“Well, don’t sound too excited,” Fletcher said, even as the reminder of their new mission filled him with trepidation.
“You’ll see,” Othello grumbled. “You got off easy. Anyway, I don’t see why you’re complaining, Cress. I’ve got the worst outfit of all.”
Cress broke into a broad grin, her morose expression fading at his words.
“All right, settle down,” Briss chuckled, waving her hand for silence. She picked up a red bundle of cloth and frills, then handed it to Sylva, who took it with an apprehensive look.
“From what Othello has told me, this might not be to your taste, but you have to look the part,” Briss said sheepishly. “I’ve made a few of these before, and they’re very popular with the young ladies of the nobility. There’s a hot bath ready upstairs for you and all the necessaries. Go try it on up there, then Thaissa will help you with your hair.”
“I’m sure I’ll love it,” Sylva mumbled, trying to hide her misgivings. She trudged slowly up the stairs, holding the dress as if it were a poisonous snake.
“Right, now, let’s see if this fits,” Briss said brightly once Sylva had gone. She took a pink garment from the table and shook it out. It was a flowing robe, complete with embroidered flowers around the hems of the sleeves and a delicate veil secured with a silver chain along the bottom. It was very pretty, and Fletcher could imagine Cress cutting a fine figure in the traditional dwarven garb. But …
“The veil,” Fletcher said. “No wonder you’re so grumpy, Cress. Still, it’s just for one night.”
Othello shuffled his feet, his face flushing the same color as the robes.
“Well, yeah, but … that’s not mine,” Cress chortled, turning on the reddening dwarf. “Othello, I think pink is your color; it goes very well with your complexion.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” Othello groaned.
Fletcher couldn’t help but burst out laughing as the morose dwarf shuffled forward and allowed his mother to tug the robe over his head.
“Just don’t tell Atilla,” Othello begged as Cress cackled and arranged the veil over his face, tucking in a stray wisp of red beard.
“He should come and have a look, see what he’d look like in a dress,” Fletcher chuckled. “He is your twin, after all.”
“Trust me, I wish Atilla was in your shoes,” Cress said, wiping a tear from her eye. “Or should I say, your gown!”
She doubled over into hysterics again, and Othello slumped back into his chair in defeat.
“I don’t understand,” Fletcher said, getting his laughter under control. “Why is he wearing a gown?”
“Arcturus, Lovett and I have been up all night, working out a plan on how to get you through the palace undetected. Obviously there won’t be any dwarves invited to the ball, but there will be plenty of dwarven servers, all female, all wearing this uniform. So, Othello’s going to be playing dress-up today. It wouldn’t be the first time; remember when you were five years old and…”
“All right, enough now,” Othello said loudly, tossing a half-eaten sausage at his mother. She ducked it and took another folded robe from the table, then handed it to Cress.
“You know, somehow this doesn’t seem so bad anymore,” Cress said cheerfully, letting the garment unravel and holding it against her body. “I haven’t worn a robe in ages.”
She shrugged on her own, leaving the veil on the table. Then she twirled, the loose muslin floating in the air, her eyes sparkling as she tossed her red hair.
“It looks wonderful,” Briss said, covering her mouth to hide her smile of pleasure.
“It really does,” Othello agreed, then cleared his throat awkwardly.
Fletcher could not see Othello’s face, but he imagined the dwarf’s mouth was hanging open beneath the thin pink veil.
“Now you, Fletcher,” Briss said, after giving both him and Othello a knowing look. “You’re too tall to be a dwarf, so you and Sylva will be attending as Seraph’s guests—luckily he’s staying in a hotel in Corcillum tonight and we were able to bring him up to speed.”
Fletcher grinned at the thought of seeing Seraph again. The noble-to-be was like Fletcher in many ways, a commoner turned noble who had a close relationship with the dwarves. It would be good to see him again.
“We’ll dress you as two members of his entourage,” Briss announced. “You’ll be wearing this.”
She pointed at the table, where Fletcher could see a clean-cut suit of royal blue satin, edged with gold lace and tasseled epaulets on the shoulders. A pair of shiny black leather loafers with brass buckles sat beside them, as well as some elegant white gloves, there to cover the tattoos on his hand.
“Off you go to try it on,” Briss ordered, shooing Fletcher away.
Fletcher took the clothes into his arms and hurried up the stairs.
“Mind you have a bath too,” Briss called after him. “I won’t have you stinking it up. Sylva should be done by now, and Thaissa will have drawn you another.”
Fletcher grinned and turned right at the top of the stairs. He knocked on the girls’ room door.
“Next door, Fletcher,” Thaissa’s voice came from behind the door. “Don’t come in! Hurry up before it gets cold—we’re almost out of wood; Cress and Othello hogged most of it this morning.”
Wood? He moved on to the next room, to find a suite with a small window, a mirror, a stool and a large metal bathtub full of steaming water. The floors and walls were tiled, and there was a large drain beneath the tub and a crackling fireplace with a cauldron hung above it in the wall. There was a fluffy yellow towel on the stool, along with fresh socks, underwear, a razor, pumice stone and scissors. They had thought of everything.
Within a few minutes Fletcher was enjoying the deep heat soaking into his bones, rubbing his body and hair with a bar of lavender-scented soap until suds seeped over the edges. Then, as the water began to cool and the bubbles receded, he attacked the calluses on his hands and feet and scrubbed the rest of his body until his skin was raw pink but cleaner than it had ever been.
Next, he shaved away the wisps of hair that had gathered on his upper lip and chin, to leave himself baby-faced, more for Berdon’s sake than anything else—and the thought of the gentle giant sent a pang of pain to his heart. He had no idea where he and the villagers of Pelt might be, only that they would still be somewhere to the north, journeying downward.
Finally, he bundled his locks into a rough ponytail and snipped off the split ends, leaving himself with a handful of hair that he surreptitiously tossed down the drain. That would have to do.
He got out of the water, now tepid and stained, to dry himself off with the towel in the dim light of the dying fire. Realizing he had taken far longer than Sylva had, he tugged on the clothes and returned back down the stairs, barely looking at himself in the mirror.