Everyone’s focus homes in on the boy, who startles at the attentiveness. “I… umm…”
My skin prickles awaiting his response. He doesn’t want to be mean, but he needs to be. Or not mean, but disinterested. Normal. And the longer the silence builds it’s very un-normal.Please, just say anything.
“It’s… nice,” he finally gets out.
Shelly huffs, clearly disappointed. She steps up to me and goes to work alongside Mrs. Healy, one at the hem and the other at the bust.
“We can add padding,” Mrs. Healy reassures me with a pat on the arm and now I do want to die.
“Or! You could wear a copper shawl,” Shelly prompts, excitement ringing in her voice. High-class ladies wear metal shawls to a formal function, finely woven metal draped over shoulders almost like a jacket to help hold a strapless dress up. We all know the real reason the metal shawls have become fashionable. For the past two decades there has been a call for equality among the metal classes. In response, the upper class of bronze- and silver-crafters protest by showcasing their metal class even more prominently. Jewelry wasn’t cutting it anymore and fashion resorted to pounds of metal woven to appear like dragon scales or even wings down your back.
“I’m not going to wear my metal to your wedding,” I say on reflex.
“Why not? Jeffrey is crafting a corset and a shawl for me. We’ll match.”
I do like the sound of that. Matching with Shelly, being anything like Shelly remains a constant goal of mine. But it’s tradition for the groom to craft some of the metal the bride wears. Fine iron, though, even polished to perfection, won’t gleam as bright as shiny red copper. Rule number one in any wedding—don’t outshine the bride.
“Shelly, it’s expensive and I shouldn’t—”
“And I say you should.”
“It would look beautiful,” Mrs. Healy agrees.
“I could make you one,” James says, casually. I know he said that without thinking because when everyone turns to him, his eyes widen. He’s realized his folly and yet knows it’s too late.
It’s too late for me too. Heat flushes my face in direct response. I will it away, but the words feel embedded in my brain. I’ll replay them like I’ve been replaying all our interactions of late.
“What a nice boyfriend. It’s tradition for a man to craft for a woman,” Mrs. Healy purrs as she squeezes my shoulder.
Shelly turns, her green eyes practically squealing. “See, James can make it for you,” she hums.
“I’ve made them for my mom before is all,” James tries, but I think I’m the only one who hears him. Shelly’s smile is turned all the way bright. Jeffrey appears all-knowing and maybe even a little smug.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I tell Mrs. Healy like that will remedy this nonsense. She frowns, not understanding, especially as I’m still painted red in a blush.
Being the good guy he is, Jeffrey saves us all with the excuse to go find James a suit. A moment later the boys are gone, rounding the corner and disappearing among the walls of fabrics.
“Make sure it coordinates with Farren’s dress,” Shelly calls.
I sigh, having two less people to argue with me. “Okay, back to the point. Yes, I could hand-make a shawl, but the dress is beautiful by itself. I don’t need more.”
Shelly squints like she can read right through me. She faces Mrs. Healy. “Do you mind giving us a minute?”
“Of course, of course.”
Once we’re alone, Shelly zeroes in on me. “Is this about the cost or the way you’ll look? Or—” she steps forward, peering into my face. I’m taller than her, but the amount of authority in her gaze makes me feel like she could spill my every secret. “Or is this about the fact that you don’t want to wear copper.”
“All of it,” I lie. But Shelly’s stabbed at the heart of the matter. I used to wear copper with pride. A headband holding back the shortest pieces of my hair. Earrings that I’d forget to take out for weeks. Recently though, every piece of copper I don feels like a deception, a mask I worry I’ll never be able to take off.
Shelly hugs me, squeezes me close to whisper, “On your own wedding day, you’ll wear gold.”
Hope and dread fight for victory in my stomach, the buoyancy of hope lifting me up while the despair of dread pulls me down. “I shouldn’t hope for that.”
“Oh Farren, they’re out there somewhere waiting for the right person to find them.”
I dream she’s right. We’ve talked about this a million times. How after college I will gather enough money to go on an expedition, search the world for gold dragons. Like my dad, Shelly is positive there must be a colony still alive, and no one is looking because they’re assumed extinct. When Nity’s babies were obviously fathered by a silver-plated dragon, some of my hope faded, but I can’t seem to discard the idea entirely. My short-term goal is to attend Revers and train to become a veterinarian, but long-term, I dream of saving the species.
“For now, though.” Shelly’s words pull me back. “Do as I say and wear at least a shawl. In the shiniest copper there is.”
