Chapter 9: The Fitting

The royal dressmaker kept a shop on the Street of Needles, behind a glass window painted with gold thread.

Calista stood outside it in her dove-grey wool for a quarter of an hour, watching the Princess's ladies go in and out.

There were six of them in furs, carrying bolts of white silk, and every one of them looked at her once.

Then at her hands, and then away.

She had come to Corbel alone, in the dower house cart, with the last of her pocket money.

She had a question.

She had carried it for a week, and it had grown heavier each day.

She meant to put it down.

At half past ten, Aldric Voltraine's carriage drew up at the curb.

He climbed down in a coat the colour of cream, with a fur collar, and handed a small leather box to his footman.

He looked well.

That was the hard thing.

He looked rested and glad and handsome, a man whose life had come out right.

Calista crossed the pavement before she had decided to.

"Aldric."

He turned.

For an instant his whole face opened, glad to see her, from habit.

Then he remembered, and it closed.

"Calista. This isn't the place."

"You chose the ballroom. I'm sure you can spare the pavement," Calista said.

"I have an appointment."

"I have one question," she said.

She walked past him and into the shop.

He followed, because she had left the door open and four ladies in furs were staring.

The room inside was a hush of silk, and white satin hung from the ceiling on poles.

The Princess's ladies had stopped talking.

A seamstress with pins in her mouth froze over a mannequin in a half-made wedding dress.

"Madam, I must ask you," said the head dressmaker.

"One question," said Calista. "Then I will go."

She turned to Aldric.

He had gone pink under the fur.

"You can ask me anything in private," he said, softly, as if the ladies could not hear.

"I have asked you in private for three years. You were always very busy."

A lady at the back gave a small cough.

Calista did not lower her voice.

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