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Tarick blinked, noticing the smaller boy for the first time, though they were standing inches apart, and smiled down at him. “Why, Salas! These pelts are very important. You wouldn’t want to replace them, now, would you?”
Salas frowned. “Important?”
“Very.”
Salas’ frown deepened.
“Because, well” Tarick explained with an exaggerated breath. “You should see for yourself! Isn’t it lovely?” He gestured to the distasteful fur on the ground. “This is the pelt of my late sister, Jeneve, may her soul rest.” He shook his head mournfully and stared down at the rug.
Salas looked down at the patch of fur in shock.
Tarick frowned down at him, as though hurt by Salas’ reaction. “What, you didn’t know? It is customary in Diagor to skin the hide of a beloved once they have passed, and use the fur in their memory.”
Salas swallowed, still staring at the rug. “This was…your sister?”
Tarick nodded severely. “It was. In fact, I’d like to honor you. It is also customary to wear the pelt of a loved one. Come. Step forth and let me adorn you.”
Salas shook his head viciously, stepping back. “No.”
Tarick pressed his lips together, as though he were holding back a wicked smile, yet his next outburst was incredulous. “Come now, Salas, are you disrespecting my late sister?! How dare you! Come forth.”
He reached to grab at Salas, and Salas shrieked, swatting him away and turning to run, except that was when he ran right into King Jareth. Salas, still making disturbed noises of protest, moved to run behind the King, using the King’s great mass as a human-shield between himself and the threat.
“My sister would look fantastic on you!” Tarick crowed, to Salas’ horror. “The undertones of her fur and your hair are quite similar.”
“Tarick,” the King sighed with a shake of the head, “what nonsense have you been antagonizing the boy with? Don’t answer that, we haven’t time for it. I need to speak with you.” He began walking away, but Salas followed at his flanks, still using the King as a shield. They walked a few paces like this before the King realized Salas was following as his shadow and raised his eyebrows down at him. Salas halted, stumbled back and tripped over, horrifyingly, another pelt they’d come across. Staring at Tarick, he kicked the horrendous thing in defiance and ran away.
Setting up for the ball was his mission and it obviously was far more important than whatever Tarick and the King were possibly discussing.
First, he replaced the rugs.
With the hours aging, the preparations were satisfactory enough that Salas felt as though he could leave with confidence that things would run smoothly without his careful direction.
Back in the room he shared with the King, he found a bag laid out for him across the bed and knew immediately what it was. Fingering the clasps to open the large enclosure, he pulled out layers of fabric that tumbled out in a wave of red, too lustrous to hold any resemblance to gore, which the shade could have been affixed to, but instead reminded Salas of a bouquet of poppies; something to be admired for a bit and cut up later to enjoy the bits inside.
It was his outfit for the evening, and after considering something made up in the silken green fabric he had worn at the war council, he decided that if he were to match the colors that would look well on the King, then he would have to try something other than green. He’d left the instructions with the head tailor, though he hadn’t been exactly hopeful with the limitations of the supplies.
What was presented to him was beyond his hopes. With sensual slits between the seams of the fabric to reveal skin, the garment hinted at Susconian, though the outfit remained more or less of the Diagorian fashions. Everything was nearly covered, and he adorned his usual boots when he was finished.
Just as he was finishing up, there came an impatient knock on the door followed by Newt bursting into the room, clutching something to her chest like a lifeline.
“Salas!” she called, standing before him to simply cry, as though she were unable to get another word out.
“What is it?” Salas wondered, alarmed.
Newt held out her first, uncurling over whatever she had been clutching. It was a pair of pearl-drop earrings.
She sniveled in an attempt to explain calmly. “I w-was saying…hello to the Susconians, and, and, th-they gave me these. B-but I can’t wear them because…” Newt paused to sniff, wiping at her runny nose and blinking new tears. “My ears aren’t pierced,” she whispered, as though mortified and severely distraught.
“Your ears aren’t pierced?” Salas questioned wondrously.
Newt shook her head viciously. “No!So…so I went to ask Daddy if I could have them pierced and he said…he said…”
“What did he say?” Salas demanded, though he already had an idea of how this story would end.
“He said no!” Newt cried, as though the father in question had sentenced his own daughter to death. She burst into hysterics once more, nearly dropping the accessories as she moved her arms to cover her face.
Salas hugged her, taking the pearl-drops as he did so and studying them.
