That, I can believe. “Twenty. That's my last offer.”
He grumbles in agreement. “Which color, then?”
I look at the rich, forest green, not unlike the royal colors of Ravelyn. The second wouldn’t usually be my style—I tend to avoid red, given how it clashes with my copper hair—but this crimson is so deep it looks almost black. I’m surprised I like it. The last is a bright, unapologetically regal purple. “I’ll take all three.”
Poor Kretch almost chokes on his gasp.
I've had my fun, so I take the bolts and make my way up the lane, until I reach the woman who’s made my clothes for as long as I can remember.
The short, buxom tailor greets me with an unexpected hug, practically squeezing the breath out of me. "What you've done for the lanes," the old woman whispers against my cheek. "Oh, girl. Your grandma would be so freaking proud."
I'm all astonishment. Alva wasn't supposed to let anyone know I was sending money. If there's one thing the undercity folk like less than fancy nobles from uptown, it's a handout from one of them. "Err, Johel?"
"Yes, yes. Not a word, I know. But my boy keeps nothing from me."
I'd forgotten: Khel. His parents died when he was young, and was taken care of by his aunt, Johel. They look nothing alike, so the familial relationship was easy to overlook.
"Tell me. What do you need, hm? Fancy-schmancy court clothes, yes?"
I came for the exact opposite, but now that she mentions it… "I guess?” The reminder that I’m supposed to turn up to the Ravelyn court this weekend grates. I'll do my damnedest to escape that summons, but I doubt I can avoid the court forever. It'll help to have something to wear. "But I came looking for everyday stuff, you know." I'm tired of skirts, and those stupid slacks should be burned. “Just a little less practical that what I used to wear, but nothing fancy. I guess I’d like a dress, maybe a skirt, three pairs of pants and a dozen tops.” That should be more than enough. I never owned that much clothing at one time when I lived in the lane. “I got the same fabric as last year from Kretcher down the lane. You can use it for some of that, and I’ll pay for linen and cotton otherwise. Just start an account.”
"Everyday stuff," she mumbles. "You're Hel Stovrj, not an everyday girl.” Her expert gaze takes me in. “I see you haven’t changed much. Leave the bolts with me. I'll make the first delivery by the end of the week, yes?"
I hesitate. She's dressed me for as long as I can remember. Grandma Lyn paid her in salves and remedies when I was a kid and after I took to the lanes, I paid her myself, either in trade or in gold, when I could afford it. I decide to trust her. “I’ll make a deposit for the fabric you need."
“A deposit?” She laughs so hard she bends down and holds her thick thighs. “You’ll give me nothing, dear girl. You’ve fed half the kids around here and sent the rest to school.”
"That's kind of you, but I can afford it, and you have to keep a roof over your head." I take her hand in one of mine, retrieve my coin pouch, and place it in her grasp.
I only brought a hundred and fifty golds with me. She can have what's left of it.
"No. Your money's no good here."
"Of course it is." I step back and hold both hands up, refusing to touch the pouch she holds out to me. "If you want to give it away, that's your business. It's yours to squander."
"Now listen, young lady!" Johel glares, and holds one finger up. She scowls, holding my steady gaze, before remembering that I’m stubborn as all purgatories. With a grunt of resignation, she says, "You're going to get the best dress ever seen in the history of their dumb frozen court, you hear?"
That’s frightening. “Well, where I live now, people are a little understated. Classy, you know.” I think back to Adelaid Gyrth’s bare midriff, and compress my lips. Classy isn’t the best description, but the nobles certainly don’t dress in the lanes’ idea of high fashion. “I’m not after a meringue.”
Swift as the wind, she swats my back with my bolt of fabric. “Get out of here before I turn your hide red. Meringue, my wrinkled ass. The nerves on you!”
I chuckle, and opt to retreat. If she makes me something dreadful, I’ll just give it away.
It doesn’t really matter. When I finally have to go to Ravelyn, I'll be ridiculous either way.
Zale Devar will make sure of it.
Time to attempt to weasel out of my summons.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
THE RULES OF THE GAME
Iam astonished to find my speeder where I left it, and unbesmirched to boot.
Parking a vehicle of that price range just across the canal from my old neighborhood is nothing short of inviting mischief. Hel of the Claws would have keyed the matte paint for sheer spite. I consider stopping by the orphanage to catch up with Alva, but it’s getting dark; I don't have time to get roped into helping out with construction work. I can come back to the crew later.
On ride back uptown, my fingers dancing on the control panel, I realize that most of my anxiety is gone. I should have returned to my neighborhood much sooner. I'm a fish out of water at Five, and occasionally, I should plunge back into my tank to breathe.