Thread of Darkness

Ch. 14: my bonnie lass brings fair weather

Ryne was late.

Camille smoothed down her skirts. The tailor gave her a chagrined look, pulling out a pin from between his teeth. They were well into the dress-fitting now, Camille thought; she'd lost the ability to breathe exactly seventeen minutes ago. If Ryne took much longer, he'd find her on the ground.

Where in Lucia's name was he?

"Turn," the tailor instructed.

Camille did so, wincing as a needle pricked her left calf. Scratch that. Ryne would find her transformed into a human pincushion.

At least the dress was nice.

Camille peered in the mirror. Pale white silk tumbled from her shoulders, inlaid with golden stars and a swirling tower: a nod to the Delafort family. She'd had to fight to get the boat neckline — "Much too revealing," Brigid had warned her — but she'd wanted something of her in the dress. Something she'd chosen herself.

"You've put the Kenworthy's together," Brigid said.

Camille blinked. "Pardon?"

"On the seating chart," Brigid said, tapping her quill against a scroll. "Lord and Lady Kenworthy are sitting at the same table."

The Dowager Queen was sitting in a squashy, upholstered armchair. Only Brigid, Camille thought, could sit in a chair like that and make it look like a throne; her back was ramrod straight, her legs crossed at the ankle.

"They're married," Camille said slowly.

At least, she'd assumed they were. Brigid set down her quill, lacing her fingers.

"Yes," Brigid said. "And Lord Kenworthy started sleeping with his stable boy, so now they're in the process of a messy separation. Which you would know, if you listened to castle gossip."

"Oh."

"Turn," the tailor instructed.

Camille turned. The tailor rose, examining her sleeves. Brigid went back to the seating chart; her dark eyes scanned the names, her feathered quill ticking down the list. Then she shook her head.

"You can't put Lady Tabyrian near a window," Brigid said.

Wariness filled her. "Whyever not?"

"She has a crippling fear of messenger ravens."

"Perhaps," Camille said, "I should have everyone sit on the floor in a circle. Better yet, we could invite no one at all."

Brigid didn't smile. "A little higher on the left sleeve, I think."

The tailor flushed, scratching at a spotty cheek. Camille's heart squeezed; he couldn't have been much older than Teagan. Thirteen? Fourteen, perhaps? He must be a tailor's apprentice, she realized, taking measurements for his master.

"Thank-you," Camille murmured. "It looks wonderful."

The boy turned scarlet. "I'm glad you're pleased, miss. Er. M'lady."

He ducked his head. Brigid's mouth tightened. And this, Camille thought wryly, was the crux of the problem; the castle staff didn't fear her. Burning hells, some of them didn't even respect her. She would — in all likelihood — make a terrible queen. So why was Brigid so insistent that she marry Ryne?

A mystery for the ages.

Brigid tapped her quill against the parchment. "Why are these blank?"

Camille winced as the tailor stabbed her side. "Pardon?"

More tapping. "There are two chairs near the High Table with no labels on them."

Oh. Camille's throat went dry.