by Annette Lyon
Back in the hall, Antonio closed the door with a click and went to the hallway leading to the women’s quarters. On tenterhooks, he waited for any sign of Sofia. When she didn’t appear, he paced the distance between the women’s wing and the kitchen — fifteen steps each way — trying not to leap to conclusions about the workshop’s failure — his failure — to provide the Crown Prince, the rest of the royal family, and their entourage with the proper wardrobe for the most important national and diplomatic event in a generation.
Might as well send me to a stone cell, he thought miserably.
The Queen wouldn’t do such a thing, he was quite sure. She was known for being kind and generous. But as he’d feared when Marcell first showed up, Antonio was certain that he’d soon be dismissed. When word spread throughout Monterra about his failure, shame would land on Antonio’s shoulders, in spite of the circumstances being beyond his control. Would he need to learn a new trade altogether to subsist?
At last, a bedroom door opened. Antonio hurried to the hallway and waited expectantly. Sofia stepped into view, followed by the doctor, who closed a door behind him. Antonio waited anxiously for Sofia and the doctor to reach him.
“They are all quite ill, I’m afraid,” the doctor said. “Judging by the time of the onset and their symptoms, I suspect they all ate something contaminated at dinner last night.”
“What was it?” Antonio asked.
The doctor shook his graying head. “I don’t know, and I doubt we ever will. I’ve pieced together most of the menu, and the culprit could have been any number of foods. Perhaps even the water.” He stepped past Antonio to the kitchen, where he set his black bag on the table and pulled out a piece of paper, which he gave to Cook. “See to it that every seamstress, and the tailor Max, drinks this mixture at least three times a day. That will help prevent dehydration.”
As he shut his bag, Sofia stepped forward. “Is there nothing more you can do?”
“I’m afraid not. This type of thing must simply be endured, miserable as it is. I don’t think anyone is in serious danger, so long as they rest and drink that concoction regularly.” He gestured toward the note, which Cook was reading and rereading. The doctor moved to leave.
“Please,” Antonio said, lifting a hand to stop him. “How long until they’re well?”
“Hard to say.” The doctor smoothed his mustache in thought. “Every patient is different. Some may be well as early as tomorrow. Others may take several days or even a week to fully regain their strength.”
Sofia slipped her hand into Antonio’s as if she knew he needed reassurance.
“Thank you for coming, doctor,” she said. “We are most appreciative.”
He acknowledged her words with a nod as he put on his hat and left through the kitchen door. Sofia and Antonio stood side by side in silence. Cook didn’t move for a spell either, but eventually she set to making the drink the doctor had prescribed. Her movement broke the spell.
Antonio turned to Sofia, feeling as if his strength were draining right out of his toes into the ground. “What are we going to do now?”
Chapter Nine
The anxious pinching around Sofia’s eyes told Antonio that she fully understood their predicament.
She smoothed back her hair and straightened her apron. “Let’s go to the workshop and make a plan.”
“What good will that do?” He admired her determination, but he lacked the faith that any kind of plan would be enough. “How can two people complete such a huge task?”
“Come on,” she said, tugging him along, but, he noticed, not answering him directly.
“But—”
She turned and squeezed his hand reassuringly. “We can’t give up.”
“You’re right.” Antonio couldn’t live with himself if he walked away from his duties, even if they were a lost cause.
Together they went back to the workshop, walking with quick steps. Neither talked the rest of the way. For himself, Antonio was too worried, too caught up in thinking about the endless list of work yet to do. But judging by Sofia’s set jaw and narrowed eyes, she was searching for a solution, and he wasn’t about to interrupt.
They arrived at the door, and for the second time that morning, Antonio withdrew the key. It slipped into the lock on his first try, and the door swung open. Sofia entered first and marched straight to the shelves holding the log books. She took the one with a cover the color of spilled coffee, which held the wedding’s master list, then selected another, a blank book with a green cover. She went to the cutting table, where she laid them both, then found two stools.
She sat on one and pointed at the other. “Take a seat.”
Curious at her energy, Antonio crossed the room and took his stool, feeling oddly excited. Her mood was contagious; a few moments of watching her move with purpose had already lifted his spirits.
“You have a plan, then?” He figured she must if she behaved so confident.
Sofia smiled up at him and opened both books. “Not yet, but I intend to. Let’s begin with what we lost yesterday thanks to Marcell.” She rolled her eyes as she said his name.
Antonio had to laugh at that, and doing so released some of the gnawing tension in his chest. Being around Sofia Torre was better for his health than any tonic. “Sounds like a splendid idea.”
They spent the next hour reviewing inventory: everything they’d set aside two weeks ago for use in the wedding, what had since been completed, and which items were in the process of being made and where in the process they were. The last part was particularly enjoyable, as seeing their accomplishments written out was intensely gratifying.
Then came the hard part — making a complete list of everything not yet finished, and worse, not even begun.
“It’s impossible,” Antonio said, scrubbing his fist across his chin and folding his arms. “Simply impossible.”
“There must be a way,” Sofia insisted.
“You do beat all, Sofia,” Antonio said, wishing he could chuckle. She would continue knitting if a dragon from a fairy tale were to pick her up and fly away with her. And all the while, she’d insist that the work continue.
She rotated on her stool to face him. “Listen. Doing the impossible is how I’ve kept food on the table for my family and a roof over their heads for the last three years.”
“But Florenzia—”
“No.” She reached out and placed a finger over his lips, stopping his speech. “We won’t think on that. There must be a way.”
Antonio debated whether to kiss her finger, and decided to, but she moved it before he could act. She’d turned back to the books, and her index finger tracked the list. In the blank book, she created a new list, combining like items that had yet to be finished: shirts and tunics in one group. Shawls, scarves, and wraps in another. And on and on. When she finished, she tapped the end of the pencil on the table, staring at it all.
Suddenly she asked, “What is the Queen’s opinion about machines?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Steam engines, or...?”
“Sewing machines. They’re quite popular in America and England and across much of the continent. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”
“I have, but we’ve always sewn by hand. It’s tradition.”
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. Twin spots of rosy pink appeared on each cheek as her excitement built. “I’ve never had money to buy one, but if the advertisements are to be believed, such a machine allows you to sew in one hour as much as would normally take fourteen hours by hand. Think of it!” She touched his arm. “Even if the papers exaggerate, and the machines are only half as fast, one person could still do as much work as seven.”
“But the royals pride themselves on every stitch being made by hand.” He shook his head. “You’ve seen how we work; we have no new-fangled contraptions in this workshop.”
In spite of his words, Sofia didn’t look disappointed. “Is that by royal command? Or is that your decision to make as mast
er tailor?”
“Tradition is far more complicated than edicts or commands. In many respects, tradition is almost as powerful as law. I’ve managed the workshop as my father did, and as his father before him.” He sighed with resignation. “I can’t ask that of the royal family. I wish I could.”
“And you needn’t.”
Antonio leaned forward and placed his hand over hers as he tried to puzzle out a solution — not that touching her helped him think any clearer. “What idea is tumbling about in that head of yours?”
She tilted her head in a way that made him want to kiss her forehead — or, even better, take her face in his hands and kiss her lips. “Tell me, Antonio, what about non-royals who are part of the wedding? Must everything they wear be entirely handmade?”
Understanding slowly washed over Antonio. “We could use a machine for clothing to be worn by the valets and ladies’ maids—”
“And ladies in waiting, the ring bearer, groom’s men, flower girls — everyone but the royal family. You were wise enough to put their clothing first on the schedule, so most of it is already completed.” Sofia’s cheeks flushed an even deeper pink. She pushed the new log book closer to him and pointed. “Look. Everything in this column and this column can be made with a machine — shirts and trousers, skirts and petticoats. None of it royal. Most of the beading and lace work, which can’t be done with a machine, was finished two days ago. And I’m almost done with the last set of stockings for the royal family.”
To Antonio’s delight, she was right. He could hardly believe it, but she’d found a way. The heavy weight in his stomach began to lighten. “Amazing,” he said, continuing to look over the columns and praying he would not to find a flaw in her plan. He found none. “I can hardly believe it, but you found a way. We will fulfill the wedding order after all.”
“Except...”
Antonio wanted to smooth away the crease in her forehead. “What is it?”
“We can’t very well go buy sewing machines in town, not if the royal family is supposed to wear handmade, and there’s no time to purchase them elsewhere. Not to mention that anywhere we bought a machine, rumors would spread. When people hear that sewing machines were sent to the castle, the people will have no way of knowing that they weren’t used for the royal family.”
“And if word got out before the wedding, it would be bad for relations with Florenzia.” He could only imagine that King Dangelo would be insulted by the use of a sewing machine and use it as an excuse to invade after all.
But then he remembered the large sheet in the back storage area, covering something bulky, and the weight of his worries lifted entirely as if they’d taken flight from his shoulders.
“Unless someone has rifled through the back storage room without telling me, there is a way. Come.” He took her hand — a gesture that, while still new and exciting, felt entirely natural — and led her into the yarn closet, where he pushed a rack aside, revealing another door held closed with a sliding lock. He tilted his head toward the door. “Come see.”
He slid the latch and pushed. With a low creak, the door opened into a musty, dank storage cellar with a dirt floor. A tiny window let in the barest sliver of light, but it was enough to make out the bulky shape he’d remembered, still covered by a sheet.
He strode to it, Sofia following, and pulled off the sheet to reveal a treadle-style sewing machine. Sofia’s mouth dropped open, and she clapped with delight.
“Must be twenty years old,” Antonio warned. “It was a gift to my father from a wealthy American. Of course, Father did not want to offend the man, but he never used it, either. Said that any tailor or seamstress using shortcuts was a disgrace to the profession, and I never had a reason to question that statement, even in regards to servants’ undershirts. I have no idea how it works, and it may well be rusted beyond use, but maybe we can figure it out.”
Sofia moved closer to the black machine, still shiny in spite of its age; the sheet must have protected it. She ran her hand along the wheel at the side, across the body, and down to the needle. “I think we can make it work.”
“How?” Antonio said. “Father never taught me how to wind the thread in the lower part — if he ever learned himself, which I doubt. As soon as his friend left, Father tucked the machine away.” He leaned down beside Sofia, and together they looked over the many parts and pieces, none of which meant anything to him. “Rather complicated, isn’t it?”
“I can use it,” Sofia said confidently.
“How can you be sure?”
Sofia straightened, and her eyes took on a sentimental look. “Many years ago, Mother took me to the capital to visit her aunt. Even then I loved handwork, and I was good at it, so as a treat, Mother brought me to a tailor’s shop and paid the man to give me a lesson on his machine, just so I could feel what it was like. He showed me how to thread the machine and fill the bobbin. I’ve wanted to have my own machine ever since.”
Antonio grinned for the first time in what felt like ages. “I have no idea what a bobbin is, but you do, and that’s all that matters.”
Together they carried the machine into the workshop, and Antonio remained at Sofia’s beck and call as she got it ready. After a few false starts, which she thankfully made on scrap material, she decided to use the machine on a pair of footman’s black trousers — an item on which a slight flaw could be excused if present. The top thread was in place, the bobbin wound, and the bottom thread retrieved. Antonio couldn’t believe how much he’d learned about an “old” machine in such a short time.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she said.
He handed Sofia the black fabric, which was already pinned together, and she slipped it under the needle. Her foot gently moved the treadle, which, in turn, moved the needle up and down, creating tiny, even stitches. She finished the seam, removed the cloth, and together they checked the seam for any uneven spots, holes, or other flaws.
“Amazing,” Antonio said, pulling at the seam and holding it against the light. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is.” Sofia sounded so happy that she nearly laughed.
“And you are brilliant for thinking of it and especially for remembering how to use it.” In his excitement, Antonio impulsively reached for her face and did what he’d imagined a hundred times over the last hour: he kissed her soundly on the lips.
And she kissed him back. The moment ended almost as soon as it began, leaving both Antonio and Sofia gazing at each other in shock. He still cradled her face like a precious vase he wanted with all his soul to protect. She didn’t pull away, not even when he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs as he’d imagined doing. Instead, she closed her eyes and let out a happy sigh. She leaned forward and kissed him.
A rush of relief and delight washed over Antonio as he let himself sink into this second, much longer, deeper kiss. He could feel her pulse beating heavily under his hands, matching his own. Finally they broke apart; she blushed shyly, but glanced up through her lashes and smiled. Antonio grinned back.
For a moment, neither was willing to speak, but Sofia finally held out a hand for the trousers and said, “Here. I’ll finish those in a snap.”
Their hands touched, and hers lingered on his. She looked into his eyes with a question, but he wasn’t sure what she was asking. Whether he cared? Whether he’d meant something by kissing her?
Yes and yes! He wanted to cry the answers, but he wasn’t sure if either was her question.
Instead of answering, he walked to the table and her newly drawn-up plans. “I’ll pin the best man’s coat. Donya already cut the pieces.”
“Perfect.”
They lapsed into a rhythm, Sofia at the sewing machine, resting when her feet grew tired, and Antonio pinning pieces, cutting others, pressing seams, and hand sewing finishing touches such as buttons and hooks. By lunch, they’d finished more than the workshop normally produced in two days.
Antonio’s stomach rumbled, his first awareness that t
hey’d been there for hours. He was about to suggest they call the kitchen for a tray when steps sounded in the corridor. Perhaps Cook had sent food already. Sofia clipped some threads, stood from the machine, and draped her work over the back of a chair.
“These sleeves need hand stitching on the cuffs, and then we’ll have one more shirt finished.”
“Excellent.” With the pencil, Antonio made an X, which felt remarkably satisfying.
“What is this?” came a voice from behind them, not from anyone who worked in the kitchen or the workshop. Rather, a voice that always made Antonio bristle.
He slowly turned around to face Marcell, only then realizing that he’d foolishly left the door unlocked. Antonio stepped forward to block the valet’s entrance. “You are not welcome in my workshop. Or have you forgotten so quickly?”
Marcell didn’t answer at first. With brows drawn together into a dark line, he looked about the workshop, befuddled. “What is all of this?”
Sofia took a step forward, clearly unwilling to be cowed by the man. “Preparations for the wedding, of course.” She raised an arm and pointed at the door with a pair of pointed shears. “And I suggest you to leave unless you’d rather we call for Her Majesty’s guard to remove you.”
Antonio glanced her way with increased admiration. He’d had no idea she had the courage, or the audacity, to make such a threat. She probably had no idea if it was a viable threat at all, but apparently Marcell didn’t either, because his face blanched. Antonio took another step forward, fists clenched. He hoped Marcell wouldn’t view the sewing machine as disloyalty to the crown and report it or some such nonsense. Fortunately, he must have known little about how the workshop typically functioned, for he didn’t note anything amiss.
Instead, he slowly stepped backward. “No offense intended by my presence, I assure you.” He took two more steps back. “I’d merely heard that everyone who works here had fallen ill, so naturally I was concerned for your well-being. Worried over my master’s wedding and what failure in the basement might meet for the future of the kingdom.”