The Black Witch. Laurie Forest

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      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 the book and holds it up.

      It’s ugly, rough wool. Of worse quality than the clothing I arrived in.

      “I think this would be good for you,” Fallon beams, “especially for your aunt’s party. Don’t you think so, Paige?”

      Paige looks at the fabric sample, her brow knitting tight. She glances over at me and blinks uncertainly. “Um...well...maybe it could work...”

      I can’t figure out if Fallon is joking. She has to be. “I was thinking of something...different,” I venture.

      Fallon widens her eyes in mock affront. “But...this is Gorthan wool. It’s very much the style.” Her gaze flicks toward Echo and Paige mischievously.

      Before I have a chance to respond, Fallon slams the sample book shut and hands it, along with the piece of wool, to Mage Florel. “I think you should make her dress out of this,” she says decidedly, shooting me a wide grin. “In fact, I think you should make her whole wardrobe out of it.”

      A sharp spike of resentment wells up inside me, my heart speeding up as I eye Fallon’s wand. “Wait,” I say, addressing Mage Florel directly. “I’d like to see the samples for myself.”

      Fallon’s smile morphs into a half sneer. “Good heavens, Elloren.” She gestures around the room at the fabric surrounding us. “It’s all black.”

      I meet her eyes. “I’d still like to see them for myself.” The room goes so quiet, one could hear the prick of a pin.

      Fallon’s eyes bore down on me, and I actively resist being cowed by her. They’re mesmerizing, her eyes, striped as they are with alternating lines of light and dark green, the lighter green streaks so light they’re almost white. They make me think of icicles. Sharp as spears.

      After a moment of tense deliberation, Mage Florel sets the book down on another raised table beside me. “Of course, dear,” she says, her eyes flicking toward Fallon warily. “Go ahead.”

      I open the book, uncomfortably aware of Fallon’s icy glare. I flip through the fabric, a violet-black square of velvet momentarily catching my eye, soft as a baby hare.

      “Oh...look at this,” I gasp, half forgetting about Fallon as I turn to the next sample, the black silk lighting up red and yellow around the folds as it moves. “It’s extraordinary.” I turn the fabric this way and that, tipping it toward the closest wall lantern to watch the colors change.

      Mage Florel nods her head in satisfaction. “Ishkartan goldweave,” she says as she removes the swath and cradles it. “Brought in from the Eastern Desert. Flame-gold worked right into the weave. Very fine. Very rare.”

      I look down at the scratchy brown wool of my tunic from home. It’s like trying to compare the finest violin with some coarsely carved instrument.

      Mage Florel smiles at me. “You’ve lovely taste, Mage Gardner.”

      I flip through the next samples and come to an abrupt stop as my eyes light on the loveliest one of all. Midnight black silk. Patterned with vines woven through so subtly you have to look carefully to make them out. But once you do...

      I run my finger along the textured silk. “It’s so beautiful.”

      “Salishen silk,” Mage Florel says reverently. “From the Salishen Isles. They’re master weavers, the Salish. True artists. And all of their embroidery is as exquisite as this.”

      I glance up at her. “Do you think you could use this?”

      “Of course, Mage Gardner,” she replies, obviously thrilled by my choice.

      Fallon’s hand comes down on the fabric. “You can’t use this,” she says, her tone hard.

      I blink up at her in resentful surprise. “Why?”

      “Because,” she replies, her voice syrupy with condescension, “this is what my dress is being made of.”

      “Ah, what a pity,” Mage Florel sighs. She pats my shoulder sympathetically. “I’ve others, Mage Gardner, don’t you fret. We’ll find something just as lovely for you...”

      Heart racing, I put my own hand down firmly on the fabric sample, right next to Fallon’s. I meet Fallon’s stare and hold it. “No. I want this one.”

      Everyone gapes at me.

      Fallon leans in a fraction and bares her teeth. “You can’t have it.”

      I try to ignore the slight trembling of my hand. “Oh, come now, Fallon,” I say as I gesture at the fabric around us, mimicking her sneering tone. “It’s all black. And I’m sure the cut will be different.” I look over at Mage Florel, whose eyes are as wide as everyone else’s. “Can you make sure it’s very different from hers?”

      Fallon spits out a sound of contempt. “My dress isn’t being made here. I have my own dressmaker.”

      “Well, then,” I tell her. “That simplifies things.” I turn to Mage Florel. “Can you make it for me in time? With this fabric?”

      Mage Florel gives me an appraising look, her eyes darting toward Fallon as if weighing the options. She lifts her chin. “Why, yes, Mage Gardner. I think I can.” She smiles coldly at Fallon. “Why don’t you tell me what your dress is like, dear? I’ll make sure it’s quite different.”

      I’m surprised and bolstered by Mage Florel’s support. But when I turn back toward Fallon, her grin startles me. It’s wide and malicious. She jerks her hand away from the fabric sample and seems pleased when I flinch. “I’m leaving,” she announces, keeping her eyes tight on mine.

      Echo and Paige fly to her and try to placate her and convince her to stay.

      I look away and flip through the samples, barely seeing the fabric. I know it’s a mistake to say more. But I think of her treatment of the little girl and can’t help myself.

      “Don’t worry, Fallon,” I say, careful not to look at her, struggling to keep my voice even. “Maybe your tailor can make you another dress. In Gorthan wool. I hear it’s very much the style.”

      I glance up at Fallon just in time to catch her look of pure, undisguised hostility. Her fist tight on her wand, Fallon stalks out and slams the door behind her.

      Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sparrow’s mouth twitching into a fleeting grin.

       CHAPTER NINE

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