The Mask of White and Red - Part 12

John’s face was grave. “Word from the docks is that it’s to be war. The Bloody Sun King is set to drive out the Little Bear once and for all. They say the straits will be cut. There’ll be blockades in our trading ports. Nothing getting in or out. So if the Bluebird didn’t put to sea already, your silk will have to come overland, and I’ve no contacts through Abodi country. There are agents operating through there, so I hear, but none that I have any contact with. It’ll take time.” He threw the polishing rag into an open drawer. “I’m just right lucky I’ve a ton of canvas and plenty of stock for uniforms if they want ‘em.”

Ilsa's chest tightened. “Just no silk.”

He shrugged. “I’ve all else you’d need." His expression softened. “Look, it’s possible the Bluebird made it out of port. I’ll send a note if I hear anything.”

It was clear from his tone that he didn’t expect the ship to arrive. The nuns had started many a sentence with “look” when trying to convince her about her mother’s recovery. They hadn’t been convincing either.

She gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mr. Cunningham.” She was going to have to break the news to Kerrie. Things had been going so well. She didn’t know how Kerrie would take it.

Kerrie still had several dresses to make and a number of adjustments on some of the nearly completed garments. News that war might be breaking out didn’t seem to bother her. “I’m too busy to worry about things like that, and you should be too.”

She was right. There were too many dresses for them to complete quickly, and with time running out before the ball, it seemed a hopeless task. They still had some silk left stored at Shona’s house, so all was not yet lost, but it was going to make completing the orders impossible, unless they could find a way to get the fabric from somewhere else. To make matters worse, keeping them clean from dust and drips of rusty water from the roof when there’d been one or two dresses had been difficult, but with so many in various states of completion, it was nigh on impossible. They’d taken to bringing only a couple of dresses with them to the market and leaving the rest locked in the trunk at the foot of the bed at Shona’s house. Just exactly how copies of the dresses had made their way around town so rapidly was a subject of discussion, but they both suspected Shona had a spare key to the trunk. Kerrie mentioned changing the lock but with all the preparations and bustle, they hadn’t managed to get around to it.

The sound of a throat clearing brought both their heads up from their sewing.

When Ilsa saw who was standing in front of the stall, she nearly dropped the garment she’d been working on into the dirt, only narrowly saving it by clamping her knees together to catch it. The man wore a shiny satin hat and a long black tail coat. The emerald green sash of the House of Desmonde glimmered beneath his coat. His thick moustache was speckled with grey and he had the kind of eyes that moved from one item to the next rapidly, but deliberately, as if he wanted to take it all in but was in a hurry to do so. He was the type of man she’d grown accustomed to seeing in the cafe. Noble and rich. She could barely look at him without feeling she should be groveling. Resisting that urge felt good.

“Lady Desmonde calling on Mistress Kerrie.” Even the man’s voice seemed to exude wealth. He spoke more slowly than most people Ilsa had met, with rounded vowels and clear diction.

“I am she.” Kerrie was standing now, hands clinging together in front of her body as if she didn’t know what to do with them.

“I see.” He smiled, but his expression looked like he’d caught a whiff of something rotten. Was she imagining the undertones of distaste or were they really there? “So,” he said, “ There is no mistake?”

Kerrie shook her head. “None. How may I assist the Lady Desmonde?”

Ilsa froze, glancing from Kerrie to the man and back again. Kerrie’s expression was one of barely suppressed panic. The man appeared bored, but high and mighty as he was, he hadn’t removed his gloves as was proper. Ilsa decided she didn’t like him.

“Would you care to come in?” Kerrie began moving their things around to make space for the visitor.

“I don’t care to, but I shall,” he said. “My name is Kane. I serve Lady Desmonde. Her Ladyship is en route here right now. You are to be prepared to receive her.”

“Here?” Kerrie’s hand flew to her chest, her eyes wide. “We can’t possibly…where would we—”

The man smiled, removing his hat and finally peeling off his white gloves. “Just so. And so you see my dilemma.” His lips pursed. “We’ll just have to make do.”

They began to tidy. Kerrie gathered the sewing gear and put it into order, dropping things into one of several wicker baskets below the main bench. Ilsa took a birch twig broom to the floor, removing a few wind-blown leaves and the majority of the cuttings, bits of thread and scraps of pattern paper that had been strewn across the floor.

As they worked, a few of the nearby stall-holders gathered to watch the commotion, but the hat maker across the way quickly shooed them away, saying, “Mind your own business,” and “If you want to stand around i’ll put you to work.” Even so, Ilsa caught the hat maker staring at them more than once. There was no shortage of curiosity in the market.

They had done all that could be done to a rickety wooden market stall when the palanquin arrived. Ilsa had just finished scrubbing the old boards when she heard someone announce Her Ladyship’s arrival. She poked her head above the front counter, just high enough that she could see over it. She’d been expecting pomp and finery, but what she saw was nearly enough to have her diving to the floor in shock.

Lady Desmonde was younger than Kerrie but older than Shona. Her skin was smooth, flawless, and she moved from the palanquin to the stall front with a grace Ilsa had not seen before. It took Ilsa a moment, but she finally recognized the fine dress as the one Kerrie had adjusted for her. In the light the crystals and sequins seemed like gemstones.

Kerrie dipped at the knees in a strange way that Ilsa couldn’t emulate properly. “Lady Desmonde, we are honored. We would have come to you if we’d—“

Kane cleared his throat loudly. “Mistress Kerrie, Her Ladyship will go where she wills, of course.”

“Of… of course.” Kerrie turned a shade of red so deep her cheeks looked like two halves of an apple.

“Now now, Kane. Don’t terrify the poor woman.” Lady Desmonde’s voice was a stark contrast to her appearance. Where she seemed refined, almost dainty—if a little plump—her voice was low, rasping, as if she’d spoken so much her throat was raw.

Kane bowed slightly, if stiffly, from the waist. “Of course, My Lady.”

“I am sorry for arriving so suddenly like this. I just had to meet the miracle worker herself. I mean,” the Lady ran her fingers over the crystals on the top edge of her bodice, “this masterpiece could not go unrewarded.”

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(Both the story and the image are my original works.)

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Author's Note:

If you've read this far with me, thank you! There's more to come.

If you are joining mid-way, please do check it out on my Steemshelf at Steemshelves http://www.steemshelves.com/thinknzombie/. You can see each Steemit post in the series linked there as well as some of my other stories.

Here's what it looks like, and the image will take you to the shelves:

As ever, this story would not have been possible without the crew from the The Writers' Block on Discord (https://discord.gg/vjVavr). Big thanks to everyone who helped edit this. You are superstars, every one, and I give thanks on a daily basis for stumbling across you.

If you are a writer or would like to be, I urge you to visit us at The Writer's Block. Who knows, you might even decide to become part of the family too.

-- @thinknzombie

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