A Fistful of Fire: Chronicles of Marsdenfel #1

Year 248 of the Bynding

Year 248 of the Bynding

The Kingdom of Salles

Winter, at Solstice

It was the wars’ fault. When men fight, women often pay for it as subjects of the violence. Our mages soon learned to protect girls by magically accelerating or delaying their shifts into womanhood.

This ultimately cost us womanhood’s variability. For every she-elf, it comes swiftly on the sixteenth birthday. No magic can change that, now.

—Endellion

· · · • • • · · ·

Finally, I finish the edgework on the last dress in my pile and put it aside. My fingertips ache from all the needlework. Solstice—and the human New Year celebrations that accompany it—overloads seamstresses with orders.

Last-minute demands for alterations and adjustments for the festive attire have meant that not only am I helping Miss Trelanna while my castle duties wait, but Lallie, Geddis, and even Silva work with me.

Silva winks my way while she pulls her own needle through her fabric swiftly, without magical aids. She seems oblivious to the detail that her aunt made sure to give her tasks easy enough that even she can’t mess them up. “The pile’s nearly done, at least.”

“Good, good,” Miss Trelanna declares. “Everything will be done by morning for clients to pick…” —her eyes narrow at one of the pieces in Geddis’s pile, which she takes and examines— “…up.” She scowls at her niece. “What did you do to this seam?!”

I glance at it and flinch; Geddis forgot to turn the fabric wrong side out before she sewed. The sixteen-year-old woman blinks back tears. Her fingers are more red and raw than mine; she’s also been working on her household samplers for prospective husbands.

Without commenting I take the trousers from Miss Trelanna and commence removal of the seam Geddis had put in, carefully keeping its alignment with pins and chalk. Trelanna’s been having me do embroidery and repair for decorative parts of garments, not actual alteration work. My fingers aren’t nearly as raw as Geddis’s.

I recognize the size and cut of the trousers with a practiced glance. They look like…“Are these Prince Aidan’s?”

Silva quickly hides a wry smile and shakes her head at Geddis’s startled expression. Her aunt isn’t so polite. “What, you in the habit of seeing them off his body?!” she snaps.

I jerk, the trousers falling from my hands as I flush and heat from embarrassment. “No—I mean—not—”

“Prince Aidan’s clothing is often in need of mending, Aunt,” Silva interrupts wryly, calmly continuing her stitchery, though the muscles by her eyes tighten, and she twists the ring on her left little finger with the same hand’s thumb. “I’ve told you not to heed gossip.”

Miss Trelanna huffs. “Hard not to, when everyone’s chattering about His Highness’s not-so-new mistress.”

My temperature soars further. I feel sweat start to form on my back.

“He doesn’t have a mistress, Aunt.” Silva’s tone is studiously bored. I recognize it as the one she uses when nobles insist on believing certain ‘expert’ predictions over Silva’s prophecies. “Assuming he did, it would be Nallé, and he hasn’t misused Nallé—”

“So certain,” Trelanna scoffs.

Lallie snickers, startling everyone but Silva who probably foresaw it. “He’s alive, ain’t he?”