A Touch of Death

Chapter 23

"You know, if it turns out being an Enchantress isn't your cup of tea, you could make an excellent seamstress," Tarran said pensively, gently running his hand across the sleeve of a half-finished bodice. Her work was truly incredible- she must have had a good teacher when learning to stitch and then taken up the design aspects on her own.

Aoife had shut herself away in the sewing room for days. Every time she wasn't training or reading, it was easy to find her here with a needle and thread in her hand. She seemed absorbed in her work in a way that was healthy. There was a better color in her cheeks now and a spark in her eye while she worked. Tarran didn't understand how anyone could stare at stitches for so long, but the methodical yet artistic action seemed to bring Aoife peace.

"It's not my cup of tea," Aoife said with a snort. "And as much as I enjoy sewing, I think I'll stay with being a healer. It's easier to pack up, move on, and start again somewhere else if you have medical skills, even mediocre medical skills."

A strange wash of uneasiness came over Tarran at the thought of Aoife packing up and moving on. Of course, she would. That was part of the agreement.

"We need to think about what you're going to wear to Court when we go," he said suddenly. It was the reason he'd make the trek from the tower to the back corner of the house in the first place.

"You're not getting me into one of those pastries," she said without looking up, her hands preoccupied with stitching tiny yellow buttercups on to a green bodice.

"No one there will be wearing anything like that," he said firmly.

"Then why did you make me learn to dance in it?!" she groaned.

"I told you: if you can dance in that, you can dance in anything," he said with a shrug. "Most of the Court Enchanters favor lighter attire in the Fae style, so you can wear almost anything you choose within reason, though Enchanters do like to push against conventional ideas of modesty." And occasionally trample all over them, Tarran thought wryly. Aoife didn't need to know that, though. Wearing something like that would likely make her even more uncomfortable, and there was no point in scaring her.

"I don't have to wear a hood over my face, do I?"

"No. That's the Court persona I've chosen for myself. It makes it harder for people to notice that I haven't aged in a very, very long time."

"How long would that be, exactly?" Aoife asked carefully. Tarran leveled a glare at her cold enough to freeze fire. She rolled her eyes, going back to the embroidery pattern and mumbling under her breath. "Old codger."

"Childish brat," he hissed. She didn't even acknowledge that he'd spoken, looking down at her needlework with that same concentrated expression as when he first entered the room.

"So, anything else I should know about the standards for this Court attire?"

"It will need to be red, firstly. All the Enchanters in Quilland wear red to Court appearances, including apprentices. We can send your measurements and have a dress or two made for the balls, but your first appearance is most important. It should make a statement that they won't easily forget." Tarran cast a very pointed glance at the pile of red fabric on one of the tables. Aoife followed his gaze, her expression changing slowly to understanding, and then calculating.

"How long do I have?"

"Ten days."

"Ten days?!" Aoife scoffed. "At least you don't expect me to make a ball gown in that time. You realize my magic has nothing to do with the speed at which I am able to sew?"

"Humor me," he said flatly.

"Alright, fine," she said with a shrug. "Let's assume I can do this in ten days. What am I making?"

"Traditional Court dress for Enchanters exposes their Marks to the highest degree possible. Some have them stitched on their clothing if they're in inconvenient places. Others don't mind being a bit more revealing with their clothing choices." Tarran circled her slowly, looking Aoife up and down in a manner that made her feel a little like things were crawling on her. "We'll need to fashion you a dress with one sleeve. Or no sleeves, if you'd prefer."

"One sleeve? Won't that look ridiculous?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"It all depends on the image you want to present. Court is a dance, Aoife, literally and figuratively. If you dress too girlishly, people will begin to underestimate you. Sometimes that's what you want them to do, but-" he stopped suddenly, a strange look in his eyes.

"What?"

"Are you nervous? Be honest."

Aoife frowned, but she nodded.

"Girlish only works with confidence, and so does seductive. Strapless dresses go with both those personalities and could leave your shoulder exposed, but I think that's more skin than you want to show, yes?"

"Do you really pay that much attention to my fashion choices?" Aoife snorted.

"As much as you pay to mine," he said with a smirk. "You favor sleeveless shirts with high collars during training, and you wear trousers unless I specifically request you wear a gown for dinner or dancing."

"Meaning what? You want me to wear training leggings to the Court?" Aoife slumped, plopping down in the Captain's chair at the corner of her room.

"You know, that isn't what I was thinking, but that could work," he mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. "I think we need to dress you like the weapon that you are, and I'm simply attempting to find the best way of doing that."

"So I wear trousers to the Court and scandalize the Enchanter's conference with my legs? What a sight that would be." Aoife laughed, sinking back in the chair and enjoying the ridiculous fantasy... until she saw Tarran's face. "Oh, no."

"What?"

"You're not thinking what I think you're thinking."

"Well, perhaps we couldn't get away with pants quite as, ah, form-fitting as the ones you wear around here, but it would be a strong first impression."

"They'll think I'm trying to insult the Court!" Aoife hissed.

"Wasn't it you who just asked why it mattered what they thought?" Tarran asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though it was true that some of the more conservative members of the Court might have that impression. "We'll pack dresses for the formal dances, if you like. Come on, Aoife- where's that spine I've grown to know and love?"

Aoife felt a strange sort of fluttering deep in her chest, which she immediately squashed with the biggest wave of willpower that she possibly could. No fluttering allowed. Still, she couldn't say no to that look, and he knew it.

"You win, Tarran, oh great designer of Court attire," she said with a huff. "As long as I get to embroider it."

They argued over sketches for at least another hour, trying to find something that would work as a middle ground between how much time Aoife had to work with and how much flair the Court would expect. In the end, they agreed on a general design for a long, sleeveless waistcoat and simple pants, meaning that most of Aoife's time could be used for embroidery and ornamentation rather than construction and patterning.