Page 3 of Stolen Threadwitch Bride
Rose. Oh, thank the gods.
Ahead, tall and strong, hands on hips, stood the best friend a woman could hope for. The spring sun caught in her strawberry blonde hair. Despite her simple clothes and the repairs I’d done to her trousers a dozen times, for a moment she looked like the warrior queen Boudicca herself.
Shoulders sagging, I didn’t even attempt to hide my sigh of relief. “You’re going to have to excuse me, Mr Skeeves, I have my next appointment.”
“Appointment?” He grunted. “She’s just your friend.”
“I can have an appointment with a friend.” I lifted my head enough to shoot him an edged smile. Much as he repulsed me, he’d made himself familiar enough—overfamiliar enough, in fact, that although I didn’tliketalking to him, I could. “You’ll get your rent on time, Mr Skeeves.”And with any luck, I won’t see you before then.
I didn’t look back as I hurried to Rose, my friend and saviour.
I grinned up at her as I slipped my arm through hers and steered away from Skeeves. “You have the timing of the gods themselves.”
“Aye, I spotted him shadowing you.” She shuddered from head to toe, face screwed up so theatrically, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Bloody creep.”
“Understatement of the century.” I squeezed her arm.
My stomach tightened at the thought of telling her I’d failed with Lord Hawthorne. That could wait. A long time, preferably.
“I was looking for you.” She directed us towards the market square. “Let’s go and see if Annon’s come with her papa today.”
Rose was my only real friend, but Annon was something close. Her family lived outside of Briarbridge, so we only saw her once a week when they brought their catch to sell. They hadn’t come the past fortnight, and I had to admit I missed her. Maybe she’d edged past “something close” and nowwasmy friend.
“I hope so—she promised to finish her story about that rugged man from the fishing village.” I gave Rose a sidelong look, though a little knot of worry tightened in my chest. It wasn’t like Annon’s family to skip Briarbridge’s market. With any luck, we’d round the corner into the market square and find her.
In the meantime… “I was coming to find you.” I dug into my basket. At the bottom, beneath the slippery silks and fine beads, my fingers closed on soft lambswool. “Back before Yule… the Yule before last, in fact”—not fact, a lie—“someone travelling through town commissioned me to make this and paid the deposit, but never picked it up.” Also a lie.
One red eyebrow quirked, and I pulled out the folded garment. It wasn’t wrapped—I couldn’t afford anything to wrap it in.
“Here you go.” I held it out to her and shook out the forest green cloak. In my hands, it almost swept the ground, but on Rose it would be the perfect length.
Her eyes widened and a soft breath fell from her lips. She traced the oak leaves I’d embroidered down the front in a dozen shades of green.Strong as oak, I’d whispered as I’d sewn those stitches.
I shrugged. “They didn’t turn up this Yule, either, so I figure they’re never coming for it. But you’re around the same height as her, so here you go.” Another lie.
“Damn, Ari.” She shook her head, fingertips still on the oak leaves. “Even without your magic”—a lady passing widened her eyes and edged away—“you’d still be the best seamstress in town. The only difference between you and Madame Froufrou is the fake Frankish accent and her fancy shop. Sorry”—she raised a hand and stuck her nose in the air—“atelier.”
I giggled at Rose’s impression, even as something pulled at my gut. Madame Froufrou’s workshop and lavish showroom with no fewer thanfivechandeliers was just around the corner. Its huge windows looked out onto the most exclusive shopping street in Briarbridge, and Madame Froufrou greeted her clients with a fine porcelain tea service and tiny pastries.
Unlike me. I lived in one room of our—myhouse and worked in the other.
“Speaking of ateliers.” Rose arched her eyebrows.
That pull in my gut turned into a wrench, and I might’ve winced. She was going to ask about the meeting with Lord Hawthorne. She’d arranged it because she was determined I achieve that stupid, childish dream I’d once had: an atelier of my own.
I cleared my throat and pressed the cloak into her hands. “Her loss is your gain.”
Mouth open, ateliers forgotten, she held it to her shoulder. Her wide-eyed gaze slid to me and she nodded. “Thank you.”
Stomach eased by the turn in conversation, I couldn’t help but smile at her reaction. “I had a feeling it would suit you. What a lucky coincidence.” Another lie—maybe the biggest of them.
Hells, it wasalla pretty lie, but one for a good cause. There had been no phantom customer. I’d made the cloak for her, chosen the colour to complement her strawberry blond hair, whispered warmth into itfor her. And after spotting the dagger she’d started wearing on her belt, I’d whispered armour into it, too. The fabric was expensive, but I’d been riding high on my Yule commissions at the time and it would last Rose years.
So, yes, it had been for her from the start.
But Rose was like her mama and papa—too proud and too stubborn to accept a gift, even one she needed. Hence the pretty lie.
We continued around the corner and into the market square as she swirled the cloak around her shoulders. “Oh, yes,verydramatic. Iloveit.” She grinned and fastened it in place, a swagger to her stride.
