The Black Witch. Laurie Forest

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       CHAPTER EIGHT

      Textured Silk

      “Stand up straight, now. That’s better...”

      Mage Heloise Florel pulls the measuring tape tight around my waist as I drown in embarrassment. An imperious, square woman about sixty years of age, Mage Florel is the proprietor of the dress shop. Her own long, dark tunic and skirt are exquisitely made, her gray hair plaited and tied back into a neat bun, her eyes like little green searchlights that take in every last detail.

      I’m standing on a pedestal right in the center of her fitting room with Fallon, Echo and Paige looking on. In my underwear!

      “All right. Now lift your arms above your head...”

      Mage Florel, to my mortification, begins measuring above my breasts, around my breasts and under them as she calls out numbers to a quiet Urisk girl. The girl, who looks to be about my age, takes down every number on a small piece of parchment, her face as blank as snow. Fallon makes a show of reading the girl’s notes over her shoulder and then whispering to Paige and Echo, her lips shielded with her hand, a nasty smirk on her face. I just know she’s commenting on my measurements and I flush with embarrassment.

      I glance around at the dark sea of fabric bolts surrounding me, trying to shut out Mage Florel’s poking and prodding. Everywhere I look, lining every wall to the ceiling, is luxurious fabric, much of it embroidered with intricate designs. I’d never have imagined there could be so many variations of black cloth, the colors ranging from the deepest black of night, to hues just on the edge of gray, the textures spanning from silk so shiny you expected to see your reflection in it to matte velvet.

      “You’ve got quite a nice figure,” Mage Florel remarks, eyeing my chest. “Too bad you’ve been hiding it away underneath all of those...clothes.” She nudges my discarded pile of garb with her foot.

      I can feel my face growing even hotter, but this time my embarrassment is mixed in with gratification at the compliment, and how sour Fallon looks in response to Mage Florel’s praise.

      Privately, I’m aware that I have a pleasing figure, but no one has ever publicly commented on my body before. Growing up with an uncle and two brothers, my body has always been very private, and, in the Gardnerian tradition, completely covered—from my neck to my wrists down to my feet. I’ve never shown so much as a bare ankle in public. When I reached the age when I needed more tailored clothing, I took to sewing my dresses myself.

      Finally, to my immense relief, the ordeal is over and Mage Florel orders me to get dressed, then dictates some notes to the Urisk girl regarding alterations and appropriate trim.

      It’s hard not to stare at the young Urisk woman—she’s so lovely. Like the upper-class servants at Aunt Vyvian’s house, she has lavender skin, long, pointed ears and startlingly lovely eyes that glimmer several shades of amethyst. Her violet hair is pulled back into one long braid, and she’s simply dressed in a white linen tunic and white underskirt.

      I think of the Urisk women who work the Gaffneys’ sprawling farm. They’ve always been a bit of a mystery to me, the Urisk farmworkers, with their Uriskal language and tendency to disappear as soon as the harvest work is done for the season. And they are, all of them, wizened and bedraggled. Nothing at all like this beautiful girl.

      The Urisk girl hands the parchment to Mage Florel, who squints at it through half-moon spectacles attached to a long, pearl necklace. “Very good, Sparrow,” she comments. “Go fetch Effrey.”

      Sparrow nods and leaves, her movements graceful. Within a few seconds, another Urisk girl, a skinny, frantic little thing with deep purple skin, hair and eyes, runs into the room and skids to an abrupt halt in front of Mage Florel, Sparrow shadowing close behind. The child looks to be about eight years of age.

      The older woman stares down at the child uncertainly, then directs her to fetch some fabric. A few minutes later the child returns carrying two bolts of cloth that are coming unwound around her legs, one ebony silk flecked with small, golden threads, the other a muted blue-black. They’re large bolts, and the girl looks to be out of breath from the effort.

      Mage Florel lets out a disgusted sigh. “Textured silk, Effrey, I wanted it textured.”

      The girl’s eyes fly open in panic.

      “Let’s make this easier,” Mage Florel offers, the girl looking about ready to burst into tears. “Get me the sample booklets instead. They’re easier to carry than the bolts.”

      Little Effrey sprints out of the room, seeming eager to correct her mistake.

      Mage Florel turns back to us, shaking her head in consternation. “I’m sorry,” she confides. “She’s new. And she’s been extraordinarily difficult to train. She just doesn’t listen carefully.”

      Fallon snorts as she runs her hand along some velvet. “You’d think with ears that big, she’d be able to listen just fine.”

      My head jerks toward Fallon. Mage Florel, Echo and Paige join me in looks of shocked surprise.

      Fallon eyes us incredulously just as little Effrey stumbles back into the room. The child is lugging a thick sample book under one arm, frayed fabric edges poking out the sides. Fallon spits out a laugh and gestures widely toward the little girl. “Oh, so we’re supposed to pretend she doesn’t look like an overgrown bat?”

      Effrey comes to a wobbly stop. She glances up at Fallon, her lip quivering into a miserable frown, her ears seeming to droop at the points. I watch as Sparrow shoots Effrey a swift look of serious caution, the older girl standing just behind Fallon Bane. Effrey immediately averts her eyes and looks down at her feet.

      “Girl!” Fallon barks at Effrey with exaggerated force, then stifles a laugh when the girl jumps and whips her head up. Fallon flicks her fingers toward herself magisterially. “All right, then. Hand it over.”

      The child lowers her head deferentially as she offers the sample book up to Fallon. I notice her hands are trembling.

      “Thank you,” I say gently, in an effort to soothe the girl. I shoot Fallon a look of censure, bewildered by her cruelty.

      Mage Florel is regarding Fallon with a pained expression, and she makes a point of dismissing little Effrey as soon as Fallon has the sample book in hand. I don’t wonder at Mage Florel’s deference to Fallon Bane, the presumptive heir to my grandmother’s power.

      Fallon sets the sample book on a wooden stand and opens it. She takes her time, monopolizing the booklet as everyone silently waits. Eventually, she lights on fabric of interest to her. “Oh, here we go, Elloren,” she says, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. She pulls a dull black rectangle from СКАЧАТЬ