The thump of the sprite flying into my closed window makes me jump. Before letting it in from the cold, I rush a few steps away to lock my bedroom door. One side of my hair hangs down in tight waves, the other side is still trapped up in golden pins. The color makes me think of him and I flinch back from my reflection in the vanity as I head to the window. The red beads of dried blood on my neck, nearly behind my ear, are why I've had to keep it loose and wild since returning a couple days prior. The sprite keeps hitting against the glass as I fight with the remnants of nightly frost to force the window open.
"Sorry, sorry, I know," I whisper when I finally get it open and the circular puff of light darts inside.
It flies past me without a word and pauses beside the fireplace. I apologize again from a distance as it bobs around before the flames. The palm-sized leather satchel hanging from it makes my pulse uneven with expectations. The stone-colored sleeve of a sweater sticks out from under my bed and I kick it back into hiding while I wait for the sprite to acknowledge me.
Sufficiently warmed, the sprite flies back over to me where I stand next to my nightstand. The violet-pink glow is so bright I can barely make out the lithe, alabaster limbs that emerge from the center of it, the rest of the creature's body hidden in the epicenter. My heart stops as it tugs the satchel open and tips it over the nightstand. Coins clatter out onto the wooden surface.
"No recipient for message," the tiny voice recites, "Half-payment returned in accordance with our contract."
"No..." I stumble back a step, the words making my head ring like a physical strike, "recipient?"
"There is only one building fit for centaurs in the central forest. The inside was dark and there was no answer to knocks on the windows or the door. Do you have another address for the message? We're currently having a deal on roundtrip bundles of-"
"No," I interrupt hoarsely, "I don't have any other address for him. Thank you for trying."
The sprite wiggles in the air, as if it is shivering at the thought of going back out into the cold. It's gone by the time I think to offer it a place near the fire for a bit longer. The colorful glow reflects on the white veil draped over a dress form in the corner of my room as it zips by. The sight of it makes my stomach sink. Saliva floods my mouth, warning me that I may soon be sick. Again.
.
A cloud fogs my vision as I let out a tired, solemn sigh.. People on the street are hustling into restaurants and shops to escape the chill in the misleading afternoon sun. I secretly wring my hands inside the fur muff held in front of my dark wool dress.
Another day of snipping at that innocent tailor weighs down on my mood. I've lost count of how many times I've lied. And I'm starting to become numb to feeling bad about it. Each time they reveal another alteration to the wedding dress, I block the sight of it with my hand in disgust and pronounce it to be all wrong. I'm running out of creative ways to describe what I supposedly want and then act like it meant something else days later. I had hoped it would make Claudius stop wanting me. But he keeps paying them. They keep setting fitting appointments. My father keeps expecting me to go to them.
I reach up to feel for the healed bite mark, struggling to find any evidence of it. Any evidence that he has ever touched me. Or that he ever existed. I wish I had stolen that soap.
A comforting puff of warm air ruffles my hair as the door to a cafe opens beside me. I squeeze past the trio of girls that are leaving. One turns back to smile at me, I wave in return without pausing my entry. An acquaintance more than a friend. Someone I've danced and gossiped with a handful of times at otherwise painfully dull, stuffy parties. But I don't need to have this conversation again. I don't want to hear how lucky I am to be marrying Claudius. Or have her grab my hand and gush about the ring shackling my finger. A ring that I would happily force onto someone else's hand, if only someone would take it from me.
Happy voices chat all around me at the small, round tables. The warm smell of tea, coffee, and pastries offers me some reprieve from the cold and my gloomy thoughts. Normally I'd buy my weight in buttery sweets. But normally my stomach doesn't feel full of lead. The lone, stout mug of chamomile tea I order warms my hands as I turn to search for an empty seat.
"Flora."
I flinch so hard a bit of tea splashes out and burns my hand as Claudius approaches me. My breath freezes in my lungs and I slowly retreat until I feel my backside pressed against the curved glass of the display case. The broadness of his muscular form blocks the thin path between the small tables and the entryway. The door that feels a hundred miles away now that he's between me and it.
"I need to talk to you," He says in an uncharacteristically quiet way.
I reach back to set down the tea cup and hear it shatter on the stone floor when I miss. All the chatter stops around us at the sound. His hand shoots out and grips the muff slid up over one forearm as I turn to escape him. The intensity of his blue-grey eyes being focused down at me makes me feel sick with fear.
"Flora, we-"
I bolt the opposite way, leaving the muff in his hand when I straighten my arm. I nearly collide with a waiter as I run behind the counter. The woman at the front calls out that I can't be back here, but I'm already past her. Someone yelps and jumps out of my way as I sprint through the small, cramped kitchen space. The backdoor is unlocked and I slam it open without stopping, coming out in a shadowy alleyway. I look back only long enough to check that he hasn't followed me before pulling the door shut behind myself.
.
"Wrong," I say flatly.
The tailor's hopeful expression deflates. His assistant pulls out a notebook and plucks a pencil from behind her ear, sighing loudly enough that I know she means for me to hear it. The tailor pushes a hand over the top of his head as if he's brushing his hair back, even though he only has hair on the sides. He turns the dress form and gestures to the deep drapery of the silk and the layers of pearls hanging across the empty space.
"I said mother-of-pearl. Not pearl."
"My notes very specifically say pearl," the assistant says in a quiet, cautious voice.
"Hm," I snip out the sound and look down to toy with the ring on my finger, "You must have written wrong."
"Without the pearls filling the empty space," the tailor adds, "I worry it will be a bit more... scandalous than your fiance would prefer."
"Sounds like a him problem," I say without looking up, feeling whatever remains of my acting skills being exhausted beyond function.
"I don't know if we have enough mother-of-pearl to fashion that many beads," the man says in a tired tone, "And I think the cream color would actually look better on your tone-"
"I'll wait." I interrupt.
The tailor and his assistant look at the dress like it's their own personal purgatory. I leave a stack of coins as a lavish tip on the counter as I walk away. But I can already hear them mumbling about me. And I can't even blame them. I feel like such a bitch.
Outside, I embrace the punishing bite of cold that blows across my face. I don't bother digging in my pockets for my gloves, letting the icy wind twist around my hands as well. As I walk through the store lined streets, I carefully scan the sparse crowd to make sure Claudius hasn't returned to Leaven early. The freedom I feel on days he leaves town on business is the only benefit to him insisting that my father inform me of every detail of his schedule.
The silky timbre makes me stop in my tracks. My breaths are short and fast as I turn toward the muffled, recognizable voice. The leathersmith's signage hangs out over the street from the squat building of dark wood. The window only shows me the thick curtain drawn across the glass to block out the cold.
Inside, the two voices echo slightly down the short hallway that leads to another curtain. I take a deep, bracing breath and slowly pull the curtain away. The leathersmith's gravelly voice is reciting prices and wait times for some kind of repair work. I step to the other side of the fabric and freeze with my back against it.
"Oh, I'll be right with you," the old human male says over his shoulder before he goes behind a heavier, dirtier curtain.
The golden fur and long hair bundled up in a leather tie make my heart stop mid-beat.
"Is it you?" I breathe out.
Andrius turns, giving me a glimpse of the withdrawn expression just before his eyes find me and go wide. He glances once more to the front before turning fully to me. Tears blur my vision and prickle my eyes the instant his arms go around my middle. He picks me up and crushes me to his chest. I slide my hands under the layers of his clothing until I can feel the hard muscles of his back under my touch. At the contact, he pulls back just enough to kiss me. I try not to moan around the taste of him that I'd been so afraid I would forget. I pull one hand out from under his clothing to reach up and trace the contours of his face. The point of one ear feels like it twitches under my fingertips and Andrius quickly releases me before facing the front again.
The leathersmith sweeps back into the storefront, still struggling to pull away the strap holding the thick, protective glasses over his eyes. I glance down at Andrius' hands at his sides, watching them clench tight. The gears turn selfishly in my head.
"Oh, Miss Hawthrone, I didn't realize it was you. What can I do for you?" The man pulls a clean cloth from one of the many apron pockets and wipes absent-mindedly at his glasses.
"I wanted an estimate for some mending work actually," I say in the same haughty voice that I've been using on the tailor. The same haughty voice that I am getting very sick of. I can only imagine how sick everyone else is of it.
"Oh?"
I can feel Andrius watching me in his periphery, the heat of his gaze gliding over my face and silhouette like fiery silk. Resisting the urge to look at him twists in my muscles like holding in a tic.
"My fiance has a leather bag he uses for everything, but the straps are becoming worn. I think I'd like to get it repaired for him as a wedding gift," I almost gag on the words and swallow the sound, "It's a very particular shade though. It would have to be a perfect match."
The smith turns around to pull a collection of leather-dye samples from the wall, the straps all together looking like a flogger. I dare a glance at Andrius and see him acting as well. He's turned nearly completely away from me, looking through a hanging display of intricately carved belts. I'm relieved to see that he's good at acting uninterested in me no matter what he's looking at. As if a creature that never wears pants gives a fuck about belts.
"Well, it really depends," the smith explains, "Some dyes are more expensive on my end. Darker colors can require multiple layers. And I couldn't possibly guess at an exact shade. Do any of these look-"
"I could bring it by," I offer with impatience in my tone that I don't need to feign, "Claudius has already sent me a key to his estate on Penrose. And he's away on business until at least supper time tonight."
