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Kienen’s wary gaze flitters to Zander.
“The queen of Ulysede demands it, and so that is how it shall be.” He sets his jaw with determination. “You are our allies. You should have the safety of our city.” He surveys the few remaining saplings who also rode out. “All of you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
GRACEN
“Go on, then! If you’re gonna accuse me, check the pockets, will ya!” Dagny shoves the ball of material into the guard’s hands, indignation lacing her flustered tone.
He flips the garments this way and that, shaking them before tossing them back at the seamstress. “Just following the king’s orders.”
“And I prefer to keep my flat feet on the ground instead of danglin’ at the end of a noose, just so you know.” She marches through the kitchen toward me, her scowl replaced with a beaming smile. I can’t help but counter. She’s the friendliest soul I’ve met since arriving in Cirilea. “What are you doing here, Dagny?”
“I thought you might need a new dress, now that ya’ve popped out that wee one. Where is she? Oh! Look at you!” She bends at her waist to take a closer look at the sleeping baby. “She’s like a doll! I can’t remember my Dagnar ever being that little. ’Course, he wasn’t. Came out the size of a mule. Nearly tore me in half. Couldn’t walk for weeks.”
I chuckle. There isn’t much Dagny keeps to herself. “How is the wedding dress coming along?”
“Oh, dreadful.” She steals a glance over her shoulder at the guards, to make sure they’re not listening, but drops her voice to a whisper anyway. “She insisted I make the exact same dress as the one I made for Princess Romeria to wear on tournament day. Oh, you should’ve seen her, Gracen. Her Highness was …” Dagny’s words fade, her clasped hands pressed against her ample chest. Then she sighs. “So, I made the exact same one, and brought it to Lady Saoirse, and she started screaming that I’m dim-witted, that she can’t wear the exact same dress as what Her Highness wore! So now I have to add some things and take away some other things and hope she doesn’t have me executed on her first day as queen. As it was, I thought I was gonna catch on fire the way she glared at me.” She shudders for effect.
“I know that look.” It’s the same one she leveled me with in the library, when she accused me of being Princess Romeria’s spy. “But the wedding’s almost here, Dagny.”
“Don’t I know it! The Silver Mage just came back to port, and I can’t even check if there’s some new bolts come in because we’re not allowed outside these walls. King’s orders! Suppose I could use some of the stock I picked up when Odier came for the fair. I just hate to waste any of that fine material on Lady Saoirse when it was meant for the princess.”
There’s never been any doubt in my mind that Dagny is still a fan of Princess Romeria, despite all the rumors and accusations. Maybe that’s part of the reason I like her so much.
“Oh! And then you know what she told me? While I was pinning the hem?” Her eyes widen. “She said the king is moving Presenting Day up to this Hudem.”
“This one coming up?”
She nods. “And youngins will be sold.”
“What?” I gasp.
“It’s true. She said the king’ll be announcing it at next assembly.”
He never mentioned that last night. “How young?”
“She didn’t say an age. She said ‘children.’ I suppose given this terrible poison, they’re trying to protect what they can. Still, it seems terrible, to be rippin’ wee ones from their mother’s arms.” She shakes her head. “Dagnar just came of age. He was gonna be gone next Hudem, anyway, but I thought I’d have a few more months with him.”
“Can’t he join the castle staff?”
Her brow furrows. “Like I said, my boy’s a mule and about as smart as one. The royal family seems to prefer daintier and refined tributaries, usually female.” She shrugs. “But, with all that’s been going on, maybe they won’t be so picky. Princess Annika might like him?”
I just assumed my kids would be taken in by the castle when the time came, but perhaps that was foolish thinking.
Why didn’t Atticus mention anything about this last night?
Because he knew it would distress me, likely.
“But enough of that nonsense. How ’bout this one on you?” She holds up a simple gray wool dress. “Will it fit?”
“I think so, but …” My hands are caked with flour and lard, or I’d hold it up against myself. “You’re the seamstress. You tell me.”
“I think it’ll fit ya just right. And here, I scrounged up these for that scrawny boy of yours, now that it’s getting cold.” She shuffles through the clothing tucked under her arm, holding up a pair of brown breeches and a wool tunic, followed by a yellow smock. “And this is for your little angel.”
