managed to stammer.
“Now, then.” She swept the hem of her gown—a simple, loose-fitting sultana housedress, I saw, surprised—away from the clawed foot of her chaise. “I imagine my girl told you I have an interest in some new clothes?” She laughed. “Of course she did, otherwise why would you be here?”
“Yes, I—”
“Good. It’s too loud in here to discuss anything.” She caught my hand and pulled me toward a door, trimmed in ornate gilt, on the far side of the room. “My private sitting room, please.”
Her merry smile faded as she pulled the door closed. I stood with my back to the silk-covered walls. This wasn’t just a sitting room, I saw quickly—it was Lady Snowmont’s boudoir, adjacent to her bedchamber. An open door revealed a heavily draped bed in the room next to it. The most private of public spaces, the most public of private spaces. There were complicated rules of etiquette of whom Galatines allowed in their boudoirs—certainly never someone whom one had known a mere five minutes.
“I’ll dispense with any coy pussyfooting. You make charms. And I have need of such a service.” She gestured to the pair of overstuffed lilac damask chairs nearest us.
I sank into one, not sure how to reply. “Yes, your ladyship, you are correct. I … make charmed clothing.”
“Viola. Just call me Viola. Not to sound revolutionary, but if I am trusting you to make a charm for me, we ought to at least try to act like equals.” My eyes widened, but I acquiesced with a nod.
“Good.” Viola sat on the edge of her chair like a bird perching on a tenuous branch. “What kind of charms can you do? And how does it work? That is—is it the larger the item of clothing, the better the charm? Or is there something else to it?”
“What kind? Nearly anything—love, luck, money.” I flushed. “Not that I assume you have need of any of those, they’re just—”
“Your most frequently requested services?” She laughed. One of her front teeth was ever so slightly crooked.
“Yes. No surprise there, I imagine.”
“None at all.”
“And the strength of the charm is in direct correlation to how much work I put into it—how many stitches, to be exact. An embroidered kerchief could be as powerful as a gown.”
“Even better,” Viola mused.
“May I ask,” I said, hesitating, “what exactly are you in need of?” Money and luck were certainly not lacking in Lady Snowmont’s life.
She pressed her lips together. “Not a love charm, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She fished a cheaply printed, shoddily bound stack of pages from a drawer in the deftly carved table beside her. She thumbed through a few pages and tossed it to me.
