Knight from the Ashes by Shari L. Tapscott
Clover
“Thank you for coming again, Clover,”Minda says to me, smiling. The dressmaker steps back to survey her work. “The afternoon is much more pleasant when Camellia sends you in her place.”
I smile at the seamstress as she finishes the final gown fitting, understanding all too well.
If it weren’t for the two short antlers protruding from her brunette hair and the faint, rounded freckles that run from her jaw up across her temples, she’d look like her High Vale elven cousins—easily mistaken for human, but generally taller, with sharper features and a certain etherealness. But she’s not a High Vale elf—she’s a Woodmore elf, rarely seen inside the cities.
And like all Woodmores, she’s meek and peaceful, with a softness that Camellia finds unnerving. Especially when the woman becomes so nervous, she accidentally pokes the princess with her dress pins. At least, no one can prove it’s anything but an accident. If I were in Minda’s shoes, I’d probably take a stab or two myself.
“Will you tell Camellia the dress will be finished in a few days?” Minda asks softly as she carefully arranges her pins in their felted pincushion. “I’ll bring it to her quarters after I make these last adjustments.”
Taking pity on the woman, I say, “Shall I deliver it?”
Minda looks back, and her eyes widen with hope. “Would you do that for me?”
“Of course,” I say brightly, though I’m not looking forward to the task any more than she is. But at least I’m not terrified of the princess. “Just fetch me when it’s finished.”
The dressmaker gives me a rare smile. “I will. Thank you, Clover.”
“Are we done here?” I ask, itching to move.
“All finished.” She waves her hand. “You may change—just be careful not to prick yourself.”
I gingerly hop from the stool, careful of the pins that threaten to stab my flesh, and disappear behind the changing screen.
“What’s this gown for, anyway?” I ask, shimmying out of the emerald dress and wincing when a rogue pin pokes my hip.
“Camellia didn’t say.”
I frown at the fabric as I step from it, running my thumb over the silken material. “It’s a bit ornate, isn’t it? Is there a ball looming in the future?”
Just the thought makes me shiver. On the surface, a ball seems as if it would be something I would enjoy immensely—food, dancing, flirting, laughing. What could be better? And perhaps that’s what a ball is for everyone who isn’t one of Camellia’s ladies-in-waiting.
We ladies, however, are practically chained to Camellia’s side, only free to dance or eat when she’s dancing or eating. And since the princess is contrary, and undoubtedly enjoys making us suffer, she prefers to spend her time on her parents’ dais, with her pert nose raised in the air with disdain, looking down upon her people.
I didn’t pass out from hunger at the last ball only because Lawrence kept sneaking me cherry tartlets behind his sister’s back.
“I haven’t heard of a ball,” Minda says. “Though perhaps the princess knows something we do not?”
It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.
Quickly, I slip on my own gown, and then I leave, saying my goodbyes to the dressmaker.
“I’ll let you know when the dress is ready,” she calls. “Thank you, Clover!”
* * *
Several daysafter the final fitting, I knock on Camellia’s outer chamber door, growing impatient. Her gown is large and cumbersome, and if I so much as let the hem brush the floor, the princess will send it down for cleaning.
“You’re sure she’s in there?” I ask Cortana, the guard unfortunate enough to be stationed outside Camellia’s room.
“She retired after lunch, claiming she had a headache.”
I shift from one foot to the other, weighing my options.
If I leave, the gown will be late, and Minda will bear the brunt of Camellia’s wrath.
But since I’m one of the princess’s ladies, Cortana will let me in if I ask. I could slip the dress into Camellia’s sitting room and leave it without having to disturb the princess—or talk to her, which is even better.
Liking the second option the best, I say to Cortana, “I think I’ll just tiptoe inside quietly.”
Nodding, Cortana opens the door, revealing the opulent antechamber that leads into Camellia’s rooms. I walk through the entry and into Camellia’s sitting room, immediately greeted by a massive portrait of the princess herself. It hangs above a red velvet chaise longue, where she often reclines in the afternoons.
Relieved to find her favorite lounging spot unoccupied, I lay the dress upon the settee by the fireplace.
But then I frown at it, worried it might crease while Camellia whiles the day away in bed.
After several moments of indecision, I decide it’s worth the risk to sneak into Camellia’s bedchamber and fetch the dress form.
But when I step into Camellia’s room, I find the drapes wide open and the bed unoccupied.
I’ve barely paused to wonder where the princess is when raised voices drift from Camellia’s closet.
Though I can’t make out the conversation, one of the voices is distinctly the princess’s. The other is low and scratchy, and it sounds vaguely masculine.
But that can’t be right—Henrik has been gone for days. So, who’s in the closet with Camellia?
And for that matter, what are they doing in there?
Shaking my head, I decide it’s none of my business—and I’d like to keep it that way.
“I don’t want any blacksmith,” Camellia says loudly enough I can just hear her. “I want Henrik.”
Well, that’s odd.
Working quickly, I slip the gown over the dress form and give the garment a few good tugs to coax it into place. Then I turn toward the door, prepared to sneak from the room before I’m caught.
But then the closet door opens.
Left with no choice but to look oblivious, I quickly turn back to the dress and run my hand down the skirt as if tidying it.
“Clover,” Camellia says sharply when she finds me in her bedchamber. “What are you doing in here?”
I gesture to the dress as if she’s daft. “Minda sent your gown.”
Camellia’s eyes travel to the new garment, and her mouth pinches. She crosses her arms, preparing to scold me. “How long have you been here?”
“Only a few moments. Cortana said you had a headache.” Unable to pass up the opportunity to rib Camellia, I glance at the closet and raise my brows pointedly. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
As expected, Camellia bristles, obviously up to no good. Who does she have in there, and what were they doing?
I’m just about to ask her when she moves her hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, and she leaves a bloodstain upon her ivory sleeve.
“You’re bleeding.” Startled, I step forward, reaching for the princess’s hand. “What did you do?”
Before I can touch her, she jerks away. “It’s just a small cut. My knife slipped while I was slicing an apple.”
To prove her point, she nods her head toward the porcelain plate that sits atop the table by her bed. Sure enough, a browning core rests upon the dish, along with a knife.
“Take it with you when you leave,” she commands.
I almost ask her if I look like a kitchen maid, but I manage to hold my tongue. If she’s giving me an excuse to go, I’ll gladly take it.
“Oh, Clover,” she says as I’m leaving. “I don’t like the green. Tell Minda to make the gown again, but this time in amethyst.”
“Didn’t you pick out the fabric?”
“I liked it then,” she says impatiently, “but now that I see it, I don’t care for it at all. I’m sure it looked acceptable upon you, but my delicate complexion requires cooler tones.”
Barely resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I turn for the door. “Of course, Your Highness. I’ll speak to Minda.”
I’m just leaving, so close to freedom, when the closet door opens. Hellebore emerges, wiping her hands upon a cloth.
“Is that blood?” I ask, aghast.
Startled, perhaps thinking I’d already left, Hellebore jumps. Her eyes flash when they meet mine, and I take a step back, wary of the silent elven handmaid.
“Are you going to stand there all day?” Camellia snaps. “You have two perfectly good feet—use them.”
What exactly did I stumble on?
No—no.
Whatever the princess and Hellebore were doing in the closet, I want absolutely no part in it.
And with that thought, I hurry out the door without so much as a second glance behind me.