The Royals of Monterra_Tailor Made

by Annette Lyon

  At fourteen, Sergio was constantly hungry, and not only because they didn’t have large meals. Sofia recognized the signs of a growth spurt in the making. If he ever did get enough food, he would grow and grow, passing Sofia and possibly even their late father’s height. If he didn’t get enough food, he might end up with scurvy or rickets or some other condition from lack of nourishment. She’d tried to get him to drink more of their cows’ milk, but he sold as much as the old cows produced. She couldn’t blame him — she understood the urge to get more money to sustain the family.

  Mother’s eyes were closed again, and her breathing had evened out — shallow, but steady. Sofia held one of her mother’s hands between both of hers; Mother’s fingers felt icy cold, her skin paper thin. Sofia placed a hand on Mother’s cheek and sang the same lullaby she once sang to her children when they were young. A tiny hint of a smile curved Mother’s lips — so small Sofia wondered if she’d imagined it — followed by a slight sigh that might have indicated contentment.

  Such small moments sustained Sofia. She reluctantly pulled her hand back and picked up her needles once again. The sooner she finished this pair of stockings, the sooner the family could buy meat or one of a hundred other necessities they were already going without.

  Maybe a chicken. Sofia’s mouth watered at the thought. Or medicine to make Mother well, or at least medicine to ease her pain.

  A knock sounded on the door, and the hinges creaked as it opened. Sofia looked over her shoulder at Sergio, who held a cream-colored envelope in one hand. The thick, textured paper was the fine kind only wealthy people used, nothing like the thin, yellowing paper Provenza was lucky to get on a good week. The envelope trembled in her brother’s hand, making Sofia laugh quietly. Sergio had been the one to greet most of the messengers delivering orders for Sofia’s work. She would have thought that talking with a servant dressed in silk and velvet would no longer intimidate him.

  “Th — this is for you.” His voice shook as much as his hand.

  Mid-row, Sofia set her knitting at the foot of the bed, gathered her plain brown skirts, and crossed to her brother to retrieve the clothing request. “You look white as snow,” she said, holding out a hand. She widened her eyes mischievously. “Is the messenger a troll with a giant wart on his nose?”

  “No,” Sergio said solemnly, as if not grasping her joke. “It is — it — it’s —”

  “Show me,” Sofia said, curious and a bit baffled. They had both seen and talked with plenty of upper-class folk before. He hadn’t spoken to as many as she had, but a brief conversation at the door shouldn’t have tied his tongue so entirely. “What is it?”

  Sergio kept his eyes trained on the letter and pursed his lips to one side as he did whenever he felt anxious. Finally, without a word, he turned the envelope about so Sofia could see the red wax seal.

  She expected to see a fancy letter in the wax, perhaps a flower or other emblem of an aristocratic family. Instead, the impression showed the royal crest of Monterra. Sofia’s eyes went as large as saucers. “That — that’s not what I — it can’t possibly—”

  Her brother’s shock made way for satisfaction. “And you thought I was afraid of some duke.”

  Sofia hardly comprehended his words as she took the envelope and stared at the red wax. She walked to the small window and let the sun stream onto it, as if that might change the image into something less — well, less terrifying. Had the Queen written to Sofia, a lowly craftswoman? Surely not.

  With a careful touch, Sofia cracked the seal — a necessity, although destroying the image felt almost sacrilegious. She slowly removed the single piece of folded paper, which matched the thick, cream-colored envelope.

  In preparation for His Royal Highness Prince Gregorio’s nuptials, to take place in one month’s time, the Royal Court of Monterra hereby summons Sofia Torre, whose skills are required for the wedding party’s wardrobe.

  She shall leave immediately in the company of the messenger delivering these summons. Upon arrival at the castle, further instructions will be provided, as well as all required materials for completing the assignment. She shall remain at the castle until the nuptials are past, after which she will be returned to her home and family in Provenza.

  Our Queen is prepared to generously compensate Miss Torre’s family for her absence and labors on behalf of the kingdom.

  —His Royal Highness Prince Gregorio of Monterra

  Sofia read the letter again. And a third time. Her intellect refused to grasp the meaning — surely her eyes weren’t reading the words correctly. The Crown Prince couldn’t be summoning her, poor little Sofia Torre, to work at the castle for the royal wedding. What a ridiculous idea. Why would the castle summon a poor girl from a tiny village in the Alps, a girl raised milking cows, making cheese, and knitting?

  Preposterous.

  Yet no matter how many times she read the letter, the words remained the same. Somehow the castle had heard of her work. Somehow her work was viewed as good enough for the royal family. Thousands of people would line the wedding route. Thousands would see every piece of clothing the Prince, his bride, and their retinue wore. Her heart rate sped up at the prospect of working for the royal family and imagining how much she would be paid — and what she could do for her family with that money.

  Then her eyes settled on a phrase she’d nearly missed: one month’s time.

  How many items did the court expect her to make? Surely not many, if she had but a month to work. They have probably summoned many other craftswomen, she figured. That made the most sense.

  The man who’d delivered the message stood by the front door, just off of Mother’s room. He shifted his big feet and jerked his head in the direction of a waiting carriage outside. “Driver’s waiting for you, miss.”

  “Oh, um...” Sofia didn’t know what to think or feel. She looked back at her mother’s frail form, at her brother, then through the door, beyond which a carriage from the castle awaited her. Finally, her gaze rested on her mother’s trunk at the base of the bed, which she would need to pack right away if she agreed to go.

  Which she would. What other choice did she have? One didn’t refuse a royal summons.

  The Queen will “generously compensate” my family. Sofia held on to that thought, clung to it as if that idea alone might somehow keep her mother alive.

  Sofia returned to the bedroom. She took her mother’s cool hand between her own and brought it to her lips, kissing it gently. “Mother, I’ll be gone for a spell.” Sofia’s voice caught, and she paused while she gathered her emotions so her voice wouldn’t betray her. Her eyes filled with tears anyway, and several spilled onto her cheeks. “Sergio will care for you,” she went on. “I won’t be gone long. And when I return, I’ll have earned money to get you all the medicine you need, plus a whole herd of young cows, and a new roof.”

  The Queen would hardly compensate her that generously, of course. The words simply came out, and as soon as Sofia said them, she knew they were what she would be hoping for. She prayed that when she returned, Mother would still be breathing.

  Sofia stood, gently replaced her mother’s hand across her middle, and kissed her forehead. Sofia turned to the servant at the door and found herself lifting her chin in an effort to feel brave. “Tell the driver that I’ll be ready to leave in a quarter of an hour.”

  The servant nodded soberly. “I can carry your trunk when it’s ready,” he said, then left to relay the message to the driver.

  As Sofia packed her belongings, her last words to her mother rang in her ears. Medicine, cows, and a new roof? Was she mad?

  If given the chance, those are the things I will ask for. She closed the trunk with a thud and latched the lid on both ends. Those are the things I will work my fingers to the bone for.

  Chapter Three

  Antonio sat by a window in the basement workshop, his work in his lap as he pored over the requisition papers Marcell had left behind. The now dog-eared sheets rested on the windo
wsill, and he sat on a stool, hand-stitching a buttonhole on what would become a new cloak for the queen to wear at the wedding. Shortly after the sun dipped into the western horizon, the light in the room grew too dark to see by, so he turned the papers over and let the fabric in his left hand droop into his lap. He’d made good progress on the shadowy pile of cloth.

  But a cloak was a far cry from time-intensive embroidery or elaborate coats and dresses. He knew how to make all of those things, of course. He could create tiny, even stitches with a needle as well as any seamstress, but as the head of the workshop, he hadn’t used many of his skills regularly in years and would be relying on his entire staff to complete the work ahead of them.

  His hands cramped from hours of holding the needle precisely and working it and the fabric just so. He stretched his fingers, made fists, then massaged one hand and the other. All the while, he stared into the thickening darkness beyond the window in hopes of seeing the carriage bringing the new seamstress to the castle. Marcell had said she’d arrive before sundown, yet there had been no sign of her.

  With the workshop situated in such a way that every carriage coming in and out of the castle gates rolled right past his window, he couldn’t have missed her arrival. Would she be a boon to his efforts, or would she hinder them? If only Teresa and Mara had returned. If only the rest of the staff hadn’t taken the day off. He counted the hours of labor lost today alone. On a regular day, with every worker busy, most of the dresses could have been cut out, possibly some of the men’s trousers as well.

  Antonio wanted to light a lamp, keep working, and continue to look over the orders, but every muscle in his hands protested, along with those in his shoulders and back. His body cried out for a rest. He had no need to keep reading the pages anyway; every word Marcell had left was already seared into Antonio’s brain.

  A tatted collar on a cloak for the bride? Antonio sighed with frustration. He gathered the papers and set them aside on the cutting table, where he laid them down a bit more forcefully than necessary. Who in the castle is mad enough to think that tatting anything can be done in less than a day?

  And that was only one example of the dozens that made his mind spin. Depending on the design, tatting a small doily could take hundreds of hours. A large collar made to the specifications listed — with the national flower embedded in the design, and most of it the width of his hand — would easily take hundreds of hours.

  Impossible.

  He resisted lighting the gas lamps for another reason — the more he read the orders, the worse the heaviness of dread in his middle became, the more certain he grew of his impending failure and dismissal. The workshop simply could not fulfill the order.

  When the wedding day came, and the royal family was made to look foolish, he’d be sent packing. Where would he go? He’d have to flee to escape the ridicule and shame. No excuses or explanations would ever be enough to convince commoners that a very good reason existed for his poor performance and dismissal — something he couldn’t mention to the Crown Prince, unless he wanted to be locked up for insubordination. He couldn’t approach the Queen, either; a mere tailor couldn’t ask for an audience with the monarch. Worse, asking for an audience, only to criticize her son? Unthinkable.

  Exhausted, he set the cloak on top of the papers and leaned against the stone wall, arms folded. He’d ignore the instruction to add a tatted collar to the cloak and then hope it wouldn’t be missed. Maybe he’d find other ways to trim the list that wouldn’t get him dismissed, but he doubt it.

  He must have dozed off at some point, because the rattle of wheels and the clop-clop of horses’ hooves woke him with a start. He blinked several times to clear the sleep from his eyes and peered out the window.

  Night had fallen completely, making it impossible to discern who rode inside the carriage. All he could tell by the light of the moon was that the side bore the royal crest on the door. As it passed, he made out the silhouette of a single figure inside, but male or female, old or young, he could not tell.

  This must be the seamstress. He stood, stretched to ease the crick in his back, and crossed to a small table by the mirror, where he lit a candle and then moved about the room to turn on the gas lamps.

  Antonio took in the room, now warmed by the lights, and wondered what he should do next to prepare for the girl’s arrival, if anything. She’d likely be shown her quarters in the female servants’ wing, and he wouldn’t meet her until morning. The clock on the shelf chimed, and he realized he’d missed dinner. He decided to request that food be brought down for both him and the new seamstress, and to have her sent here first. He could show her around tonight and explain how the workshop functioned. By morning, she’d be ready to work.

  He pulled a cord to summon a house servant, made the meal request, along with instructions to send the girl to the workshop as soon as possible, and then paced the room, waiting. Sooner than expected, he heard multiple sets of footsteps in the corridor. Antonio opened the door, eager to see and smell dinner. Now that he noticed his grumbling stomach, he could think of nothing else. But instead of servants bearing trays, he found two servants carrying a trunk, and behind them, a feminine figure in a dark blue cloak. The gas lamps along the stone corridor were spaced far enough apart that while they lit her cloak and hood, they cast her face in shadow. Her lowered chin and rounded shoulders said that the young woman felt every bit as tired, and likely as overwhelmed and worried, as he did.

  After fretting all day, he found his heart pricked with sympathy for this stranger. She’d drawn back her hood and now looked about the room. Her beauty made his greeting catch in his throat.

  A twist had her golden hair swept off her neck, but the journey had loosened a few tendrils here and there, which framed her face with pale curls like a halo. The lamplight made her hair a deep gold, and her skin might as well have been alabaster. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought she was an angel.

  He stood there, gaping, almost as if he’d never seen a woman before. Ever since Marcell’s visit, he’d thought of the new seamstress as a girl, but standing before him now was no girl, but a beautiful woman with light in her eyes, and thoughts in her head, and experiences he suddenly wanted to know about. In detail.

  Where precisely was the village of Provenza, and did she live well there? When had she been informed of her summons to the castle? Had she left family behind? A husband? Children?

  Perhaps she has no husband yet.

  Where had that thought come from? He scoffed at himself.

  As if I have the time or inclination to think about women.

  Antonio cleared his throat to chase away the thought and addressed the men hefting the trunk. “Is this the new seamstress?”

  “That’s right,” the blond footman in front answered. “We were told to send her straight here. If you’ll show us where to put this—”

  Antonio held up a hand and shook his head. “I didn’t mean for her trunk to be delivered here. The workshop has no suitable place for a young woman’s quarters.”

  “Just following orders,” the brown-haired footman said, and the two of them pushed through the doorway.

  Antonio backed up to avoid being knocked off balance and watched with dismay as they crossed the room and deposited the trunk between the full-length mirror and the platform. The trunk blocked the natural walking patterns of the room as well as the space between the platform and dressing screen. The footmen had somehow chosen the most inconvenient spot. He hurried to the men, hoping to rectify the problem.

  “You really can’t leave that here. Speak with Mrs. Rinaldi,” Antonio called as the two footmen exited without a backward glance. Antonio followed them to the door, but they kept walking. “Please, I’m sure the housekeeper has a room ready for — for—” Only then did he realize he didn’t know the seamstress’s name.

  How rude of me, he chastised himself. I represent the hospitality of the castle, but treat a new guest in such a way?

  Hoping to f
ix his oversight, he quickly turned to ask her name. “You are—” But speech was awfully difficult when presented with such a pretty face.

  “My name is Sofia Torre,” she said quietly, her hands clasped across her middle.

  “I — I’m so sorry.” Antonio shook his head and tried to find his wits, which had apparently fled along with his voice. “I mean, I’m Antonio, head tailor. Welcome to the castle and my workshop.” He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and stepped forward with one hand extended.

  She stared at it nervously. Instead of shaking his hand, she nodded and bobbed in a proper curtsy, as if he were of royal lineage. He almost corrected her but realized suddenly that doing so might only increase her feelings of discomfort. She’d learn the basics of castle etiquette soon enough.

  Antonio moved his extended arm outward in an arc, pretending that was what he’d meant to do all along. “Welcome. I’ve asked the kitchen to send us dinner. That is, if you’re hungry. If you’d rather go straight to your room, I could call for Mrs. Rinaldo, the housekeeper.” Now he was blathering on like a fool. Sofia Torre had utterly stolen his tongue. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it back.

  “Dinner would be most welcome, thank you,” she said, putting him out of his awkward misery.

  “Good. Then that’s settled.”

  What is the matter with me tonight? He’d never had trouble talking to women before. He managed a workshop that employed nearly a dozen women, and communicating with them accounted for a significant portion of his daily life. So how had this young woman, this apparition of angelic beauty, turned him from an intelligent, respected man of the castle into a blithering idiot? He was so flustered, he probably couldn’t have threaded a needle if his life depended on it.