The palace guards' halberds crossed with a metallic kiss as Drizella approached, their crimson uniforms a stark contrast against the morning mist. She adjusted the leather satchel containing her fabric samples, hyper-aware of the silver thimble's weight in her hidden pocket. She hadn't slept a wink since the cracked mirror in the vault had spoken her name last night. She had thrown a velvet drape over it and fled—some ancient mysteries simply had to wait when the Crown summoned. Don't touch the thimble. Not here. Not with so many eyes.
"State your business," the guard on the left demanded, his gaze lingering on the merchant's badge pinned to her collar.
"Drizella Tremaine. Expected by the royal seamstress." She produced the gilded summons, trying to ignore how her fingers still trembled from the previous night's magical backlash.
The courtyard buzzed with unusual activity. Servants scurried between columns like startled mice, while additional guards patrolled the upper balconies, their hands never far from their sword hilts. Something's changed since the warehouse. They're preparing for more than just a ball.
A steward materialized at her elbow, all stiff brocade and disapproving sniffs. "This way, Merchant Tremaine. Mind the new barriers."
Shimmering lines of salt traced geometric patterns across the marble floors, barely visible unless caught in the right light. Drizella's skin prickled as they crossed each threshold, the protection wards probing for magical signatures. They know something's wrong. But how much?
The grand staircase wound upward like a serpent's spine, each step worn smooth by centuries of aristocratic heels. Drizella counted them silently, mapping escape routes, noting which windows overlooked the gardens. The air grew thicker with the scent of beeswax and lavender as they ascended, mingled with something sharper – the bitter tang of fear-sweat and sleepless nights.
Three more guards stood outside the seamstress's wing, these wearing the midnight blue of the Queen's personal regiment. Their eyes tracked Drizella's every movement as the steward knocked on the workshop door.
Raised voices leaked through the heavy oak. "—impossible deadline! Even with twenty seamstresses working day and night—"
"The Queen expects—"
"I don't care what she expects! Silk doesn't bow to royal commands!"
The steward cleared his throat loudly. The voices cut off, followed by hurried shuffling. Perfect timing, Drizella thought, smoothing her expression into practiced neutrality. Let them be desperate.
Through a gap in the curtained windows, she glimpsed mountains of fabric – silks and velvets in impossible shades, half-finished gowns draped over mannequins like hollow-bodied ghosts. A flash of golden thread caught her eye, its pattern unnaturally precise. Fairy-spun. They're using fairy-spun thread. Her thimble burned cold against her skin.
The workshop door remained closed, but Drizella could hear someone approaching from inside, their steps quick and agitated. She reached for the brass handle, its surface worn to a dull sheen by countless anxious hands. Remember the plan. Show strength first, then vulnerability. Make her need you more than you need her.
Her fingers brushed the cool metal, and she hesitated for a fraction of a second. The thimble's chill spread up her arm like frost, as if warning her that once this door opened, there would be no turning back.
The royal seamstress's workshop smelled of beeswax and disappointment. Drizella's silver thimble burned cold against her palm as she followed a harried apprentice through towers of half-finished gowns, each more elaborate than the last. Fairy-spun thread glinted on mannequins, making her skin crawl. Even their simplest stitches reek of magic.
"Madame Elara will see you now," the apprentice mumbled, gesturing to a curved archway draped with measuring tapes.
Behind a massive oak desk drowning in sketches sat a woman who looked like she hadn't slept in days. Elara's fingers were bandaged, pricked countless times by enchanted needles. Her honey-blonde hair had escaped its pins, forming a frazzled halo around sharp features.
"Another merchant?" Elara's voice cracked, though Drizella caught the brief, conspiratorial flash in her partner's eyes. They had agreed Elara would infiltrate the royal workshops to gather intelligence, but the physical toll it was taking on the weaver was obvious. "I've seen seventeen fabric samples today. Unless you've brought me spun moonlight or woven starfire, I suggest—"
Drizella set her leather satchel on the desk with deliberate care, playing her part for the listening apprentices. "What I've brought," she said softly, "is something far more practical than fairy tricks." She withdrew a length of shimmer-silk, letting it pool between them like liquid mercury—the very batch they had secretly woven together in the underground warehouse.
Elara's fingers twitched, maintaining the charade perfectly. "That's... impossible. The threading pattern—"
"Is entirely mortal-made." Drizella leaned forward, pitching her voice low enough that only her spy could hear. "Now, what have you learned about the court's movements?"
The workshop's silence deepened. An apprentice dropped a pin three rooms away; it rang like a bell.
"Three gowns," Elara said finally, loudly enough for the room to hear. "Delivered in sections, payment in kind."
"Two bolts now, one upon receipt of useful—"