LISSY
Ysolde's final fitting comes on a day when all four sisters crowd inside my little dress shop, and Torgan takes his spot by the window, newspaper in hand.
By now the scene is almost familiar – their bickering, the gossip passed between them, with Torgan taking the brunt of their verbal jabs.
But if they are going to keep coming for three other dresses plus consultations and fittings and everything else, then I need to be sure to make the final fitting as special as it needs to be.
“Hold on,” I say, holding up a hand for Ysolde to see. “No peeking.”
“You’re acting like this is a special occasion,” she says, laughing a little nervously, but I can see that she’s holding her breath in anticipation.
“It is.”
I draw the curtains closed, awkwardly going around Torgan to get to the curtain closest to him.
And then, with a flourish and making sure all four sisters see, I light a candle, throwing the shop into a soft glow.
It's an extravagance — Grammy would chew my ear off about the price of beeswax before sundown — but there's a rule I hold to in this shop, and the rule is this: no bride sees herself in a final fitting by bad light.
This dress deserves candlelight. This bride deserves it more.
"Oh," says Ysolde, from the dais, when the candlelight catches her silhouette. “Oh.”
I grin.
She stands in the finished dress — leather and silk mixing like armor and water — and the candlelight catches every special detail. For a moment all four of her sisters are actually silent.
"Duran is going to weep," Brynna says finally.
"Duran is going to faint," Saskia says. "Do minotaurs faint? We should have a plan," she adds conspiratorially.
"He faints, you catch him," Mirelle says. "You're the one who's always saying you never catch things at weddings."
“I’ll leave the bouquet catching to you then,” Saskia says with a wink.
I move around Ysolde with my clips, mostly for the ritual of it. There's nothing left to take in. The dress is done, and we all know it.
The next time she wears it, it's real.
I hum while I work. It’s something I’ve picked up over the years. Grammy hums, so I hum a ditty from Lyra’s repertoire, even though I don’t remember the full lyrics.
Then the back of my neck prickles.
I glance up, past Ysolde's elbow, to the corner by the window, where the too-small chair holds its usual too-large occupant.
Torgan isn't reading.
The newspaper is there — folded on his knee like a prop — but he isn't reading it now. He's just… watching. Not the dress, which would make sense. Not his sisters either, which would make more.
No, he’s looking at me.
It should feel like being appraised, but it doesn’t.
Princeton Voss looked at my shop for thirty seconds and I wanted a bath. Under Torgan’s attention, my face goes hot.
I flush deep red, and I hope the candlelight camouflages it enough.
"Torgan," Saskia calls over. "Settle something. Brynna says you cried at Ysolde's name-day feast when she was given her first sword and you won’t cry at her wedding. I say you don't have tear ducts. Who's right?"
