Page 13 of The Iron Flower

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Three days later, following the instructions my aunt sent by rune-hawk, Tierney and I make our way to Mistress Roslyn’s dress shop in Verpax City.

The feminine boutique is shockingly non-Gardnerian, filled with gowns in a riot of forbidden colors. The walls are papered in lavender, and vases of pink roses stand on gilded tables between the dress displays.

Mistress Roslyn looks down at me with forced politeness. She’s the Verpacian version of Valgard’s Mage Heloise Florel, only with plaited blond-gray hair and sharp blue eyes. Her seamstress tools are sheathed in a quilted pouch she has tied neatly round her waist. Two green-skinned Urisk girls, both about fourteen years of age, hover nearby, looking nervous. The atmosphere of the shop is elegant and welcoming, complete with a steaming tea service and platter of small cakes, but the fear emanating from Mistress Roslyn and her assistants is a palpable, unsettling thing.

This clearly isn’t a shop that Gardnerians often frequent. The selection of the formfitting black tunics and long skirts Gardnerians usually wear is ensconced in one small corner of the shop. It’s a growing trend among my people to only patronize Gardnerian-owned shops, but I know that fashion is the one area where Aunt Vyvian values craftsmanship above ideology. And from what I’ve heard, the Gardnerians avoiding this shop are missing out on the work of one of the most talented dress designers in the entire Western Realm.

Tierney and I do what we can to diffuse the tension in the room, trying our best to be friendly and accommodating, as Mistress Roslyn hands me the dress wrapped in tissue paper.

“Open it,” Tierney urges me, practically vibrating with anticipation.

A scarlet dress just behind her catches my eye, momentarily distracting me. All scarlet. No black.

What would it be like to wear such a thing?

The whole store, except for the small Gardnerian space, is an explosion of vibrant color. My eyes slide to another gown, this one sky blue and covered with white embroidered birds, ivory lace trimming the sleeves and collar.

“Can you imagine?” I marvel. “Abluedress...”

“I don’t care about blue dresses.” Tierney’s fidgeting from foot to foot, practically jumping out of her glamoured skin. “Openit!”

Not wanting Tierney to let loose with a raging thunderstorm right here in the middle of the shop, I turn my attention back to the parcel. I fold the tissue paper carefully back, and we both gasp as the dress is revealed.

It’s Gardnerian black, deep as midnight, made of the finest silk and fashioned in the usual design—a long, fitted tunic and a separate long skirt. But it’s the most scandalous, decadent, outrageously beautiful Gardnerian dress I’ve ever seen.

Instead of the sacred Ironflowers as acceptable, discreet trim, there’s an explosion of Ironflowers all over the tunic and long skirt—life-size embroidered flowers, lavishly wrought. They look vividly real, as if the dress was held under an Ironwood tree to catch the tree’s blossoms as they rained down upon it. The floral design thickens along the skirt’s hem, and deep blue sapphires are splashed all over the tunic and skirt in a resplendent array.

And there’s more. A separate package sent to the dress shop that I quickly fumble open.

Earrings. Ironflowers made of sapphires with emerald leaves. And a box containing black satin shoes with a slim, tapering heel. Ironflowers are embroidered over the shoes so thickly that they eclipse the black and give the illusion that the shoes are actually blue.

“Wow,” Tierney marvels, momentarily dumbstruck. “That is not exactly pious attire.”

“She is full of horrible contradictions, my aunt,” I say, my eyes riveted on the dress. “She takes a fanatically hard line on practically everything else, but don’t mess with her wardrobe.”

“Sweet gods,” Tierney breathes. “Try it on.”

“Please do, Mage Gardner.” Mistress Roslyn smiles at me, clearly relieved by my reaction to the dress. She motions toward the curtained dressing room with a practiced sweep of her hand. I carefully pick up the tunic and skirt, leaving the earrings and shoes with Tierney, and slip inside.

The skirt fits perfectly around my waist and the formfitting tunic slips on like a second skin. I pull back the rose-patterened curtain and glide out, because the dress seems to demand gliding. It’s as if I’m wearing a work of fine art.

All eyes widen as I approach. I turn toward the full-length mirror, the long skirt swishing, and gasp in wonder.

I’m awash in Ironflowers. Perfectly so. Not a single petal out of place.

“Oh, Mage.” Mistress Roslyn’s mouth falls open, dazed. She seems to have forgotten to be intimidated by me as she steps forward. With a look of intense satisfaction, she fingers one of the embroidered flowers. “This is azurelian thread,” she informs me. “I’ve never had the privilege of working with it before—it’s so expensive. They distill the Ironflower essence and work it into the thread. It takes an incredible number of flowers to create thread like this. But your aunt insisted you have the best.” She swallows, her breathing heightened as she turns to the shop girls. “Orn’lia. Mor’lli. Cut the lanterns. Draw the curtains.”

The Urisk girls hastily snuff out the six amber-glass lanterns and close the curtains. A reverential silence descends upon the room.

I stand utterly still, mesmerized by my reflection in the mirror. The entire dress is alight. Every Ironflower pulses a deep, glowing azure.

“Holy gods,” Tierney says, the emerald glimmer of her face cast blue in the glistening light of the dress. She grins widely at me. “Fallon’s head isdefinitelygoing to explode. And frankly, Elloren, so will Lukas’s.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE WILDS

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