by K. M. Shea
“Eat that one first, and you can have the next one when you finish,” he said, holding up the two remaining sweet potatoes before walking towards the cloth seller Cagney was unhappily standing with.
Unwilling to let food out of her sight, Dylan kept pace with Prince Callan, following him through the open door and into the store.
“Cagney is too beautiful, Mistress Della, to hide in these subdued colors. Why not something bright?” Dooley asked.
“You have the fashion sense of a colorblind dog, Dooley. Your advice is not appreciated,” Cagney said.
“But he is right, Miss Cagney. A bright blue would suit you well and complement your blue eyes—as would an ice white,” the cloth merchant said, holding up a swatch of blue cloth to Cagney’s face.
Prince Callan cleared his throat, and the cloth merchant turned around.
“Oh, no, no, no,” the merchant said when she caught sight of Dylan chomping down on her sweet potato. “That red is all wrong. Your eyes are so beautiful—they must be expressed! Ocean blues, sea greens, both will underline the beauty of your eyes and the bronze of your skin.”
Dylan didn’t quite understand what the merchant was rattling on about. She looked up at Prince Callan, who offered her another sweet potato. “Just stand there and stay calm,” he advised.
Dylan shrugged and took the food, allowing the merchant to hold up swatch after swatch of cloth. When she finished the third sweet potato, Cagney took her by the arm and swept her out into the streets.
“Those fools. Why they can’t tell you is beyond my understanding. You’ll figure it out as soon as you get the first one,” Cagney muttered.
Is something wrong? Dylan wrote.
“No, Dooley is just carrying on. I hate it when he drowns me in gifts.”
Really? But you are blushing. I thought you were happy.
“What? I-I-I,” Cagney stammered.
“That’s finished. Next is the dressmaker, right, Cagney?” Dooley said as he and Callan slipped out of the store.
“Of course,” Cagney said, as she wiped Dylan’s slate clean. “Let’s go.”
Dooley stared at Cagney with wide eyes before looking at Prince Callan and Dylan. “What did you say to her?” Dooley asked.
Dylan started to reply, but Cagney swiped the slate from her. “Come, Dylan. There’s a merchant who sells honey-flavored pastries next to the seamstress. We should try a few—my treat.”
The pastries were as good as the palace’s food. They were flaky on the outside and stuffed with cream cheese swirled with honey. Dylan closed her eyes in sheer delight as Cagney pulled her into the dressmaker’s store with her.
“Miss Cagney, we’ve been expecting you. Lord Dooley said—ahhh, there she is. She is tall. Feeding you well, are they?” the seamstress—a short woman who scuttled like a crab—said as she squinted up at Dylan. “That’s no trouble, though. Indeed, it makes you look even more elegant with the cloth mounded just right.”
Again, she was lost in the terms and lingo of dresses, but Prince Callan appeared with a bag of the honey pastries while the woman measured Cagney and, oddly enough, her. Dylan kept her silence and ate a honey pastry.
When the seamstress stopped pulling on her limbs and measuring them with rope, Dylan took a huge bite out of a honey pastry. That was when she noticed the prince wasn’t eating any.
You aren’t going to have one?
Prince Callan shook his head. “Not today,” he said with his pleasant smile.
You don’t like them?
“I’ve never tried them, to be honest,” Prince Callan admitted.
Dylan stared at him with wide eyes before she extended her bitten-into honey pastry. Prince Callan pulled back a little and blinked at the pastry.
Try it, Dylan ordered, underling and circling her words before pushing the pastry at him again.
Bemused, Prince Callan took the pastry. He hesitated for a few moments before biting off the part Dylan had already started. He chewed for a moment, his expression guarded.
Well?
“It’s delicious,” Prince Callan admitted.
It is heaven in a crust, Dylan wrote before extending her hand. Prince Callan offered her the cloth bag, letting her dig out a new one as he finished off the rest of the pastry.
When the seamstress finished measuring Cagney, the assistant reached for the pouch of coins that hung from her cloth belt.
“No, no, gem of my heart. This is my treat, remember?” Dooley said with a winning smile.
Cagney frowned. “It’s inappropriate.”
“That’s too bad; you agreed to it this morning. Now shoo, and take Dylan with you,” he said.
Cagney exhaled loudly through her nose. “Come, Dylan,” she called, storming out of the store.
Mad again? Dylan asked.
“He can be so high-handed and yet completely unaware of how inappropriate it is for him to—grr!” Cagney stomped a foot.
Dylan patted her shoulder in commiseration.
“I don’t understand why he insists on carrying on—” Cagney broke off when a boy—probably a year or two older than Princess Nessa—squirmed between Dylan and Cagney, knocking into the shorter woman.
“Sorry miss,” the boy called over his shoulder.
“No trouble,” Cagney said, brushing herself off, but Dylan reached out and grabbed the boy by his shoulder and reeled him in like a fish.
“Dylan?” Cagney squinted in confusion.
Dylan turned the boy around so he faced her and held her hand out.
“What? I said I was sorry,” the boy squirmed in her grasp.
Dylan rolled her eyes and wriggled her fingers at the little thief who had swiped Cagney’s coin purse.
She had seen the move a hundred times before. In spite of all the fish in the ocean, everyone—from Dylan’s selkie kin, to sea and river otters—were experts at stealing fish. She had a cousin who used the same tactic the boy had—bumping into his target.
The boy turned white and began trembling in Dylan’s grip as he stared up at her. For heaven’s sake, she thought as village folk stared at them. She patted him on the head and led him to a nearby wall, smiling all the while. Using the wall to keep the boy hemmed in, Dylan managed to write, Give my friend’s coin purse back to her.
The boy sucked his head into his neck as Cagney glanced at Dylan’s slate and felt for her missing coin pouch.
When Bump and Lump appeared, blocking out the sun behind Dylan and Cagney, they were the final nail in the coffin.
The boy burst into tears and held out the coin purse. “Please don’t tell nobody. Ma will tan my hide, and the royals will hang me from the noose and scatter my limbs to the sea if you turn me in.”
Cagney melted at the sight. “Oh, hush. No harm was done. Dylan you can—”
Dylan took her slate and whacked the boy on the head, startling him into silence.
“Dylan!” Cagney said, drawing back in shock.
Count your coins, Cagney, Dylan wrote. She was certain the urchin had swiped some of the coins already. She heard a jingle when the boy passed the pouch over and saw him try to cover a glint of metal in his grubby hands.
When Cagney started counting her coins a second time, Dylan held her hand out again.
The boy scowled up at Dylan, but passed several coins to her. She handed the coins to Cagney.
“What should we do?” Cagney asked.
Dylan tapped her chin before she wrote back, Have you got any shark fishers in the area?
The boy yelped at the words and started squirming. “I’m sorry. I’ll change to the path of the righteous! I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on you two hags!”
“You aren’t winning points for sweetness, boy.” Cagney folded her arms across her chest and eyed the boy.
Behind Dylan, Bump grunted and scratched his cheek with a dagger.
“Easky has a sheriff,” Lump said.
The boy went stiff with real fear, his eyes wide as he stared at the hulking guards.
Dylan waved the pair off. Callan and Dooley? She wrote.
The boy started breathing quicker.
“Prince Callan would have the boy thrown in the brig in a second. Lord Dooley—” Cagney cut herself off when the boy stomped on Dylan’s foot, earning a soundless yelp. He rammed her with his sharp elbows, knocking her into Cagney. He then ducked Lump’s meaty hand and darted away, kicking up dust behind him as he sped off like a frightened fish.
Dylan charged after, but Cagney grabbed her wrist and yanked her back. “It’s fine. No harm was done.”
It is not fine!
“Yes, it is. You got my coin purse back,” Cagney said, leading the way back to the seamstress’s store.
Dylan turned her eyes on her guards. You won’t catch him?
Bump cleaned his fingernails with his dagger, and Lump shook his head. “Can’t leave you, Miss Dylan,” he said.
She scowled at her guards.
“Leave well enough alone, Dylan,” Cagney said.
He will pickpocket someone else.
“Perhaps, but I think he will leave Easky first. Normal folk don’t throw Prince Callan’s name around like a dry good.”
You are enabling him!
“I am not,” Cagney said.
No? What is the definition of allowing someone to continue with destructive behavior? She felt proud of herself for using some of Mairead’s more high-brow vocabulary.
“Fine, we will give his description to the guards at the palace wall. Would that make you feel better?”
Dylan’s pursed her lips at her friend, but held her pointer finger and thumb an inch apart to indicate how much it would improve her mood.
“Whose description are you giving to the guards?” Dooley asked, drawing their attention.
Cagney sighed. “A pickpocket.”
Dylan scowled. He got away. Cagney wouldn’t let me chase him.
“A pickpocket? In Easky?” Dooley said. He whistled. “Those bandits are getting bolder by the hour.”
What? Dylan wrote, perking with interest.
“What happened?” Prince Callan asked, ignoring Dylan’s question.
“He swiped my coin purse. Dylan stopped him and got it back for me.”
“And he got away?” Prince Callan asked.
“He squirmed away when we were deciding what to do with him,” Cagney said.
You should have let me chase him.
Cagney rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, having all of Easky seeing you chase after the boy like a silent deerhound would put the village in an uproar and shatter your already fragile reputation.”
My reputation for what? Being mute?
“How did he get away from you?” Prince Callan asked.
Dylan renewed her scowl.
“Let’s not speak of that part. We had best go report him before continuing with the rest of my errands,” Cagney sighed, pushing a lock of her brown hair out of her face.
“Think of the others he might rob, my dove,” Dooley said.
Fine wrinkles spread across Cagney’s forehead. “I know. It’s just—he was so young.”
Dooley patted her hand before offering his arm.
To everyone’s surprise—including Cagney’s—Cagney placed her hand in the crook of Dooley’s elbow. He escorted her in the direction of the palace gate, his eyes wide, and his mouth silent with shock.
Dylan and Prince Callan watched them go in awe.
It must have upset her more than I thought, Dylan wrote.
“Cagney has a secret soft spot for children,” Prince Callan said. “Shall we go with them?”
Yes. I want to make sure she gives them an accurate description. Dylan plowed after her friends—Bump and Lump following.
Prince Callan walked at her side. He watched her for several strides before he reached out and took her hand in his, much like his little sister had the day they showed Dylan around the palace.
Dylan blinked at the foreign gesture before she smiled at Prince Callan and swung their joint hands. She was surprised to find that holding hands was almost as comforting as piling with her sisters for an afternoon nap in the sun. Not quite, but it was close enough and warm enough that it brought a smile to her lips.
Prince Callan watched her expression change, and his shifted to match it. The corners of his mouth turned upwards and he squeezed her hand. This time, she saw the smile in his eyes.
Three days later, Dylan came inside from her morning romp in the ocean—salt crusted and windblown. Bump and Lump trailed behind her, but Dylan stopped outside Jarlath’s room. She could hear him pacing back and forth inside and rolled her eyes in disgust before moving on to her room.
She still hadn’t gotten to search thoroughly. At the royal dinner, he had fallen violently in love with a Lady Shauna and spent most of next day cooped up, writing bad poetry and terrible love letters. He went out at night. Dylan had tried following him twice, but Bump and Lump stopped her each time, and they wouldn’t let her in his room while he was gone.
It was frustrating enough to send Dylan into a silent tantrum, but she could only set her shoulders and keep trying. Giving up wasn’t an option, and failure would not be accepted.
She hoped Jarlath would attend the garden party the royal family was throwing that afternoon so she could ditch her guards and try once more.
Inside her own room, she shut her door and threw herself on her bed, almost smashing a cloth-wrapped bundle. A plain piece of paper lay on the bundle, reading:
For this afternoon.
More will arrive this evening.
Dylan set the paper aside and unwrapped the bundle. Out spilled rich fabric, tailored into a garment her size—a dress of blue silk that reminded her of the sparkling ocean in the noon sun. The dress wasn’t like the ones the noble ladies wore; it was better. It had a white kirtle made of breathable, gauzy material and overlaid with lace. The blue gown was more form-fitting than Dylan’s saffron gown or red gown. It fit snug at the bust and waist, and the skirt flowed down like a waterfall as opposed to poofing. Its sleeves were fitted and cut off at the elbow, and a ribbon that was the same ocean-blue color laced the gown together across the stomach.
I don’t think Cagney could afford to get me more than one…Dooley could, perhaps, because he is so eccentric. Dylan silently snorted, amused by the idea. Yes, it must be Dooley, trying to win favor with Cagney by making me more presentable. I will thank them this afternoon at the garden party—before I shake Bump and Lump.
She ran a hand over the gown with pleasure. It hadn’t bothered her that she had two dresses—clothes were just clothes after all—but the ocean blue color of her new dress was so beautiful.
As long as I must be stuck here, perhaps I better understand nobility’s obsession with clothes, Dylan thought.
Chapter 9
Breaking and Entering
When Dylan knocked on Jarlath’s door right before the garden party, the ruddy-faced tyrant opened the door and blinked at Dylan, taking in her new dress. “Where in the blazes did you get that?” He shook his head when Dylan reached for her slate. “No mind, I don’t rightly care. Look, you will have to escort yourself to the garden party, you hear? Lady Shauna has agreed to let me follow her to the party. She’ll get mad at me if I have you trailing me like a dog. So get.” Jarlath made a shooing motion, stepped into the hallway, and locked his door.
Dylan rolled her eyes at Jarlath before she went off on her own. Lady Shauna said she would let Jarlath follow her to the party, that meant he wouldn’t walk in with her, the dunce.
The party—much less formal than the ball—was to be held in a garden just off the main palace. There were the usual party staples—musicians, food, and drink—but no dancing. Instead, everyone was viewing flowers and shrubs trimmed to resemble animals—or they were supposed to. Mostly the nobles ignored the gardens and sat on silk cushions or walked in groups, talking about business, gossip, and fashion.
Cagney was already t
here, drinking an alcoholic beverage with a sour expression, which cleared when she saw Dylan. “Miss Dylan, you look beautiful.”
Dylan smiled and smoothed her gown. Thank you. You do, too, Dylan wrote. The personal assistant was still wearing a subdued dress, but it must have been one of her new ones, for it was a blueish-purple that softened her eyes and hair and was much brighter than her usual colors.
Cagney pressed her lips together and didn’t reply to Dylan’s compliment.
Where is Dooley?
Cagney scowled and tossed back the rest of her drink. “Making an entrance,” she said, her voice icy.
“It is often said, the most beautiful flowers of Ringsted grow in the Summer Palace,” Dooley boomed. His voice was loud and carried over the mosquito-like buzz of the partygoers.
Dylan turned to see Dooley, being lowered in a sort of rope swing from the ballroom patio. Pink flower petals fell with him, matching his coral pink waistcoat and tri-corner hat, and complementing his white breeches.
“But I see even more beautiful, priceless flowers of youth and beauty before me, arranged in bouquets of elegance and refinery,” Dooley finished.
Cagney groaned and massaged her forehead with her palms, but the lords and the ladies—used to Lord Dooley’s eccentricities and accepting of them due to his vast fortune—clapped.
When Dooley’s swing reached the grassy ground, he bowed deeply, eliciting more claps.
“I should kill him,” Cagney said, her voice thoughtful and her eyes narrowed.
Think of the work you would have to do if he was gone, Dylan wrote.
“It would be less!”
Exactly, Dylan wrote.
Cagney frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Before Dylan could reply, Dooley swept up to them, smelling of flowers and flashing his dazzling smile. “Good afternoon, ladies. Both of you look beautiful! Did you enjoy my entrance? Was it not poetic?” he asked, puffing out his chest.
“It was terrible. I can’t believe you can happily show your face,” Cagney said, getting a dainty pewter plate and starting to pile it with food.
“Why not? Wasn’t it lovely?”
“It was embarrassing!”