The nightmare screamed in rage on the other side of the ice wall. He turned his mount around and galloped back into Loire.
Stil chuckled between gulps of air. He forced himself to sit upright. He was soaked, and his arm was injured. The rain spattered his face as he dug through his cloak. When he found what he was looking for—a ruby cut in the shape of a flame—he breathed on it, sighing in relief when the charm activated and heat seeped into his body.
Stil stumbled to his feet and started in the direction of his temporary home. “I don’t understand,” Stil said, pushing his sopping hair out of his face. “What merit is there in hunting me?”
Gemma ran her hand over fabrics and cloth. Her fingers lingered on the bolts of violet-colored velvet and blush-red silk brocade. Her forehead furrowed she internally paged through patterns and dress styles like a child flipping through a picture book.
Lady Linnea would look fetching in the violet velvet, which would offset her blonde hair. However, red brocade was the rage in Loire thanks to Princess Elle, who wore many gowns made of rose-red material.
Gemma’s mind raced with the various styles she could design using the fabrics, but her mind was made up when she caught sight of the length of snow-white fur.
“I’ll take the fur, all of the violet velvet, and some more white linen,” Gemma told the merchant as she tugged on the desired materials.
“This is to go on the Lovland’s account?” the merchant asked.
“Yes,” Gemma said. She nodded in acknowledgment to the villager that entered the store—she knew him well. As a child, she had played often with his flat-nosed daughter who had a penchant for pinching. “I might be back for the silk brocade, too.”
The merchant recorded Gemma’s purchase. “It’s a good cloth. You’re sure you don’t want the grey silk?”
Gemma glanced at the described material. The silk was well made, and the color was a subdued dove gray, but that shade would make Lady Linnea resemble a pale ghost. “It’s not the right cloth for Lady Linnea.”
“Perhaps, but it would look stunning with your eyes,” the merchant said with a winning smile.
Caught off guard, Gemma blinked twice. “Perhaps, but I don’t need a dress made of silk. It wouldn’t survive my week. This is all I want for now,” she said, resting her hand on the new material before wrapping her purchases with worn linen.
“Of course, of course. You be careful walking home, Miss Kielland. Mind the weather, you hear?”
“Yes. Until next time,” Gemma said before she left the tiny store, hauling her fabrics on her back.
“Morning, Gemma,”
“Good morning, Mrs. Hagen,” Gemma said to the older woman as they scurried through the village square.
“Making another dress for Lady Linnea, are you?” the older woman asked, her plump lips set in disapproval.
“That is what she employs me for,” Gemma said as they hurried past an empty fountain.
“Frivolous, I say,” Mrs. Hagen grunted. “It’s a shame you took up clothes making. Your mother used to make the most beautiful quilts. Everyone needs quilts in this frigid place.”
“I should think everyone needs clothes, too, Mrs. Hagen,” Gemma said, “or the city would be a blinding and chilly place to live.”
“It would WHAT?” Mrs. Hagen exclaimed. “Child, you sound just like Guri these days.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hagen,” Gemma said.
“That wasn’t a compliment. So, Miss Gemma, when will you pursue a real livelihood? You cannot live off Lady Linnea’s charity forever. After all, who needs fashion and dresses in a country of snow and a mad—,” Mrs. Hagen cut herself off and looked furtively in the direction of the Verglas palace.
No one called King Torgen mad, even though he clearly was, if they wanted to survive.
Gemma and Mrs. Hagen reached the perimeter of the village square. In summers, the square used to house outdoor markets. But that was years ago. Now it was used to publically execute whatever poor sop King Torgen decided to kill on a whim.
“I enjoy making dresses and clothes,” Gemma said.
“So, buy a doll,” Mrs. Hagen said, her moist eyes sourly directed to Gemma’s cloth purchases.
Gemma smiled insincerely. “Perhaps one day. But for now, I must bid you good day, Mrs. Hagen,” she said, bobbing a curtsey.
“Good day to you, Gemma,” Mrs. Hagen said before Gemma sped up her walking pace until she was all but trotting. It was a survival technique. Most of the Ostfold gossips did not have the lung capacity to speak and run at the same time.
Gemma hurried home, taking a twisting path to Lady Linnea’s house.
