Once we go a few blocks, the street starts to quiet. Merchants loiter outside their shops, and skinny dogs bask in the sun. A flower girl approaches us and thrusts a nosegay into Papa’s hand in exchange for a copper. He pins the bouquet to my lapel.
The dressmaker’s shop is located down a long alley. The street was once lined with fashionable exotic-fruit stalls and jewelers, but now Dupois’s shop is the only business. Our carriage is parked in front of the shop already, partially obscuring its chipped blue facade. Papa’s driver, Rook, lies across the carriage bench, sleeping, while our two black carriage horses chew daffodils from the window box.
The manikin in the window displays the same beautiful, pearl-inlaid, gold chiffon dress that was in the shop a few months ago, when I accompanied Papa into the city to meet the son of one of his endless acquaintances. Master Dupois sits beside it, idly looking at a bronze pocket watch. He’s a small, bald white man, with nervous, active fingers that keep reaching out to pluck threads from the already perfect dress.
“Dupois!” Papa calls, his voice friendly but tired.
Hearing us, the shopkeeper scurries outside. He bows to Papa, then heartily wrings both of our hands. “A pleasure, Viscount, as always.”
Formality isn’t required by law anymore, but many shopkeepers keep it up, hoping to sweeten their noble patrons and put them in a generous mood. Dupois ushers us inside. I look around while Papa waits by the counter for Mama’s order. There are fewer spools of luxurious fabric than I remember, and the shelves, which once held hats and purses of every style, are nearly empty.
Dupois’s lone assistant sits on a stool, stitching a corset with glass beads. He’s a gangly boy, all legs, with golden brown eyes and a little cut over his left eye. The corset reminds me of the garment Cadence wore onstage, and I hastily turn away.
I unwind a lavender silk scarf and brush off the film of dust covering it. The scarf is impossibly soft, embroidered with delicate green and pink blossoms.
“I will give you an excellent price for that,” Master Dupois calls. He pushes a carefully wrapped package across the counter to Papa.
“Are you moving your premises?” I ask. “There isn’t much merchandise here.”
Dupois and Papa exchange a look.
“No.” Dupois swallows. “The queen normally uses her own tailors for the palace. She prefers to train mages of the maker school who can direct the fibers in the thread, rather than employing more traditional craft. These last years have been hard. My shop had a reputation, and now…”
He trails off, but I understand. Cannis is no longer home to Bordea’s decadent court. A talented dressmaker like Dupois would once have had endless work. Now most of the nobles only come to the city when summoned for Performings and long ago employed new tailors closer to home. We raise doux goats on our estate and have to ship their cashmere abroad for better prices, since most houses can’t afford it anymore. If not for Papa’s business, we would probably avoid the city, too, and Mama would have to shop closer to home. I wonder why Dupois doesn’t choose to leave the capital and set up his shop elsewhere.
I go back to admiring the scarf, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Dupois slip another, smaller package across the table to Papa. I raise an eyebrow.
“A gift for your nameday,” Papa says with a wink when he catches my expression. He tucks the package into his coat and takes out his purse. He counts twelve gold coins and slides them across the counter to Dupois.
“Viscount, this is too much! Your wife and I agreed on six!” splutters the shopkeeper.
“We’ll take the scarf, too,” Papa says. He slips Mama’s parcel under his broad arm and steers me toward the door. “Remi should have something nice.” He snorts a laugh, one that sounds a little more genuine than before. “And to replace your pretty window flowers, for I fear my driver has been lax, and our horses have eaten their fill.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Dupois bows low and doesn’t lift his head until we exit the shop.
Rook wakes with a start when Papa clicks his tongue at him. The youth hastily sits up and takes the reins. A lone yellow flower sticks out of the side of one of the mares’ muzzles. I pluck it from her mouth before Papa can see, and Rook shoots me a grateful smile.
Papa helps me into the carriage. Inside, I melt into the familiar red leather seats with a sigh. He sits beside me and secures the carriage door. His shoulders slump with relief. Rook snaps the reins, and the two horses take off at a trot, bearing us down the alley, toward home.
I pull the curtains across the carriage window. Today, I have no more desire to look on Cannis. I tuck a flannel blanket over my legs and skirt. It’s a four-hour journey back to our château, and all I plan to do is sleep.
* * *
I remember the year when the Performings began. I was about ten and furious at being left behind when my parents made the trip to the city. The new queen had been on the throne for two years, and we hadn’t gone back to our apartments in Cannis since her ascension, though no one would tell me why.
I missed my room overlooking the palace’s winter garden, the thrill and bustle of the court. I missed Cadence and worried about her. I didn’t understand why Mama wouldn’t allow me to write to her, or at least to her new patron, to request permission to visit. I believed that the Performing my parents spoke about in hushed whispers must be the grandest party of all. Why else would the queen be planning to gather all her nobles together on the anniversary of her coronation? Why else would all of Mama’s friends start to talk about it as soon as they thought I’d gone to bed?
On the day my parents were due back from Cannis, I sat by my bedroom window and watched the long, grassy drive that stretched from our front gate, beyond the orchard, to the cobblestone courtyard. I imagined them cantering up the drive, dismounting in a flourish of silk and velvet, and laughing their way back inside the house, the way they always did after a visit to the city, when their spirits were high.
When I saw the carriage pass through the wrought-iron gate, I pressed my face and hands to the glass. I waited for my parents to ride in behind it, jubilant and out of breath from a gallop. They loved to race each other on the last stretch home. But when I noticed how slowly the carriage moved, I knew immediately that something was wrong.
I hoisted myself up so quickly that I ripped the lace hem of my new skirt. I ran down the steps and flung open the heavy brass doors that led to the courtyard. Papa’s footman chased after me, but I was like water, flowing through his outstretched fingers. I lost both of my shoes as I sprinted down the drive.
The carriage had stopped. Papa climbed out when I reached it. He braced his back as he hobbled toward me, legs shaking with each step. Usually when Papa walked, he stood tall and proud. His green eyes were strangely red, and the skin around them was puffy.
Still, he lifted me off the ground and twirled me in a half-hearted arc. Mama pushed the black curtains on the carriage window aside, hand trembling, and peered out at us.
“Why are you out here, sweetheart?” Papa asked. He helped me up into the carriage. “Where are your shoes?”
Inside, Mama slumped against the wall, a blanket drawn up to her chin. Papa closed the carriage door behind us. The driver clicked his tongue at the horses. They burst into a lively trot, spurred on by the promise of food and a warm stable. Mama winced in pain.