1
As Niamh leaned over the railing of the ship’s deck, she was struck with the sinking feeling that she had forgotten something.
She’d folded all of her best pieces in delicate cream paper, packed her bobbins and fabric shears, and—most importantly—tucked the invitation safely away in her reticule. That was everything. Surely that was everything. But then again, she couldn’t be certain. Keeping track of things had never exactly been her strong suit. And as much as she hated to admit it (and although she was secretly convinced her reticule did indeed contain a portal to a stranger realm, filled only with broken pencils and stray pocket change), there really was no arguing with the truth: everything she held dear, from her favorite pair of scissors to precious years of her life, had a way of slipping through her fingers.
It couldn’t hurt to check for the invitation again.
Niamh rummaged through her reticule and sighed with relief when she found the letter there. Its edges curled in the harsh sea air, and although the parchment looked yellowed with time, in reality it had only been the victim of at least five tea-spilling incidents. By now, she had memorized every inch of it, from the unbroken wax seal of the royal family, worn smooth and glossy by the restless pads of her fingers, to the smudged ink of its contents.
Dear Niamh Ó Conchobhair,
You are cordially invited to Avaland as an honored guest of the royal family, to serve as the royal tailor for the wedding of His Royal Highness the Prince Christopher, Duke of Clearwater, and Her Royal Highness Rosa de Todos los Santos de Carrillo, Infanta of Castilia …
Even now, she could hardly process it. Her, a Machlish girl from a backwater like Caterlow, the tailor for the royal wedding. Finally, all her hard work had paid off.
Two years ago, one of the girls back home, Caoimhe Ó Flaithbertaigh, had traveled to Avaland to visit a distant relative. And when she’d worn one of Niamh’s designs to a ball—a lovely dress of yellow silk, embroidered with metallic thread and enchanted with memories of early spring—she’d ensnared the most eligible bachelor of the Season, the young Duke of Aspendale. Since then, Avlish clients had trickled in steadily, all of them hungry for a taste of the magic that had turned a lowly Machlishwoman into a duchess. Niamh had made gowns for nobles desperate to make their powerless daughters irresistible, for young gentlewomen aiming to marry into the aristocracy, for matrons clinging to their faded beauty. Their ambitions had kept her family afloat these last two years—just barely. After all, few people in all of Machland could afford gowns enchanted by Ó Conchobhair magic anymore.
But now she did not need to worry about her mother, with her swollen joints and fading eyesight, or her grandmother, who grew frailer and more bitter by the day, or the roof that still needed thatching, or the cracked window courtesy of the neighbor boy Cillian and his goat. By some miracle, her work had captured the eye of the Prince Regent of Avaland himself.
Tailoring the royal wedding would give her the clout to open her own shop in the heart of the Avlish capital—and enough money to move Gran and Ma out of Machland and into a cozy townhouse. They’d never have to work or suffer another day of their lives. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.
Niamh only wished she did not feel so wretchedly selfish for taking it.
When she’d told Gran she was leaving, she’d looked at Niamh as though she didn’t recognize her. Your grandfather died fighting the Avlish to guarantee that you would have a life here in Machland. You and your magic are what those monsters tried and failed to snuff out. And now you want to use your craft to make clothes for them? I will never recover from that shame.
Bringing shame to her family was the very last thing Niamh wanted to do. Every day of her life she’d been reminded of how lucky she was to live freely on Machlish soil, of just how much she owed to people like her grandfather. A good, obedient granddaughter would have torn the invitation to shreds right then and there. A good, obedient granddaughter would have instead proposed marrying someone who could give her stability—and children who might inherit the same magic flowing through her veins. She might not find happiness, but at least their culture would survive another generation.
But in that moment, with a letter from the prince regent in her hands, Niamh could not content herself with obedience. Whether Gran approved or not, whether it meant betraying her ancestors or not, she had to take care of her family in the only way she could.
She had to pay back the debt she owed them.
Niamh tucked the letter away and turned her face into the salt-laced wind. Out in front of her, the Machlish Sea rippled like a swath of gray fabric, foam stitched like a panel of lace across its surface. Glittering in the predawn light, all that water felt as endless as possibility.
“Docking in Sootham ten minutes!” a ship hand called. “Ten minutes to Sootham!”
She startled, banging her hip against the railing. “Oww…”
The pain faded quickly enough when she fixed her gaze on the city rising from the sea. Mist trailed off the coast, as white and gauzy as a bridal veil, and the barest thread of sunlight illuminated the jagged skyline. Niamh curled her fingers around the railing, practically vibrating with anticipation. It was all she could do to keep herself from swimming the rest of the way to shore.
When the ship at last ground to a halt and the dockhands tethered it to the pier, she collected her belongings and headed toward the gangplank. Her fellow passengers surged around her, shoving and shouting. More people than she’d ever seen in her life thronged on the deck. People cradled their squalling babies against their chests. Children with their bones pressing against their skin clutched their mothers’ skirts. And girls no older than her glared right through her, with dirt beneath their nails and eyes as hard as iron. They all reeked of desperation and hope. All of them had no doubt left their homes and families behind to seek work here in Sootham. For the first time, Niamh feared that Gran was right. Perhaps she really had never learned that the world was cruel.
Niamh did her best to stay afloat, crushed as she was between shoulders and traveling cases. At one point, her feet lifted off the ground entirely. The rank, sharp stench of bodies was nearly unbearable, and by the time she stumbled onto the docks, her legs wobbled as though she were still out at sea.
She made her halting way forward, her fingers digging into the damp, fraying ropes that corralled them. Despite her disorientation, she managed to step over the rats scurrying across the dock and, by some miracle, resisted the impulse to apologize to them. At last, her feet touched solid ground. She looked up—and considered the possibility that she had boarded the wrong boat out of Machland.
The Sootham waiting for her at the end of the pier was nothing like she expected. Where was the glamor and gloss? The sprawling parks and bustling streets? Here, buildings slumped together wearily, as though they could barely manage to hold themselves up. The scent of sewage and brackish water settled thick over her.
No, this had to be Sootham. But if she could not find her way to the palace, she had nowhere else to go. She did not have enough money to return home, not that returning home was an option at all. She couldn’t bear to watch her mother work through another sleepless night, magicless but determinedly sewing by the sallow glow of the shop’s lacemaker lamp, or to see what even the simplest enchantment took out of her grandmother. Their livelihood rested on Niamh’s shoulders now. She was strong enough to bear it.
Niamh drew in a deep, steadying breath and squinted through the gloom. There, a short distance away, she spied a carriage beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp. It was unobtrusive but lovely, painted an elegant lacquered black that shone even through the haze. Embossed on its side, in ruby red and brilliant gold, was the royal insignia: a rose, its petals pearled with golden droplets. She could almost believe that the carriage was something out of a fairy tale—that as soon as she looked away, it would settle down onto the earth, transformed back into a pumpkin by the cruel light of day.
As she approached, a footman stepped down from the back. He cut a statuesque figure, serious and stark and impossibly tall in his fine livery. Niamh shivered. Standing before the carriage in the dull lamplight, he looked for all the world like one of the Fair Ones, ready to spirit her away to the Otherworld. He peered down his nose at her with cold blue eyes, and at last, with the utmost condescension, he asked, “Miss Niamh O’Connor?”
Clearly, he’d expected someone different. Niamh fought every instinct she had to smooth down her hair or adjust her skirts. Four days at sea, she was certain, had not been kind to her. She offered him her most winning smile. “That’s me.”
He took her traveling case from her, holding it as he might a wayward kitten by the scruff. “Well, then. I suppose you had better come with me.”
Copyright © 2023 by Allison Saft