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“No.” I shake my head. Nothing about that is a good idea. “Even if Elizabeth doesn’t kill me on sight, why would I take part in her victory celebration? My time is better spent trying to stop her.”
Something unreadable passes over her face. “It would be better to have them and not need them than to find ourselves unprepared.”
I try to object, but she will hear none of it, so I give in.
Less than a quarter hour later, we are sitting across from each other in a small carriage. Della’s mouth quirks up on one side, gloating.
The interior is simple and elegant, with dark materials and polished brass and cushioned seats covered in butter-soft suede.
The carriage rocks from side to side to the rhythm of the horses’ hooves clomping rhythmically over the cobblestone road.
The drive into the city is relatively quick. So close to sunset, the main square is already bustling with activity. Citizens duck in and out of the shops, weaving around each other on the sidewalks and crossing the streets in the spaces between carriages and riders on horseback.
On nearly every corner are vendors with wheeled carts. They call out to anyone passing by, soliciting their wares, from flowers to hats to food made to eat while you stroll, and more than I can focus on.
There isn’t time to take everything in before we come to a stop. The driver swings the door open and hands Della down. I’m surprised when he extends the same courtesy to me with a warm expression rather than the loathing I am used to.
When I hesitate, the driver reaches for my hand, making the decision for me. I mutter a thank you, and from the corner of my eye, I think I see his lips curl in an amused smile as he turns away.
Della loops her arm through mine and drags me into the dressmaker’s shop. Exquisite dresses are draped over fitting forms across the front to lure customers in. On the wall behind the counter are cubicles stacked from floor to ceiling, each holding large rolls of fabric in an array of colors.
A woman emerges from behind a curtain at the back and strides forward to greet us. She wears a dress that appears simple at first glance, but the longer I look, the more the details stand out—fine embroidery and beading combined with a mixture of fabrics that come together in quiet elegance.
She wastes little time on small talk, ushering us into the back room. Tables with neat piles of fabric are along one wall. Opposite that are three mirrors set in a semicircle around a fitting block, with a dressing screen to the right. Situated along the center of the back is a table with measurements etched along the edges, and a pair of scissors and a pincushion placed off to one side.
I feel like a living doll as the seamstress positions me and begins to work.
Della looks over the fabric samples, discussing the colors with the woman, who nods as she takes my measurements. The tape is barely in position before she drops one end and moves to another part of my body. I don’t see how she can even read it, let alone remember any of the dozens of numbers without writing any of them down. Her fingers are swift and careful, pinning together a makeshift muslin dress.
Finally, she takes a step back to examine her work beside Della. They point and discuss draping and necklines, among other details, without a single word in my direction. Just as they have from the moment we entered the back room.
I shift in place, stiff from standing in one spot for so long while keeping as still as humanly possible. It earns me a scowl from the seamstress. But after a few more adjustments and marks made with blue chalk, the woman looks to Della for approval.
The seamstress removes the mockup. I release a weary sigh as I’m allowed to get dressed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CLARA
The seamstress is alreadyat work when I step out from behind the changing screen. Scissors cut through fabric, tracing the outline of pins.
Aching muscles and stiff back beg to move. “Is my part finished?” I ask Della. “I could use some air.”
“I can have the first dress ready to be fitted in an hour,” the seamstress interjects without looking up from her work.
Della nods. “Try not to wander too far.” My stomach chooses that moment to growl, so she adds, “There is a patisserie across the street.”
She presses a small purse heavy with money into my palm. I thank her, then hurry outside.
The cold air hits my face, waking me up. I welcome the cold sting of winter. Night has descended, blanketing the world. Above, the sky is clear, though the stars don’t appear as bright, surrounded by the city’s glow. The gas lamps are so numerous, they manage to stop time, bathing the city in a perpetual sunset. It’s just bright enough to keep the wild demons at bay.
This city is so different from the village where I grew up. I can’t help but feel inadequate, surrounded by such elegance everywhere I look. Even the buildings with their pale stones and fresh paint are a striking difference.
A thought hidden in the recesses of my mind wonders if they can see the poor girl from the soot-coated town of Littlemire with threadbare clothing beneath the beautiful dress I wear now.
I weave through the throng as effortlessly as I did back home on market days. When I was here with Alaric, my nerves were strung so tight I couldn’t see anything other than vampires.
But now things have changed.
