[Wild Roses] revision of last, up to 821 words (from 370)
He could handle wrangling the King; he'd had a fair amount of practice. Wrangling the King's daughters--especially this one--was something else entirely.
He caught himself wondering if he should have asked one of the Princes, in the absence of the King, as he finished verbally sketching the needs and desires of the expedition. Because she was just looking up at him, feet invisible in early-summer green and gold skirts, very much not her father, or her father's now-vanished wife. Either of them would have interrupted him long since.
"I'm sorry," she said, and he failed to hear any hint of sincerity in the polite words, "no matter what diplomats are coded to wear there, I am not wearing that much black."
Wha--oh. The mage coding. Not something he normally had to take into account for foreign diplomacy. He dragged a hand down over his face, trying not to sigh, and when he looked down at the Princess again she had her chin propped in one hand, smiling faintly at him.
"I'm sure he'd have loved the chance to wear iron--but I'm not my father. We'd never be able to talk a tailor into it, anyway--I haven't the skin for black."
He was not going to sigh. Or yell at the princess--he was pretty sure she'd yell back, and louder.
"Pri--" he began, but cut himself off when she gestured to a chair, the flick of motion unmistakably learned from her mother.
"Sit. I don't want a crick in my neck while we're arguing about this."
He sat.
---
They settled, after a great deal of arguing, a round of tea--she served--and recruiting someone to fetch one of the better tailors to help them sketch ideas, on a wardrobe based in very dark greens and grays, highlighted with her more normal shades of green and gold in geometric patterns that meant little to both cultures.
She suggested a mix of soles, high and hard for when she was to be an ornament of someone else's court, soft for when she was speaking to a table of nobles. He weeded the jewelry the tailor added to the sketches down to a few sets of enameled earrings, with one spectacular set of dangling hoops to highlight her status as a member of another court. The tailor refused to sketch several necklines, one set as aping the menswear of the work she'd been shown, the other as too low for the princess' shoulders to carry off. Especially with the way she wore her hair.
The princess threw a crumpled sketch at the tailor, but didn't argue either assertion.
Come to think of it, he couldn't remember ever seeing the princess wear her hair other than the braid, draped across her neck. He'd assumed it was a hairstyle confined to the Keep and the city, something casual, but the tailor's sniping implied it was more than that. He wondered if it was her father's contrary streak surfacing.
She moved, not quite abruptly, draping the excess fabric of her skirt over one hand to hold it out of her way as she navigated the tangle of plates, paper and crumbs around their chairs. She was wearing shoes, he now saw, that looked like sturdy half boots. Not what he would have expected based on the skirt she wore with them, or the way she sat in a chair.
Pausing in the doorway, she half turned back to look at them. "Please confirm that our palette is an acceptable compromise to them as well as us, before the work is started?"
He blinked, then nodded, sketching a half-salute from his chair, that she acknowledged with her free hand before moving out of sight.
He opened his mouth, closed it again when the tailor raised a finger in a 'wait' gesture. A few minutes later, the tailor set down her sketchpad, picked up a cup of tea, and nodded. "Yes, she always wears it like that, no, no-one knows why, and yes, she is that stubborn. Her hearing's excellent, too."
She touched her temple with a knuckle. "Both senses of hearing, at that, and you're none too good at keeping your thoughts to yourself anyway." She snickered into her tea as he bristled. "Oh, you're probably fine to anyone who doesn't share the surname. But you look used to the King reading you, and that leaves a mark, trust me."
" . . You're not just a tailor, are you."
"Of course not." She grinned, pulling a red cord out from beneath her shirt. Where his markers were green, hers were gray, instead. "I'm one of the King's brother's. Je m'appelle Alaia--delighted to meet you."
"She knows?" He jerked a thumb towards the door, the path of the departed princess.
"She knows me as a tailor--I wouldn't bet on her not knowing, but she's never spoken to me as the other title." Alaia shrugged elaborately. "Until she does, we have our relationship."
He caught himself wondering if he should have asked one of the Princes, in the absence of the King, as he finished verbally sketching the needs and desires of the expedition. Because she was just looking up at him, feet invisible in early-summer green and gold skirts, very much not her father, or her father's now-vanished wife. Either of them would have interrupted him long since.
"I'm sorry," she said, and he failed to hear any hint of sincerity in the polite words, "no matter what diplomats are coded to wear there, I am not wearing that much black."
Wha--oh. The mage coding. Not something he normally had to take into account for foreign diplomacy. He dragged a hand down over his face, trying not to sigh, and when he looked down at the Princess again she had her chin propped in one hand, smiling faintly at him.
"I'm sure he'd have loved the chance to wear iron--but I'm not my father. We'd never be able to talk a tailor into it, anyway--I haven't the skin for black."
He was not going to sigh. Or yell at the princess--he was pretty sure she'd yell back, and louder.
"Pri--" he began, but cut himself off when she gestured to a chair, the flick of motion unmistakably learned from her mother.
"Sit. I don't want a crick in my neck while we're arguing about this."
He sat.
---
They settled, after a great deal of arguing, a round of tea--she served--and recruiting someone to fetch one of the better tailors to help them sketch ideas, on a wardrobe based in very dark greens and grays, highlighted with her more normal shades of green and gold in geometric patterns that meant little to both cultures.
She suggested a mix of soles, high and hard for when she was to be an ornament of someone else's court, soft for when she was speaking to a table of nobles. He weeded the jewelry the tailor added to the sketches down to a few sets of enameled earrings, with one spectacular set of dangling hoops to highlight her status as a member of another court. The tailor refused to sketch several necklines, one set as aping the menswear of the work she'd been shown, the other as too low for the princess' shoulders to carry off. Especially with the way she wore her hair.
The princess threw a crumpled sketch at the tailor, but didn't argue either assertion.
Come to think of it, he couldn't remember ever seeing the princess wear her hair other than the braid, draped across her neck. He'd assumed it was a hairstyle confined to the Keep and the city, something casual, but the tailor's sniping implied it was more than that. He wondered if it was her father's contrary streak surfacing.
She moved, not quite abruptly, draping the excess fabric of her skirt over one hand to hold it out of her way as she navigated the tangle of plates, paper and crumbs around their chairs. She was wearing shoes, he now saw, that looked like sturdy half boots. Not what he would have expected based on the skirt she wore with them, or the way she sat in a chair.
Pausing in the doorway, she half turned back to look at them. "Please confirm that our palette is an acceptable compromise to them as well as us, before the work is started?"
He blinked, then nodded, sketching a half-salute from his chair, that she acknowledged with her free hand before moving out of sight.
He opened his mouth, closed it again when the tailor raised a finger in a 'wait' gesture. A few minutes later, the tailor set down her sketchpad, picked up a cup of tea, and nodded. "Yes, she always wears it like that, no, no-one knows why, and yes, she is that stubborn. Her hearing's excellent, too."
She touched her temple with a knuckle. "Both senses of hearing, at that, and you're none too good at keeping your thoughts to yourself anyway." She snickered into her tea as he bristled. "Oh, you're probably fine to anyone who doesn't share the surname. But you look used to the King reading you, and that leaves a mark, trust me."
" . . You're not just a tailor, are you."
"Of course not." She grinned, pulling a red cord out from beneath her shirt. Where his markers were green, hers were gray, instead. "I'm one of the King's brother's. Je m'appelle Alaia--delighted to meet you."
"She knows?" He jerked a thumb towards the door, the path of the departed princess.
"She knows me as a tailor--I wouldn't bet on her not knowing, but she's never spoken to me as the other title." Alaia shrugged elaborately. "Until she does, we have our relationship."