Young Immortals

Four: The Dress Maker

Instead of our usual painting session, Aerwyna invites me to her coronation dress meeting. No doubt she wants to avoid the incoming knights, fighters, and mercenaries flocking to the palace in droves. Next week's dueling tournament is one of the three major festivities leading up to the coronation, followed by the ball and The Goblet.

"So my designer, Finocchi," Aerwyna says as we stroll down the hall, arm in arm. "He oversees all the resident artisans and is supposed to be one of the greatest dressmakers in history. He was one of the resident artisans that won The Goblet."

I only vaguely recognize the name, but I do not doubt this Finocchi guy's greatness. The royal family and their closest advisors only grant one individual per year a sip from The Goblet – a sip that severs their connection to the mortal realm and turns them into one of the immortal fae. 

"Tapestry is such an underappreciated art," I say. "I'm glad it's finally getting some attention."

"You mean dressmaking?"

I blink. "What did I say?"

"Ah, never mind. Are you alright?" Aerwyna's stare flickers between my eyes and mouth, the only parts of my face visible through my mask. "You seem off."

I am off. My head is cloudy, and my palms have been rubbed pink and raw, but I have let my person reach far worse states to finish other art pieces. Living in a constant state of exhaustion did not bother me as much as not being able to draw Devlin. 

Now that Silas knows my habits, he randomly drops in on my painting sessions with Aerwyna under the guise of speaking to her when he is really ensuring I do not slander his brother again. Oh, and the fireplace incident. I did not take too kindly to that.

But I cannot tell Aerwyna any of this because as much as she likes me, I would have to be insane to expect her to side with a copper over a brother-in-law. While I am busy coming up with an excuse for my behavior, I miss the group of fighters standing in the middle of the hall until I walk right into one of them. 

He is about to apologize, until he sees my copper mask. "Watch yourself," he snaps, pushing my shoulder.

"My apologies, sir," I mumble, just as Aerwyna shoves the fae twice as hard as he pushed me, her two ivory gloved hands hitting the fae's back with a solid smack, hard enough that he falls to the ground.

"Watch yourself," Aerwyna says.

The group of fighters turn to Aerwyna with curses on the tip of their tongues, only for their faces to drop when they see the shiny tiara fixed atop her head. The one Aerwyna pushed to the ground scrambles into a bow, and the rest follow suit. Aerwyna tips her head in acknowledgment, then strides right down the middle of the group, forcing the males – still crouched in bows – to half scramble, half waddle to the sides of the hall to clear her path.

"I walked into him," I whisper once we moved out of hearing range.

Aerwyna pats my back. "I know, dear."

We reach Aerwyna's chambers to find a fae in scarlet robes directing ten assistants, who each carried a box piled high with every kind of fabric imaginable. Finocchi. As he shows Aerywna his final sketches for her dress, I study him for signs of transformation, but whatever he was before he drank from the goblet, it is gone now. 

 He looks like any other fae, every line of his body perfect and blemish free, as if the gods carved him from diamond and sin.

"What is this?" Aerwyna says, pulling back from the sketchbook. "I said match the late queen's brilliance, not her likeness. I need something new."