Page 169 of Silverbow
Enya stayed in the bath until she had washed every inch of herself at least three times. When she finally emerged, she found Harshilda had made off with every scrap of clothing save for the fur lined cloak that now hung in the wardrobe in the bedchamber. The space was even more splendid than the sitting room. A four poster bed big enough to sleep an entire family was made up in silk sheets,knitted blankets, and a pile of furs. She smiled as she plumped a feather pillow and took in the dizzying, sundrenched view.
Unsure what to do with herself after so long on the road, Enya settled at the table, nibbling at the contents of the trays. She wondered if she might end up wearing the scandalously short silk robe to dinner when a knock came at the door. She glanced down, tightened the sash and called, “Come in!”
Alsbet swept in with what appeared to be an army of serving women carrying a massive trunk. She planted fists on broad hips. Enya gulped and straightened under her sharp gaze.
“Rags,” she said flatly. “Nothing but rags in that pile Harshilda tried to call laundry. Is that really how my brother-in-law travels?” Alsbet beckoned a dwarven woman with a beak of a nose into the room, her long black robes trailing over the floor. “I’ve brought the seamstress. We can’t have you trouncing about in that robe.” A smile flitted across her face. “Or perhaps we could, if you want to be wed before Alloralla’s sentence is up.”
“I don’t particularly find myself in need of a husband,” Enya answered, setting down her teacup. “But please, Your Highness, this is far too much trouble.”
The princess glowered at her. “It’s only Alsbet, dear. And it’s no trouble at all. Did Oryn tell you nothing?”
Enya blinked at her, not understanding.
“It’s been many years since we’ve had an Estryian lady as a guest, even more since we’ve had a Silverbow. My court is buzzing with excitement. We have to find you something suitable to wear. Oh, here’s my Gitaela.”
A young dwarven woman poked her head into Enya’s room, a wide grin splitting her pretty face. “Mother.”
“Meet Lady Enya,” Alsbet said warmly. “My Gitaela is apprenticing with the seamstress.”
Enya blinked, trying to keep her face impassive.A princess apprenticing with a seamstress?She wasn’t sure she understood. She wasn’t sure she understood Drozia at all.Curse you, Oryn.
The dwarf girl seemed to read something of her confusion. “It’s an honored place in Droiza, my lady. What’s worn in Drozia is coveted in all the courts.”
“Of course,” Enya said into her cup, trying to hide her bewilderment.
The royal seamstress, Mistress Ironcloak, measured every bit of Enya from her head to her toes as Alsbet tittered away with Harshilda and Gitaela over the trunk. The woman asked her about Estryian fashions and what Enya liked,furrowing her brow but acquiescing when she said she preferred britches to skirts. But there were no britches or divided skirts to be found in the trunk, so Enya found herself swathed in blue silk and left to wait to be summoned for dinner.
The waiting was a problem. The things she had packed away for later seemed to be peering out at her from the dark recesses of her mind. She wasn’t certain she was prepared to deal with any of them yet. A few of Hylee’s visions had already come to pass. Each one meant one fewer between her and her end.
Searching for a distraction, she skimmed the titles on the bookshelf and picked upThe Wanderer’s Guide to Drozia,settling on her sofa. She was still turning the pages, looking for something that might be useful, when another knock sounded on her door.
“Come in!”
Oryn’s silver head craned around the door and Enya snapped the book shut. He wore a fine blue tunic that made his eyes look even more depthless than usual. She didn’t miss the way they widened slightly as they roved over her unbound hair and the silk that was slightly too small in the bust and too big in the waist.
“The gargoyle knocks.”
His brow crinkled.
“What?”
Oryn huffed and tilted his head. “I’ve never seen you in a dress, is all.”
Enya scowled. “You could have warned me.”
A knowing smile played across the hard planes of his face. “I’ve come to escort you to dinner.”
“I think I can find my way to the dining room,” she hissed.
“Your questionable sense of direction aside, I believe it was you who suggested I try manners.”
Enya stared at the arm he offered. “Not all of us have had centuries of navigation experience.”
“Then it’s good I came for you.” His grin set her heart fluttering.
She managed a resigned sigh as she accepted his arm. If the way to the dining room wasn’t obvious enough, one only would have to follow the shouting and giggling that now filled the apartment.
Giggling, because Colm was tossing one of the youngest royal children into the air. The shouting primarily stemmed from Aiden arm wrestling one of the older boys at the table while his brothers drummed fists on the stone. Hemade a show of losing, much to the delight of Leon and Alsbet’s children. Liam sat mid-bench, his knees brushing the underside of the stone. He too had been scrubbed and shoved in a black tunic embroidered with red thread that was slightly too big in the shoulders. It was Aiden’s tunic, if Enya had to hazard a guess, but she was glad to see him. She settled on the bench opposite.
