Khari'na Made (Muse Book 1)

by Jean Winter

  “I think she needs something more mature, more sophisticated,” Go'mar finally said.

  “But there is no time to go back to the store for more!” Mar'go yelped, straightening in panic.

  No one had noticed when Maehan entered the room, but suddenly the old Keeper was shuffling toward Lyra, a frown etched upon her features. She touched a gnarled hand to Lyra's cheek in concerned greeting. Lyra greeted her back, eyes filled with trepidation.

  “Having troubles, are we, Little Tiger?”

  “Maehan!” Mar'go rushed over. “Oh, Maehan, I wanted to give her a certain look, but it is turning out all wrong! All wrong! And we have run out o' time to—”

  “I know you have, my dear. I am making the rounds now to gather everyone to the barges.” Maehan gently unloosed Mar'go's rainbow enameled talons from her arm and stepped back to appraise Lyra. After a moment she said, “Mar'go, look at her. Look into her eyes. What kind o' woman do you see?”

  They both stared at her, the young stylist in indecision, Maehan … with a growing clarity.

  “Hmm. I think … aye.” She turned. “Mar'go, do you remember the barge I was in when you arrived?” Mar'go nodded. “Run to that one and bring me back the crate on the second shelf in the corner labeled 'Chyristelle.'”

  The woman's forehead, crinkling with confusion, suddenly smoothed. She sucked in an excited breath and left the spa nearly at a run.

  “Who is Chyristelle?”

  Lyra was led by Go'mar back to the chair for hair drying. Maehan pulled another next to Lyra and settled herself in it. “My daughter,” she said.

  “Your daughter!” Lyra jerked up. “But I thought you said—”

  “I said Burr and I did no' have any children. Do no' forget he was my second lord.”

  “You had a baby with that old man?” Lyra's jaw dropped.

  “That 'old man' was my great-grandfather, actually,” Go'mar said. He indicated Maehan with a tip of his head. “That is how we know each other.”

  Lyra colored. “Sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

  “No problem, Honeybud.” He smiled at her through the mirror. “He was pretty old when he bought her.”

  Maehan explained, “After his death, the family kept Chyristelle to raise and I was sold again.”

  “Oh Maehan! That must have been awful.”

  She nodded. “I missed her dearly sometimes, but it was for the best. Chyri was able to grow up in privilege and even receive an education. She became a favorite o' the family. Later, I was allowed to see her every once in a while at parties and gatherings that we both happened to attend. She was a teenager by then and the family let us become friends.” A twinkle developed in the old woman's smile. “We had a few good years in correspondence and then she happily became engaged to a young man o' good family. When she asked me to make her wedding dress, o' course I was only too happy to oblige.

  “The Highwurt family—my first lord's and Go'mar's relations—were in the exotic textiles business and they supplied the fabric. That was, oh, almost fifty years ago.” Maehan paused.

  “And did she use it?”

  “No.” The word fell like a drop of water into a dried up well. “She died o' a sickness the week before the wedding.”

  “I am so sorry, Maehan. I can't even imagine.”

  Maehan smiled, shaking off the sad memory. “I finished her gown quickly with the intent o' having her wear it for burial, but the family insisted I keep it in memory o' her. It is all I have o' hers.”

  Lyra stared at her friend. “Well—then, I won't wear it,” she suddenly declared. “You already gave up your retirement for me. I can't take that, too.”

  “No,” Go'mar said. He raised another section of hair to the steadily blowing dryer in his hand. “It will be perfect for you. I remember my grandmother telling me about Chyri and that dress. It was a very rare fabric and Maehan was an extraordinary seamstress. The family requested her many times for special jobs after that. If Maehan was not khari'na, she could have made good money in the trade.”

  Almost abashedly, Maehan brushed the compliment away and said to Lyra, “You must take it. It is time to let it be worn.”

  Lyra hesitated. “Well, how about I just give it back to you after the auction?”

  “No. A khari'na wears her gown the rest o' the day until she arrives at her new home. You keep it. I insist.”

  Her “new” home! A strange man's home! New flutters arose at the reminder of where she'd be going later tonight, but Lyra squared her jaw and determinedly squashed each one to weakly quivering lumps. Not now.

  The door burst open and Mar'go triumphantly bounded in. “Is this what I think it is?” She placed a small, wooden crate on Maehan's lap. “Grandmother Highwurt described this dress to us once. Remember Go'mee? I canno' wait to see it. Eek! I am so excited!”

  Lyra regarded each of her three companions. “What's so special about it?”

  With a click of the latches, Maehan lifted the lid, and from underneath a corner of protective paper, a glowing, silvery gray peeked out.

  Mar'go murmured, “The fabric is made from the hibernating silk worm, found on just one o' the islands o' the South Seas cluster. They only come out once every fifty years to eat—”

  “—spin a silk cocoon, metamorphose, and lay eggs,” Lyra finished for her, anticipation rising, undeniably interested in seeing something else she had only just read about. “They only live for one week after that and when the eggs hatch, the pupae eat leaves for a month, then dig a tunnel into the ground to hibernate for fifty more years!”

  Three pairs of eyes stared at her.

  “What? Encyclopedia set.”

  Maehan turned back to her box and lifted the shimmery gown from its container. Mar'go gasped. The fabric ran like water over Maehan's fingers. When she turned it this way, the light gray threads reflected a white hue and when she turned it another, the hue turned lavender. The thing seemed to emit its own light. Lyra watched the changing colors in awe.

  “Are you sure it will even fit me?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Maehan held it out to her. “Try it on. Quickly. It is nearly time to go.”

  Lyra never felt anything so smooth and lightweight against her skin before. The gown was full length with one long slit in front, trailing all the way up her right leg, and when she saw her reflection in the wall mirror, she nearly forgot to breathe. It was as if she were clothed in moon glow itself.

  The fitted bodice blossomed into full folds at her breast, extending over her shoulder tops for another graceful cowl neck drape behind. The skirt filled out as it billowed toward the floor, stirring gracefully like a breeze every time she moved. No other lace or adornment spoiled its elegant simplicity, and the whole thing sparkled and shimmered in the light. It was a gown fit for a—

  “No,” Lyra suddenly blurted. “This is too nice for me. I'm too simple and unrefined and—”

  “Shut it, girl,” Mar'go said, grinning. She handed her some strappy, silver high heels. “It is perfect for you. Now put these on and the length will be exactly right.”

  Lyra was not convinced. She swiftly appealed to Go'mar. He would see that this kind of empyreal glamour was not her.

  The man betrayed her.

  “This time, sis, you are exactly right.” He went to Lyra, fingers swirling her hair loosely on top of her head to contemplate how it all looked in the mirror.

  Lyra sought out Maehan's reflection. Maybe the bereft mother would decide she didn't like seeing someone else in her daughter's dress.

  Darn!

  Maehan was beaming. In fact, she looked quite peaceful.

  From the discarded accessory pile, Mar'go dug out a pair of full length formal, white, ladies' gloves. Ripping off the black and brown feathers that ringed the cuffs, she said, “I think these will be the only accent you need.”

  Unanimously defeated, Lyra reluctantly pulled on the first long, skinny thing with her unpracticed hand. She suddenly became aware of Go'mar's nea
rness at her back, his head quite close to hers.

  “Hmm,” he smiled slowly through the mirror's reflection, “if I were ten years older …” Lyra flushed, cheeks burning, and Go'mar laughed merrily at her response. “Ah, 'Na Lyra! What a beautiful color you have conjured. We need to match that. Sis, you have that shade, do you no'?” Raising Lyra's satin covered fingers to his lips, he kissed them chivalrously before turning back to his hair things.

  Ooo …

  Lyra yanked on her other glove. “Nice line, sir. Tell me, does it work on all of your clients or just the desperate ones?”

  Mar'go winced audibly in the background, but her brother simply smiled, his tattooed eye giving Lyra a wink. Lyra shook her head hopelessly at him and sat down to attempt a fitting of the shoes.

  “You are partly right,” Go'mar said after a moment. “You are no' ready for this dress … yet.”

  Mar'go continued his thought in a twin-ish way, “But all we need is a half hour more and you will be.”

  “Little Tiger,” Maehan came to her, cupping her face in two wrinkled hands, “I need to go attend to my duties, but Mar'go and Go'mar will stay with you. Keep your head up. Be strong.”

  “Okay,” Lyra said, suddenly sober again.

  To the twins, Maehan said, “I think Mr. Hundt's office barge will allow you enough privacy and space to finish. Lyra knows the one.” She started for the door.

  “Yes, ma'am,” the siblings said together.

  Lyra stood up in the shoes. They were beautiful and airy—a perfect match for the gown, but she had never been in five inch heels before. She loathed to let go of the chair's back to try walking around. But, taking a deep breath, Lyra took the plunge and attempted a few tentative steps.

  “Uh, uh. That old anklet simply has to go,” Mar'go said, watching her. “It is going to show very conspicuously every time she moves that foot.”

  “No! Please! Let me keep it on.” Lyra nearly stumbled.

  Don't take Jon away from me now!

  “I am afraid Mar'gy is right,” Go'mar said. “It really does no' work with—”

  “The anklet stays,” said the voice of Maehan ringing through the room with shocking authority.

  Stern, hard eyes made sure the siblings knew this was not up for debate, then with a nod to Lyra, the Keeper left, closing the door behind her with unquestioning finality.

  CHAPTER 9

  The patter of feet through the stone corridor echoed as Lyra hurried barefoot with the twins back to her room. She had the heels clutched in one hand, the gown's skirt carefully wrapped up in the other, while her stylists juggled the haphazard armfuls of supplies they had taken with them. In her room, Mar'go and Go'mar hastily reorganized their bags and kits while Lyra swept through the quarters collecting everything else of hers and Maehan's.

  Well, Maehan's. It suddenly dawned on Lyra that nothing here actually belonged to her. She paused in her packing and looked around. She owned none of this. Everything she was using was borrowed, and besides her boots and backpack, she had nothing else to claim.

  Mar'go looked up. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Lyra mumbled. Then she almost laughed.

  That was the right word. Nothing. No clothes, no money, no basic supplies. She was totally at the mercy of whoever ended up buying her today. Lyra shuddered.

  Lord God, be with me.

  Both stylists smiled at her encouragingly. “You are going to be fine,” they said simultaneously.

  That made Lyra laugh. “You guys are scary. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Only all o' our lives,” Mar'go said with a sweep of her arm.

  “And every minute in between,” Go'mar finished.

  The travel trunk was placed outside the door for the laborers to collect then they were rushing to the courtyard where a brisk wind had picked up under threatening clouds. Lyra longed for an extra layer of warmth. When she began to notice all the turned, curious heads, she longed for a layer of concealment, too. She knew exactly what everyone must be thinking: “Why is the Keeper's assistant being sold?”, “Who are those people following her?”, “And how, pray tell, did she come by a gown like that?”

  Hundt was not in his office, and Mar'go and Go'mar immediately took over, shoving things aside on his desk and cabinets to make space. Lyra wondered if she should say something. Surely, Hundt would not be pleased. But with a clean linen draped over his chair, she was made to sit and work on her began again before she could even raise a finger in objection.

  No one noticed when the caravan started moving. Go'mar was blowing up a storm of Lyra's tresses while Mar'go fell upon her nails with a bottle of polish.

  With nothing to do but contemplate the reason for all this trouble, Lyra soon began to feel that panicky light-headedness again. She quickly endeavored to chat with Mar'go, and asked about her life. That was all it took. The woman kept up a steady stream of conversation very nearly all on her own the entire short ride to the Coliseum.

  It was under her account of the rudest client she had ever known that Lyra recognized the moans of the churung impatiently calling to be unharnessed and taken to a comfortable stable. Shortly thereafter came the excited, high pitched twittering of forty-seven khari'na exiting the passenger coaches.

  Mar'go had just started on Lyra's makeup and Go'mar was smoothing some last style product through her locks when Hundt suddenly walked in. His eyes widened at the sight of his office.

  “'Na Lyra—” He stopped short as the situation quickly dawned glaringly clear. “When was it decided you would be sold?”

  His features, as usual, were a blank slate. He stood towering over everyone in his white, collarless top with matching vest and slacks, though his sleeves were smoothed all the way down and buttoned at the wrists. Everything was neatly pressed. Auction formal.

  As evenly as she could, Lyra told him, “In the name of the Republic, Mr. Shorn is having me take 'Na Cindry's place. He let Maehan and me know about an hour before the caravan left the spa.” Lyra's gaze went to the target at the barge's opposite end. “I am afraid I won't be able to make our target practice date after all.” She attempted a smile.

  Something shifted in Hundt's jaw. “Evidently no'.” He stood only for a second. Then his head lowered and he began to work his way around the threesome behind his desk. “Excuse me,” he grunted not too kindly to the siblings. They grudgingly got out of his way.

  Of course he doesn't care. She was nothing more to him than just another charge. An interesting charge maybe, but a charge, nonetheless.

  “I am going to put it all up,” Go'mar warned his sister, running his fingers through Lyra's dark waves one more time.

  “Nonsense. Her implant will show. Just leave the back part down like usual.”

  “Sorry, sis. I was no' asking your opinion—just letting you know what I have already decided.” He took a few strategic strands and pinned them out of the way so he could pull up the rest.

  “But everyone will see that ugly bump!”

  “So? Everyone already knows it is there. Why keep trying to hide it? It is the right style for her, after all. Look at this neckline leading into her shoulders. I have to be able to show it off.” Mar'go huffed, but said no more and went back to her foundation powdering.

  “Anyway, the way I see it, Honeybud,” Go'mar continued, “we are dealing with an unconventional gown on an unconventional khari'na, and maybe today is a good day to shake things up a bit. What do you say? Are you ready to be bold?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Aye.” Hundt's deep bass answered for her.

  Hefting a crate at eye level to swing over the clustered trio's heads, he sidestepped his way out from behind his desk. When he reached open space, the crate was lowered to a comfortable carrying position. It was filled with a number of large, bulky envelope packets. Forty-eight, to be exact. All the khari'na files with their trackers.

  With his eyes, he pointed out the very top one. “Your answer is 'yes.'” He star
ed down at Lyra. “And I had better no' see you shrinking out there. It will only hurt you. You are stronger than that. Do you hear me?”

  “What are you? A friend o' hers?” Mar'go eyed the giant peevishly.

  He ignored the woman, waiting for his answer.

  “Okay,” Lyra whispered. Hundt's expression darkened.

  “I said, 'Do you hear me?'”

  “Yes!” Lyra snapped back. “I hear you, you big jerk! Assured. Confident. I get it.”

  A smile twitched across his face. “Better.” He looked down his nose at Go'mar. “Put it up, little man.”

  As for Mar'go, he barely gave her a glance before leaving—his sense of professionalism probably censoring any parting words.

  When he was gone, Mar'go gibed, “Your friend—the pectorals with an attitude. Was that his idea o' a pep talk?”

  Lyra suppressed a grin. “Oh, he was just being … Hundt.”

  It took a little while longer for Go'mar to set her hair while Mar'go continued work on her face. No one offered a mirror for Lyra to watch the progress. They were too busy working as fast as they could. But finally, the tugging, pinning, curling, and tucking and pinning some more ceased and Go'mar's hands came off, pronouncing her done. He sprayed a fine mist of a hair-setting product over her several times. Mar'go told her to hold still “just a little bit longer” so she could finish some uncomfortable thing she was doing very near Lyra's lashes.

  Then, the team stepped back and told Lyra it was time to go.

  Mar'go threw some extra makeup things in a bag, mumbling how she would have to finish her on-site, and they hustled her outside, still barefoot, with shoes in hand. A sudden cloudburst sent them all scuttling back into the barge.

  A moment later, the trio was ready to try again, armed with the linen Mar'go had spread over Hundt's chair. They held it above Lyra's head while she gathered up her gown's skirt. Then they plunged outside once again.