The Nightborn by Isabel Cooper (howl and other poems TXT) 📗

she nor anyone else had stained it yet, but Lady Rognozi had gently made it clear that Branwyn needed more.

“The fabric’s a bit thick,” the seamstress said after making a lengthy comparison between Branwyn and the dress and pinching the wool between thumb and forefinger, “but if you’re willing to try on the other once I make it, so I can adjust it properly, I can manage. What are you thinking for the ball gown? I’ll tell you now I haven’t got much left, this close to the festival, but there’s some rose-printed gold silk that would suit you nicely.”

“That will be fine,” said Branwyn, “thank you. When it comes to the cut, though, I’ll need sleeves to the wrists and a long skirt.”

The seamstress was one Lady Rognozi recommended. She was, therefore, used to dealing with the vagaries of the nobility and used to maintaining an appearance of calm neutrality. Only a few seconds of unblinking regard gave her away.

That and Yathana’s opinion. She’s not sure whether you’re a raw-meat-eating barbarian or one of Marton’s sort, except that Marton and his lot wouldn’t go dancing unless it was at sword point.

“You can make the neckline low and the dress tight,” Branwyn added, stung at the comparison, “and cut out as much around the stomach and back as you can while maintaining the fit. I have scars on my arms and legs, though, that I’d prefer to keep hidden.”

That was, in most senses, another lie. The reforging did leave its marks, and Branwyn’s were on her limbs, but they weren’t as easily explained as most scars would have been. Branwyn had picked up a few of those on her back and sides, even with the quick and thorough healing that Sentinels gained. The prospect of showing them in a ball gown didn’t disturb her at all.

You’re both lucky, said Yathana. Trying to disguise Rowan’s hair, or, gods help us, Vivian’s face, that would be a job.

Branwyn knew it, and knew as well that it had little to do with luck. Her comparative skill at diplomacy had played a part in getting her sent to Heliodar, as did her blessing from Tinival and the fact that she’d been on hand to witness Thyran’s attack, but another, larger factor was the fact that clothes could hide the marks of her reforging.

She could make everyone believe that she was entirely human and nothing more—at least as long as all went well.

* * *

Evening was falling in vibrant shades of rose, gold, and violet. A few stars were out, low above the city’s roofs, when Zelen followed Lady Rognozi’s instructions to the dressmaker’s on Flaminia Street.

He paused in front of the shop, where a plaster dummy wearing a butterfly-print gown smirked at him despite its lack of features. Lady Rognozi had been fairly confident regarding his timing, but she was a woman who took a while about her wardrobe. It would be just his luck to be too late—or perhaps the will of the gods, thwarting his more underhanded, if still likely harmless, motives.

When he tapped on the door, a boy with a spotted complexion and arms an inch too long for his otherwise good attire answered. “Buying for a…lady, sir? Has she been here before? You’ll have to know her figure pretty well otherwise.” He winked.

“Rather hoping to meet one here,” Zelen said.

The boy snickered. Zelen would have, too, twenty years before. “We’re not that kind of establishment, m’lord, but I have heard—”

“That’s to say,” Zelen interrupted, “I was hoping to find one of your customers here. A blond lady from Criwath, my height or so, blue eyes… Oh, thank the gods,” he said, as Branwyn stepped out of the back room, bowing to the seamstress, before Zelen had to try describing her figure to an adolescent.

“It’s always wonderful to be appreciated,” said Branwyn, turning toward him with a startled smile, “but I don’t believe I’ve done much to deserve it.”

“You can’t imagine how untrue that is. Good evening,” Zelen added, and bowed.

“Good evening,” said Branwyn. Her smile lingered and turned curious. “You were looking for me?”

“I was. Lady Rognozi said you’d still be here.”

“That explains the method, but not the motive,” she teased.

She was dressed plainly, in the same dark clothing that she’d worn at the clinic and the Rognozis’ house, but it was much less plain now that Zelen had explored the form beneath it. The devilish glint in her eye didn’t help his composure, nor did the quirk of her lips. The shop boy was going to start snickering again soon.

“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he said, abandoning all preliminaries. “There’s a place a quarter hour’s walk from here that I think you’d enjoy.”

“You appear to have a good sense of that so far,” said Branwyn. “I’d be glad to go.”

* * *

Leaving the shop became a mindless undertaking: rote thanks, a bow, a coin for the boy. Then she was out on the street, her pace and Zelen’s falling into an easy match, and the evening took on new life and vividness. Energy Branwyn had lacked a quarter of an hour before flooded back threefold.

“It’s not what I’d call elegant,” Zelen said, leading them down a narrow road that snaked behind the public bathhouses and around the main barracks of the city guards, “but they spice their wine well, and they make a truly excellent pierogi. Besides—and apologies if I’m wrong in your case—but I’ve found there can be such a thing as too much elegance.”

“You aren’t wrong at all,” Branwyn said, laughing. “I’ll admit I don’t dislike living a mostly ornate life for a few weeks, but a simple meal is a nice change. Besides, even tavern fare here is more elaborate than what I’m used to.”

And you’d eat boiled horsemeat without salt if it meant lingering near his biceps for a few hours.

“I take it,” Zelen added, as they went on, getting free of the crowds and coming into a clearer street, “that I’m