Approximately 25-minute read time.

26

Tildy stumbled down the stairs to breakfast two weeks later, her head full of swirling considerations. Mum had troubled her dreams every night and she’d not been sleeping well. Shadowed night-thoughts mattered little in the daylight, the old adage said, yet she worried still. Nevertheless, she continued to wear the amulet beneath her clothing. She’d taken its warning to heart and daren’t leave it anywhere in Southershard, having chosen to trust another sage warning: The waking words you hear are more truthful than the dreams you don’t.

She also wondered whether she should tell her adoptive mother about the barred window and the key that lay beyond it. She rubbed her eyes. In the witch’s presence, it often felt like her skull was transparent and the thoughts within could be divined like a tossing of trinkets and bones. The more important the secret, the easier the read. Or so she had come to believe. Each time she ran the conversation ran through her head, however, the witch’s questions somehow led back to the Obsequiant. Considering how skittish he had been when advising her, she wasn’t sure he would appreciate another person hearing his words. As she entered the dining hall with a tired sigh, she decided she would keep his words to herself.

She sat at the table where the witch and Marklin were already eating and yawned a greeting to them. She scratched her scalp, doing nothing to improve the state of her hair. Her adoptive mother didn’t make her usual tutting sound, which surprised her, half-asleep though she was.

“Ib your dreff on backwarbs?” Marklin asked spraying the table with bits of food.

Tildy looked down at her dress, saw the hidden panel that allowed her wings to extend, and crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t realize this was so easy to see,” she said, suddenly wide awake.

“It is not, dear,” said the witch. “You just know what to look for.”

Self-conscious, Tildy kept one arm in place as she spooned some fruit onto her plate. She was reaching for the toast when she saw them watching her.

⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙

“Happy birthday, Tildeneth,” her mother said, beaming at her.

“Is it really?” she asked.

“Now you’re fourteen like me!” said Marklin.

“Is it really my birthday?” she repeated. She wasn’t even sure what month it was.

“Oh course,” the witch said. “Have you ever known me to miss a date?”

“No, it’s just—we’ve been gone so long and so much has happened! How have you managed to also keep track of the days?”

Her mother smiled. “It is something the old take more interest in than the young.”

“And me,” Marklin interrupted.

“And you,” she agreed. “The usual exception is birthdays.”

“Birthdays?” came a voice outside the alcove. The unusually slender form of Lady Amaranth came into view. “Is it someone’s birthday?”

“Tildy’s!” Marklin said before anyone else could respond. “She’s fourteen like me.”

The baroness appeared very interested. “Fourteen? I suppose you’re a woman now, hmm?”

Tildy certainly didn’t feel like a lady. She played in trees, had dirty fingernails, and she was quite certain her knees were skinned. And she had wings. She affirmed to herself that she wasn’t a lady, as far as she understood the meaning of the word.

“A proper lady must look the part, must she not?” the baroness asked Marklin, who was too surprised to respond. “Which means, not looking like a serving girl,” she added, giving the backwards dress a scornful look. From the corner of her eye, Tildy saw the witch frown.

Like a delighted actress upon the minstrel stage, the baroness clapped her hands and said, “I have the perfect gift for you! My seamstress shall make you a dress for every day of the week, so you feel fashionable whilst you stay with us!” She clapped her hands again. “That is an appropriate birthday present and a worthy one for a young lady.”

Tildy was speechless and her thoughts ran away from her. Seven new dresses? That was more than she’d gotten in the last three years, not to mention that hers were all shabby, patched, or darned. Oh, and how beautiful they would be, if they were the sort a lady would wear! She would show them to Ramora when they were ready. This was wonderful, oh so wonderful, and perhaps the best present she would ever receive!

She came out of her reverie to find the others staring at her. “Oh.”

“A lady proper would say ‘Thank you, mistress’ or ‘You’re too kind, dear baroness!’ or some similar gratitude. She would not sit there gaping like a landed trout.”

“She knows how to say thank you,” said the witch. “She needs not a lesson in manners.”

“Hmm,” said Lady Amaranth, clearly disagreeing.

Tildy finally blurted out. “Thank you very much, baroness! Your gift is generous. Very generous and I shall be ever-so-grateful.”

“That’s better, is it not?” the baroness said, looking pleased. She surveyed the others to see if they agreed. “It would seem I have some new matters to attend, above my other extensive duties. You will excuse me.” She smiled indulgently at Tildy and left.

Marklin gasped. “Seven dresses? I haven’t gotten a new shirt in more than two years.”

Tildy snorted. “You’re wearing a squire’s shirt that’s not yours.”

“Not what I meant,” he said, tossing a small crusted knaught at her. She caught it in her mouth, and they laughed together as she chewed.

⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙

She noticed the witch wearing her thoughtful expression. Catching Tildy’s eye, she said, “I am sorry, Tildeneth. I have been distracted.”

“I could tell,” she replied, patting her mother’s hand. “That really was an extravagant present, but I hope I didn’t appear ungrateful for all the dresses you’ve given me, it’s – wow. Seven dresses fit for a noblewoman.”

“That was no small gift. Impressive, and deliberately so. However, I meant something else. I have been distracted by the Thirsellion and that strange niggling feeling I have here in Southershard.”

“Oh, I understand,” Tildy replied, trying to be nonchalant to ease her mother’s guilt. “I imagine it’s an absolutely fascinating room. But I haven’t been lonely, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“No, I daresay you have not,” she replied, looking away in the direction the baroness had gone. “Nevertheless, we shall spend more time together. Starting here, since it is your birthday,” she said, digging into her pouch.

Tildy wanted to put aside her skepticism. She knew her adoptive mother meant well, even if she’d made the promise before.

The witch presented a small rectangular pouch of supple leather. “I give these to you, such as they are.”

“Oooh, thank you,” Tildy cooed as she took it, Lady Amaranth’s lavish gift disappearing from her mind. She knew this would be absolutely wonderful, as all her previous presents in Dappledown had been. The contents clinked like glassware, piquing her curiosity. She turned the pouch over in her hands, the unworn leather smooth as silk. The F rune had been engraved on the back, her adoptive mother’s mark. “You made this?” she asked, recognizing the symbol that stood for the witch’s true name.

“I made all of them.”

“Open it!” Marklin urged, leaning forward in his seat.

⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙

She unclasped the silver buckle to see four small bottles of different shape within. The witch beamed and said, “Special potions of my own concocting, sealed in crystal phials.” Tildy was speechless. Never before had she received such gifts, having been told she wasn’t old enough to handle such draughts responsibly.

“Yes,” said the witch, “I do believe you are old enough. And I daresay you will put them to good use! Though hopefully, not today.”

Tildy grasped the first bottle and immediately released it. Its icy surface sucked at her skin, desperately clinging to her warmth. She looked up quizzically.

“Winter’s Breath,” said the witch. “Collected from a Shriesk – a blizzard demon – north of Yrrengard. Stops the blood or sap alike! Expands a tiny fissure in a castle wall into a crumbling ruin. Ravenously devours all heat it can find, although it is well-contained within that phial.”

Tildy blew on her hand to warm it. “That’s debatable,” she said, though she couldn’t help but smile as she put away the bottle. “I can’t wait to hear a tale of blizzard demons! Wait – should I be worried about the next one?” She gave the witch a cautious look. Marklin laughed, his food forgotten.

“Only if you open it unawares.”

Tildy inspected a bottle filled with a black liquid and sealed with black wax. “Delosh’s Ink, though that is the common name,” she added, seeing the look on Tildy’s face. Marklin also looked uncertain. “We potion brewers cannot capture the Evershadow for our ingredients cupboards.” She chuckled. “But the contents of this phial will plunge the surrounding area into a night deeper than even the sharp eyes of Elves can penetrate. As such, they despise this potion and give it no name.”

Tildy returned the ink and held up a larger bottle full of writhing green tendrils. The witch said, “The Fairies Fay call it moiremillen. Humans – those few who have heard of it – call it flurishen. Right useful in times of drought. Helps green things grow, even without water. My garden has survived some dry years by adding a cutting of this to the soil. But be careful,” she warned, “a quantity like this would cause my garden to overrun Eddlweld Forest! Though I have known some Elves and Fairies who would deem that a fine start.”

Tildy held up the fourth bottle, immediately recognizing the tiny glowing contents that floated within. She heard Marklin gasp. “Starflowers,” she said in awe. She looked at the witch. “From your stormcloset?”

The response was interrupted by Ramora bustling up to them. “M’lady bid me escort you to the dressmaker,” she said excitedly to Tildy. “She says you’re to be measured down and around for your birthday present. Oh, Lady Amaranth has the most wonderful cloth. I expect you’ll be so beautiful, won’t she?” she asked Marklin, who simply nodded.

Tildy kissed her mother’s cheek and thanked her for the presents. She followed Ramora from the hall, realizing she hadn’t eaten her breakfast fill, thanks to all the birthday attention. Meaning to grab a stack of toast, she asked the lady’s maid to wait, and she turned back, pausing as the voices of Marklin and her adoptive mother drifted toward her.

⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙

“This is no game, lad. You are not some gallant knight and she is not, well,” the witch paused and then repeated, “well, this is not a game.”

“I have nothing else to give,” Marklin said in a meek, but earnest tone Tildy had not heard before. She realized they were approaching.

“You can pledge your loyalty when you are older. And when you have a real sword, if you’re resigned to this nonsense,” she added, dismissively.

Remembering the disaster in the tree, Tildy hurried away, passed Ramora, and fled up the stairs, eager to put distance between the conversation and herself. Birthday or no, she didn’t want to have another argument, especially over such a noble gesture. She flushed and quickened her pace, ignoring the maid’s calls for her to wait.

Ramora finally caught up to her between floors eleven and twelve. Somewhat out of breath, she said timidly, “If you wouldn’t mind a stop in your room first, I’ve something to show you.” Tildy nodded and they went to her room.

⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙

The maid hurried over to the dressing table, retrieving a cloth package tied with string. “I made this for you but didn’t know when to give it. Seeing as it’s your birthday, I reckon this is a better time than another.” She hesitated before pushing it into Tildy’s hands.

“Oh, but you didn’t have to!” she replied, quite surprised. “I mean, thank you very much, of course!” As she pulled at the knot, she caught something on Ramora’s face. “What’s wrong?”

The maid chewed her lip before unleashing a torrent of words. “It’s just, you’re going to be getting seven dresses from m’lady, and I wanted you to see this first because it’s not as posh and you probably won’t want to wear it after you see hers. But I sewed it m’self and I knew you needed dresses made for your wings and hers won’t have such things.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Tildy said, placing a hand on her arm. She pulled the string and discarded the wrapping. “Oh, Ramora!” she exclaimed, rushing to the large mirror. She held the simple dress against her chest to admire it. The maid had used a deep green cloth that reminded her of the forest at the edge of sunlight. The hem featured oak leaves of brown and orange and yellow, and a path of similar design meandered up the front and around to the back. She turned the dress around, admiring how the woman that replicated the hidden flap of her other outfits. “It’s beautiful,” she said, hoping to allay her friend’s nervousness.

“D’you think?”

“I want to put it on immediately.”

Ramora blushed, her shy smile growing even as her brow creased with worry. “Begging your pardon, miss, but it’s better if you didn’t wear it yet. The baroness marks fashion with a keen eye and she might take insult if you wear an unfamiliar outfit to her dressmaker’s.” She took her gift and draped it over a chair. “Today, you’d suit me fine if you put your current dress on the right way ‘round.” A few minutes later, the change delayed by much laughter, Ramora led her to the fifteenth floor. She gave Tildy’s hand a squeeze and disappeared down the stairs.

⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙

Tildy entered the room and stopped, feeling like she’d stepped into a rich merchant’s shop in Wayfahren. Or at least, what she expected one to look like. Tall wooden figures wore clothing in various states of assembly. Myriad cloths lay draped over chairs. She counted at least three pincushions the size of pillows and four sets of shears of increasing size. Faceless busts displayed wigs and headwear, each more outlandish than the last. Everything featured some kind of flower motif, whether in form or pattern. Her reflection watched her from various mirrors around the room.

“It is a wonderful place, is it not?” Lady Amaranth said by way of greeting as she turned from one of the windows.

“Yes, although I think I underestimated your generosity! I wanted to thank you properly, baroness.”

The woman nodded to indicate her acceptance. “I hope you didn’t mistake my morning grumbling for unkindness.”

“Of course not!” Tildy replied quickly, hoping she hadn’t given that impression. The comment confused her, but so did many of the baroness’s actions. She was at once overly familiar, but also distant. If she hadn’t liked the woman, she might have felt manipulated.

“I thought not.” Lady Amaranth sighed dramatically. “The emissary of the Shimmer Pale has been rather demanding, and between us, I am not sorry to see the back of him.”

“He left? We thought he had gone ages ago. My mother had hoped to get news from the south.”

“Adoptive mother, you mean.” The baroness corrected. “Ah well. The emissary is a very private person and unlike to have granted her any audience. We all have our secrets, don’t we?” A cunning look crossed her face, reminding Tildy of a cat that didn’t care one shake of its tail after being caught with a cherished bird in its mouth.

“Ah, Madrilda. Excellent,” Lady Amaranth said as her seamstress entered from an antechamber, followed by three footmen bearing several bolts of cloth. Tildy marveled at the colors: there was cream and bitter ivory, burnt violet and indigo, greens and browns that reminded her of the Forest of Eddlweld, and a vibrant orange that recalled a southern fruit she’d once had in Wayfahren market. Silks there were, and linens and soft cotton and some bulky materials she had not seen before. The men stood in a line, waiting.

⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙

Madrilda came to stand beside her mistress, face souring as her eyes raked Tildy’s dress. Even her towering hairstyle seemed to stare down in disapproval. She clearly thought her time about to be wasted. She wore a high-collared dress, as severe as her demeanor, her outfit completed by a demure corset with abundant boning to keep her shape and posture well-restrained. “The garden girl?”

 “Yes,” the baroness said, clearly knowing the other woman’s mind. “You do have some work ahead of you. But the challenge of the journey is more important than the destination, is it not?” By the deepening of the woman’s frown lines, Tildy knew she disagreed. Unaware of the seamstress’s thoughts, or not caring, Lady Amaranth said to Tildy, “Do you like my attire? Perhaps something similar can be tailored for you.”

Tildy watched Madrilda’s face curdle before dragging her eyes to the baroness’s dress, which was a rich blue, like deep water where the sunlight begins to fail. A pattern of white lotus blossoms crossed it like a sash, disappearing around her waist. As she got closer, a subtle brocade became visible: black, spiky tendrils nearly too subtle to see upon the dark material. She thought this dress and the others were exquisite and made with meticulous care, though they were far too fancy for her tastes. However, standing before these two women, she knew only one answer would suffice: “I absolutely adore it, though I am certain I could nothing but diminish the beauty of such a garment.”

Madrilda raised an eyebrow and Lady Amaranth chortled. “You’re certainly wiser and prettier than a dressmaker’s dummy,” she said. “Well spoken, nonetheless. We will look at materials to find something suitable, and while the choice is up to you, we shall have strong opinions you’ll want to consider, of course. We’ve far more experience in this sort of thing, and these are real clothes that will be made, not sacks with arm holes.” Tildy had the uncomfortable feeling that the baroness was talking of the clothing the witch made. “As you will, Madrilda.”

⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙

The seamstress walked forward and studied her face and body until Tildy squirmed, feeling like a chopper-snout being sold for slaughter. The woman removed a rolled tailor’s tape, efficiently measuring her young charge in more ways than Tildy thought possible.

“The scarlet?” the baroness suggested. Madrilda gave a curt nod and walked over to the men holding the cloth. She retrieved a rich red material with intricate black sworls, but as she returned, she paused in surprise. The dressmaker peered at Tildy with squinted eyes, like a parent hoping to catch a child in a wrongdoing. She looked at the cloth and back at Tildy. With a derisive sound, she went back to the bolts.

“Try not to blush too much, my dear,” said the baroness. “It makes the color selection more taxing for Madrilda. And she feels like everyone wastes her time, so let’s not give her an excuse to be cross, shall we?”

“Was I blushing?” said Tildy, holding a hand to her face. “I don’t feel like I was.”

The baroness leaned in close. Whispering, she said, “Aloud, I will name it such. But between us, your lovely olive skin exhibits ruddy patches as though from long summer days beneath the scorching supervision of the Mother Sun.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Tildy, catching sight of her arm. She’d unconsciously changed, just slightly, but why? Her mind whirred like an over-wound clockwork as she searched for an explanation the baroness would believe.

“A trick of the light, I’m sure. Much like your slightly longer hair,” Lady Amaranth said with a wry smile. “Ahhh, now you are truly blushing.” Shocked, Tildy could only stare at herself in the mirror. The baroness turned, making eye contact with her reflection, their faces very close. Her warm smile offered reassurance and a reprieve. “Madrilda, bring the brambletan linen instead. And let’s see what might happen,” she whispered.

Tildy resolved to control her changes, but the color matching continued so long, her thoughts wandered, and perhaps, so did the hues within her skin. She kept returning to the baroness’s words. Was the choice of dress color a ploy to out her? Did she guess the truth? Her words suggested she had confirmed something she already knew, but how? Ramora and Fillofillo knew, of course, but she didn’t think they would have told their mistress. She didn’t think friendships worked that way, but she didn’t have much experience with a noble’s servants. Or friends.

Those considerations aside, she worried more about Lady Amaranth’s next move. She had casually disregarded some astonishing changes, as though such transformations were a regular occurrence. Tildy recalled Ramora saying her own ability was secret, so she didn’t think the baroness had simply grown accustomed to such things.

At last, and after many unsavory mutterings, Madrilda had determined the perfect combination of materials: a deep forest green with brown and cream accents. Tildy was delighted, since it was so similar to her favorite dress colors, but the baroness voiced her disapproval. “We shall start with this, and then Madrilda and I will choose some more appropriate colors after you leave.”

Tildy masked her relief but felt her face squinch in pain as that familiar roiling in her stomach returned. She nearly retched.

⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙

She fumbled in her pocket and quickly pulled out a peffelin leaf. She gagged again as she chewed it, but her stomach settled.

Tildy glanced up to see a horrified look on Madrilda’s face. The baroness appeared genuinely concerned. And curious. “You are ill?”

Tildy finished chewing and restrained the desperate urge to ask for water. In a sticky voice, she said, “It happens sometimes. We haven’t learned the cause.”

“Ah, and you treat it with peffelin. I recognize the veins in the leaf.”

Tildy marveled at the woman. “You know it?”

“Oh, quite well. Your witch is a learned herbalist, of course, but this is a crude treatment,” she said, shaking her head. She patted Tildy on the back. “Visit my garden soon and I will harvest something far better. Now shoo! We have work to do.”

As the putrid leaf continued to coat her tongue, Tildy eagerly hoped she was right. Perhaps remedy number thirty-two would do the trick. Closing the door behind her, she heard the baroness chastising the dressmaker: “Oh, put that face away, you foolish woman.”

Tildy wondered whether she’d subtly – and unconsciously – changed her skin color to ensure that only garments of green and brown would work. Somehow, Madrilda hadn’t caught on, always blaming her error on the wrong kind of light. She’d called for more lanterns, less sunlight, and even a reflecting dish to focus the illumination. Sometimes, all three.

Amusing though this was, Tildy chastised her lack of control. After hiding her real self from people her entire life, she was losing count of how many had discovered the truth since she left Dappledown.

“Tildy? A final word, if you please.”

⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙⸙

She turned to find Lady Amaranth closing the door. Fearing a reprimand for what might be considered a childish game, she politely said, “Yes, lady?”

“You are an unusual girl, Tildy, which I hope you take in compliment. You have secrets to be sure, and perhaps one day you would confide in me, as I have with you. Until then, I offer some advice.

“As a child, it can be terrifying to think there is no one like you. That you are isolated amongst people who are as similar as paper dolls in a chain. They think the same, act the same, are evermore the same. There are benefits to being unique, or,” she paused before adding in a whisper, “the last of your kind. You might find that solitude is a gift because the company of your inferiors is wearisome.

“Never forget that your differences are an advantage that will take you further than short-sighted elders who would stand in your way because they cannot comprehend your true potential. When you recognize this, you will understand how truly special you are and how unnecessary their presence has become.” She paused, an eyebrow cocked. “You might also think back to younger days when you squandered such advantages on foolish amusements.” Her eyes of grey swirl stared until Tildy nodded her assent. The woman’s face warmed with a smile, and she said goodbye.

Tildy exhaled. That had gone better than she’d expected, though it would likely be a different matter if her skin protested a lavender dress presented as a gift. Truth to tell, color was a minor consideration. She anticipated the interesting designs, the marvelous fabrics, and perhaps, just perhaps, walking around like a noble lady instead of a garden girl.

Descending the stairs to her room, she smiled.

Lady Amaranth’s extravagant gift of new dresses arrives, and Tildy begins to understand the price to pay in Chapter 27 – A Change Of Dress.

---

---