"Gracious," said Mendanbar, wrestling the huge crate from her father into the center of the room and peering at it from every angle. "Did he have to bring something so large?"
"You did turn down half his kingdom," Cimorene reminded him. "I imagine he felt he had to make up for that somehow."
"A souffle pan would have been adequate." Mendanbar settled on an angle of attack and began prying nails out of the crate "Or a spare crown. Or even a sword." The last nail popped out with rather more force than he had expected and went clattering across the floor. Only a hasty grab kept the crate's side from toppling as well. Mendanbar gently lowered it to the ground and peered inside. "Not—oh dear." When his face emerged from the crate, his nose was bright red, and the breath of his sigh briefly frosted the air. "Frost giant armor," he explained as he rubbed warmth back into his face. "Enchanted to keep it always cold, I suppose. What am I supposed to do with that?"
"Write it down," Cimorene said promptly, "so we don't forget it when we're writing thank-you letters."
"I suppose in summer we can use it to cool the larder," Mendanbar mused as he moved obediently toward the scroll on which they were keeping notes. "What do you have?"
"Something from my sisters." Cimorene shook the small box in her hands experimentally, but no rattling emerged. With a shrug, she opened it. The first thing she saw was a letter.
Dearest sister, it began in Fionella's wildly swirling hand.
We have pondered for some time what you might need. You are of course marrying a king—a king! Eliana instructs me to add that she always knew you could do better than Therandil—and so have little need for material comforts. Not that you've ever had much care for such things. I will always remember the caterwauling your maid made in the days after you vanished. "That poor thing," she wailed, again and again. "She's gone. Gone! And with naught from her chest but a handful of handkerchiefs."
Had you asked me at the time, I would have agreed that five handkerchiefs was entirely inadequate baggage. No gowns, no shoes, not even a brooch or ring! But you seem, we can see, to have done well enough. And so we bow to your superior understanding of packing, and hope our contributions will be useful on your next adventure.
Every sister had signed the letter, each with more flourishes than the previous one. Beneath it lay six carefully folded squares of silk. At first Cimorene saw only the brilliant colors—crimson, emerald, amethyst, teal, saffron, cerulean—but as she unfolded them, the embroidery resolved itself into patterns. The first handkerchief bore a pair of crossed swords; the second a wand and potion vial; the third a pile of plump cherries; the fourth a heap of gold coins; the fifth an unfurled scroll; and the sixth a series of juggler's balls. Cimorene didn't count, but she had a strong inkling that every one of the one hundred and forty-three embroidery stitches that she and her sisters had practiced during endless, boring lessons was represented on one handkerchief or another. She had thought they were too busy paying rapt attention to those lessons to notice her unauthorized excursions to other tutors. Apparently, she had been wrong.
"Those are certainly festive," Mendanbar said from behind her. "Perhaps too festive to use. And I understand most of them, but what are the circles on that last one?
"Of course they're not too festive to use," Cimorene said firmly, blowing her nose into one. If she also dabbed at her eyes a bit, Mendanbar was kind enough not to notice. "They're handkerchiefs. It's what they're for. And as to the circles, well." She balled up the handkerchief and reached for two more. "Did I ever tell you that when I was a child, I learned to juggle?"