A.N.: I saw a great quote that I feel needs sharing, especially in this fandom: "You can't judge a man's feminism by how he treats 'respectable', accomplished women. Judge it by how he treats the vulnerable, the slutty, the sex-workers, the women written off as disposable by society." Hmm…like women suffering from PTSD, or females who are physically mutilated, emotionally abused, worked to death and forced to endure pregnancy and childbirth? Wait a minute…
Another quote: "A feminist rule to live by is never judge a man based on how he treats women when they are coddling or praising him. Look closely at how a man reacts when a woman displeases him, stands up to him, or draws a boundary with him, and you will find out who he really is." Again, why does that remind me of someone?
A House of Flame and Flower
10
The Atelier
As soon as they were crossing the bridge and breathing the invigorating forest air again, Nesta laid a hand on Tamlin's arm. "Was it awful?"
"I'm a soldier, not an economist," Tamlin groaned, pinching his eyes.
"Nor do you need to be," Nesta said soothingly. "That's why you consult with Thamdael… Toret respects what you have done for the Spring Court's economy. He told me how awful things were after the Wall went up." Tamlin grumbled softly. "How is it that Toret praises you for rebuilding the economy rather than your father? Wasn't he still High Lord for a century after the Wall went up?"
"My father did nothing to help the Spring Court after the Slaves' Revolt ended," Tamlin said quietly. "His pride was too wounded by the loss of the war and the terms of the treaty. He was consumed with thoughts of vengeance, punishing Summer and Autumn for their part in stripping his lands from him… He was always vicious – our histories have rarely known a worse High Lord." Tamlin's eyes widened, his cheeks flushing, as if he could not believe he had openly criticised his father. Nesta noticed that he even glanced around hastily, as if imagining someone had overheard – and he was terrified that what he had said would be betrayed. From what Nesta had learned of Tamlin and his family, she knew he was still haunted by his father and brothers, still gripped by the terror they had inspired in him.
"Tamlin… When did we discuss you paying me a wage?" Nesta asked lightly. Tamlin glanced sharply at her.
"You do the work of a cook and a housekeeper," Tamlin said. "And more besides. I don't expect you to do it all for nothing. Now you can have the contents of your accounts in the Night Court transferred here." Nesta stiffened. He noticed. Frowning, Tamlin said quietly, "Rhysand cannot deny access to your gold, Nesta."
"I do not have an account in the Night Court… I was granted access to one of Rhysand's accounts," Nesta said stiffly. She hated that she had never had financial independence in Velaris, had chafed every time money was mentioned. Tamlin's eyes flashed. "I don't believe Feyre or Elain even realise just how vulnerable they have made themselves by relying on his wealth… It was just another way Rhysand tried to control me when I continued to challenge him. They didn't see that, though: Feyre accused me of abusing his generosity."
Tamlin sighed, shaking his head. "For their sakes, I hope your sisters never learn just how vulnerable they are," he said. They heard a roar and Tamlin smiled tautly as Nalleth's howdah appeared through the trees.
"Where are we going next, then, Arseling?" Nalleth asked as his drakosha hissed softly, wagging its tail.
"The Atelier," Tamlin said, and Nalleth nodded: Tamlin helped Nesta up onto the bench. They slipped back into the forest-city, taking paths over-ground and along the waterways, wherever Nalleth anticipated a build-up of traffic. Horses and palanquins were often used for transportation, as were direwolves, griffins and oliphants but drakosha were favoured for swift travel across the city due to their ability to swim and, Nesta learned, because they could not only navigate the earth and the water but they could clamber up tree-trunks with ease.
"I'm not sure about this," Nesta said, fighting the instinct to shut her eyes tight as the drakosha hissed, angled its great head upwards, and began to climb. The only thing between Nesta and a deathly plummet to the ground was the howdah lashed to the drakosha's back. "What is it about the Fae and sheer drops?"
"They're invigorating," Tamlin grunted. "Look about you, Nesta. The city changes dramatically as we go through the understory to the canopy." That was certainly true, and Nesta looked out across the city as they climbed. They left the shadowy forest-floor below, and from up here she had a better view of the intricate thoroughfares as they webbed across the rivers. As they rose through the understory, she got a better sense of just how big and how busy the city was, both underwater and on-land, and how often both cities merged together. Down below, most of the foot-traffic were mammalian or reptilian Fae: as the drakosha climbed higher, passing through a distinct understory with the tops of trees and fewer bridges, the city itself became brighter, the air sharper, more heavily perfumed by unusual flowers and intricate orchids that grew in profusion like chandeliers. As they entered the canopy, the traffic became mostly airborne, though she began to see intricate, beautiful spiral staircases winding up the trunks of those tremendous silver-grey sentinel trees. Winged Fae soared through the air, flitting from tree to tree between elaborate webs of balconies and landing-pads where these winged Fae alighted to enter homes and shops perched precariously on the lowest branches of the silver-grey trees.
"What are these trees called?" Nesta asked, peering closer at the foliage that gleamed in the sunlight streaming down.
"They are mellyrn trees," Tamlin said. "In all the world, they grow only in these sinkholes: even with the magic of the Gardens, nuts do not take. During the height of spring and summer, their leaves appear green from below but silver from above. In winter, they turn pure gold: they are not shed until the spring when the mellyrn trees flower."
"Now that is a sight all should see," Nalleth said, and Tamlin nodded fervently in agreement. The drakosha skittered from one great silver-grey tree to another by way of sinuous bridges overgrown with ferns and chandeliers of intricate orchids, and the sheer size of the trees was put into perspective for Nesta as she peered down and saw one of the widest river basins, a mere silver coin glimmering far below.
"This is the oldest mellyrn tree in the forest," Tamlin said, a touch of pride in his voice. Peering down, Nesta could see that the ancient river forked around it, encircling it with wide basins of crystal-clear teal-blue water that showed districts of the underwater city teeming with Fae. The forest-floor at the foot of this oldest mellyrn tree was built up, tumbling to the water's edge, where quays had been erected over the water, boasting eateries, dance-halls, homes and warehouses. In one particular section of the river, Nesta could see that thousands of boats, canoes, howdahs and floating stands had gathered.
"What's that?" she asked curiously.
"The floating market," Tamlin said, his eyes glowing warmly. "We'll explore it later, if you'd like."
"The Atelier!" Nalleth declared, as the drakosha skittered off the trunk of the mellyrn tree, alighting on a vertical landing-pad that seemed devoted specifically to drakosha: more of them were resting in patches of sunlight while their drivers smoked pipes and drank amethyst drinks at small tables by a hole-in-the-wall bar. As Nesta climbed down, Nalleth asked Tamlin, "How long d'you need?"
Tamlin nodded his head toward Nesta. "I want to take Nesta for dinner."
"Right'o," Nalleth nodded. "Send a sprite when you need me. Enjoy." The drakosha hissed in complaint, gazing yearningly at the other drakosha who were being fed giant grubs. Nalleth clicked his tongue and the drakosha roared in response, grumbling.
"Why did you want us to travel with Nalleth through the city?" Nesta asked curiously.
"It's the only way to truly experience the city," Tamlin said, shrugging. "Also, I needed to check in with Nalleth. He's useful: he hears things other people don't."
"You mean like with the bounty-hunter?" Nesta said.
"Oh, everyone will be hearing about that before long," Tamlin muttered darkly. "But yes, in his line of work, Nalleth meets so many people, overhears so many conversations, it's always worth it to check in with him."
"So, where are we now, then?" Nesta asked, and Tamlin smiled.
"This is the Atelier," he said. "Couturiers, jewellers, furniture-makers, chocolatiers, artists and sculptors, architects and gardeners, some of the finest creative minds in the world have their workshops here." Nesta was reminded of the Rainbow, and even as she did so, the thought brought a subtle sneer to her lips: it had nothing on the beauty of the Atelier. Intricate, arched staircases wrapped around the trunk of the mellyrn tree, with occasional landing-pads and balconies that led to the external entrances to different shops and emporiums. But Tamlin did not lead her to the staircases, which glowed with ethereal light, and her legs thanked him for it. Instead, he led her into the mellyrn tree. It was so enormous that great avenues had been carved out of the silvery wood, lined with buildings with high, pointed arches.
"Tamlin…is that a garden?" Nesta asked, her lips parting in wonder.
"It is a garden," he confirmed, smiling, as Nesta stared at a garden exclusively of thousands of varieties of orchids.
"Isn't it stunning?" she breathed, itching to go and sit on one of the cushioned benches and just admire the beautiful flowers. "A garden inside a tree, in a rainforest inside a mountain." She shook her head and stared at Tamlin, who was smiling indulgently.
"You can come back later," Tamlin said, glancing from Nesta to the garden. He turned to check a large timepiece hanging over a particularly grand shopfront. Nesta noticed that none of the establishments had glass windows: the archways that sectioned off individual establishments instead featured plinths on which examples of their wares were displayed, but everything was open. Everything felt as light and airy as possible: soft golden light suffused everything, too. It gave everything an aura of lightness and delicacy and timeless beauty.
"Where to first?" Nesta asked brightly, itching to explore the displays. "Where to first?"
"The jeweller," Tamlin said, and he offered his hand almost subconsciously before striding ahead through the crowds. The streets of the Atelier were busy with different Fae than Nesta had seen before – different in their obvious wealth. And the higher up the Atelier they travelled, by sinuous spiral staircases strung with fae-lights, the wealthier the patrons became, until Nesta's back was ramrod straight, meeting the disdainful eyes of any Fae who sneered at her homemade wool dress with pure challenge. They passed cocktail-bars and sweet-shops, furniture-makers and chocolatiers, restaurants and jewellers, cafés and specialist liquor shops, model-makers, couturiers – many of these, each display more elaborate and beguiling than the last, as if the designers had agreed amongst themselves to try to outdo each other – art galleries and sculptors' studios, toymakers, perfumers, painters' workshops and the Architects' Guild, indicated by an exquisite diorama of the Atelier itself, luthiers, bookbinders, brewers, carpet weavers, glaziers, milliners, textile weavers, countless jewellers, games-makers and exclusive artists' supply shops, and more besides. Throughout the Atelier there were beautiful gardens filled with examples of the crafts-people's work – statues and furniture, exquisite follies – and Nesta learned that even the gardens themselves were showrooms of the Landscapers' Guild.
"The gardens change with every season," Tamlin said, "on a rotation, so that each landscape architect has opportunity to share their talents… They're half the reason I come to the Atelier so often."
"Do you hire them to design more gardens at the palace?" Nesta asked. Tamlin shifted uncomfortably.
"I have never commissioned new gardens," he admitted. "They are as…as my mother left them."
"What are the other reasons you come here so often?" Nesta asked, understanding that Tamlin did not wish to dwell on his mother, or why he hadn't altered her gardens since her death. It was so rare to hear of Tamlin indulging in anything that it struck her as important that he visited the city so often, for no other reason than because he wished to.
"There is a sheet-music shop," Tamlin murmured. "And a bakery that makes a gooseberry tart." Nesta smiled at the way he said gooseberry tart, as if he could taste it at that very moment.
"Perhaps we should visit the bakery before we return home," Nesta said, and Tamlin's eyes widened subtly. She was aware she had called his rundown palace home. But it felt more like her home than any of the places she had lived in since leaving the cottage. "I'm curious what delicacies are popular here."
They reached a calmer part of the Atelier, very high up in the mellyrn tree, with fewer customers meandering about. The displays were more subtle, too, and Nesta almost mistook the shop Tamlin led her to as a florist: nestled on a velvet cushion on top of a plain marble plinth was a basket of dainty flowers – the same kind she had admired in the Warrens. She thought they were a distant relative of wild candelabra primroses, though they had a delicious scent and their petals rang like glass chimes whenever they jostled against each other in the breeze. The lack of scent made Nesta realise that in fact the flowers were not real: they were made of a stunning lavender-tinted rose-quartz, citrines and yellow diamonds, balanced on delicate stems of gold and platinum, the lush chocolate-green foliage made of enamel, the veins of the leaves inlaid with old gold with an iridescent purple sheen. There were even dewdrops on the petals and leaves made of diamond. The basket in which the stems of primroses were arranged was made of gold filigree and enamel.
"How stunning!" Nesta gasped, peering closer but daring not even to breathe on the jewel. The entire basket would have nestled comfortably in the palm of Tamlin's hand. As the fae-lights glowed, the precious stones glittered, the gold gleaming. It was a breath-taking piece of art. "It is made entirely of jewels and precious metals! Look at the hue of those citrines – and the cut of the diamonds is extraordinary. I wonder what it is called."
"You can ask," Tamlin said, striding through an archway into a surprisingly small but exquisitely furnished shop. A rich carpet softened their footfalls: there were wall-to-wall cabinets each softly illuminated by fae-lights that moved to ensure the jewels nestled on velvet cushions sparkled brilliantly from every angle. A High Fae male in a silk waistcoat glanced up from a cabinet as they entered.
"My Lord," he said, bowing deeply. He didn't seem at all taken aback at Tamlin being so casually dressed. Neither he nor Nesta were dressed as if they should have been anywhere near this place. The Fae locked the cabinet carefully before tucking the key in his waistcoat pocket and approaching them. He bowed courteously to Nesta. "Welcome. Did I hear the young lady admiring the perfume case?"
"Nesta's rather taken with it," Tamlin said, smiling.
"It's a perfume case?" Nesta asked, and the jeweller led her excitedly back to the display. With his fingertip he carefully lifted one of the leaves, which turned out to be a lever. The flowers started trembling: they rang like glass bells as the mahogany-obsidian encrusted base on which they were arranged rose up out of the gold basket, revealing three small bottles of perfume. She recognised the elegant labels from a perfumer they had passed earlier. Nesta smiled at the jeweller. "I see the flowers do have scent, after all. It's exquisite."
"I shall be sure to pass on your compliments to the designer," the jeweller smiled. "This is my apprentice's first solo creation."
"It has certainly earned pride of place," Tamlin said warmly. "It attests to your skills as a teacher. You are both to be congratulated." The Fae bowed, evidently very pleased.
"I have the designs you commissioned, my lord," the Fae said, gesturing them to an elegant chaise and several dainty chairs all set around a low round table, on which several velvet boxes rested. "Would you care for a refreshment?"
"None for myself, thank you," Tamlin said politely. "Nesta?"
"Something cold, if you wouldn't mind?" Nesta said. She was beginning to feel rather dehydrated from travelling about the city and climbing through the Atelier.
"Nesta has a particular taste for elderflower, Adomal," Tamlin said quietly, and the Fae smiled. Nesta glanced at Tamlin, surprised he had noticed: she truly did adore elderflower.
"Please, take a seat," he said. "I shall return momentarily."
"You can sit," Nesta told Tamlin, as Adomal disappeared through a hidden door in the panelling of the back wall. "I'm going to go and admire all these works of art!"
"I'm sure Adomal would prefer that," Tamlin said, groaning as he went to the chaise and sat, stretching his legs out before him. It struck Nesta how out of his element Tamlin seemed in this place – he was too large, too natural. He was what he was, without any polish: he was an uncut gem. His true worth remained hidden. She saw Tamlin smile to himself every time she forgot herself and gasped and sighed at the beauty of the jewels. In no time at all, Adomal had returned, a silver tray following him in mid-air. Nesta scented elderflower in the air and smiled as she joined Tamlin on the chaise as Adomal poured her a glass of chilled cordial.
"Now," Adomal smiled, sighing contentedly as he sat opposite them. "When first we met to discuss this commission, we decided upon a design for your High Lord's Order. We have completed each of them. But for the new Order of the Triumvirate, you favoured three designs, if you remember?"
"Barely," Tamlin admitted grimly. Adomal chuckled.
"Appreciative as you have always been of my craft, my lord, I know how little passion you have for jewels," Adomal said, and Tamlin gave him an apologetic look. Adomal chuckled and produced three designs, each exquisitely coloured and neatly annotated, and spread them before Tamlin. Nesta peered at them, intrigued. "You could not decide which you preferred and commissioned us to create prototypes of each, to be able to explore them yourself. I am happy to say they have each turned out beautifully, though I do not think you will find it easier to choose a design you favour above the others."
Adomal reached for the first of the velvet boxes, which was the smallest of the lot. He unfastened the closure and opened the box. "The Order of Tamas Lin, my lord," Adomal said, and Nesta glanced quickly at Tamlin as he tensed. He had leaned forward, frowning at the contents of the velvet box as Adomal slid it toward him. Nesta realised that it was a medal. Nestled on the fawn-coloured velvet lining was a miniature portrait of Tamlin, watercolour painted onto the finest porcelain, trimmed with brilliant-cut diamonds. Above the oval portrait was a gold miniature of Tamlin's bestial form, antlers and all. The Order itself was mounted on a ribbon of watered mint-green silk.
Something about the Order had upset Tamlin: the sight of his own portrait seemed to have calmed him, though. Nesta peered at it, just as Tamlin said, "I had forgotten that I sat for this new portrait."
"A very fine portrait," Adomal said. "If I may say, my lord…it is very honest." The Tamlin of the miniature was dressed in elegant, unfussy clothing in hues of pale green, emerald, dove-grey and fawn, and Nesta noticed that he wore his hair at shoulder-length rather than long, as it had been when Feyre first met him. The expression on his face was honest, as Adomal had said. Nesta believed the artist had somehow managed to capture Tamlin's truest nature: grim and weary but warm. Adomal opened the other three velvet jewellery cases.
"Now, I am afraid, you must choose the Order of the Triumvirate," Adomal said, smiling, and Nesta sighed at the jewels.
She sighed dreamily, "That one –"
"The middle one," Tamlin nodded at the same time: they both gazed at the middle jewel. This second medal was larger than the first, and styled after the shape of a daffodil, with six pointed petals surrounding a raised corona. The Order was made entirely of diamonds, citrines, yellow diamonds and vibrant enamel, red-gold filigree and platinum. In the very heart of the medal, within the frilled red-gold edges of the corona inlaid with citrines and topazes, was a perfect circle of ochre enamel inlaid with something in gold filigree. Around the outside of the corona, inlaid in platinum, were the words Protector of the Realm.
"Is that a crown?" Nesta asked, indicating the gold filigree inside the corona.
"A mask," Tamlin murmured, his tone heavy. Nesta froze, realising just what the mask represented. She wondered why Tamlin had chosen to commemorate Amarantha's reign of terror in such a way.
"I have the silk sashes for you to choose from," Adomal said, unfurling several lengths of watered silk in vibrant jewel tones. Tamlin glanced at Nesta.
"Would you help me choose?" Tamlin asked Nesta.
"What are the sashes for?"
"The sash is to be worn from shoulder to hip, with the Order of the Triumvirate pinned at the hip. The Order of Tamas Lin – my High Lord's Order – is worn on the left shoulder. Both Orders shall be worn for formal, court occasions," Tamlin said.
"Shall be? Are they not already?"
"I have just created the Order of the Triumvirate," Tamlin said, sighing softly. "All retired members of the Triumvirate will be inducted into the Order… But these medals shall be unique."
"Because of the mask," Nesta murmured. "And the wording?"
"For five decades, my Triumvirate ruled the territories on my behalf," Tamlin said softly. "In that time, they were the true protectors of this realm. The Order of Tamas Lin is the highest honour I can bestow upon them… At the Tithe, when they retire their positions, I will announce the creation of the Order of the Triumvirate and induct the former representatives into the Order. They shall be the first – and the greatest… They are everything future Triumvar representatives should aspire to be."
Nesta helped Tamlin choose the colour of the sash – vibrant teal-blue watered silk – and modelled the Orders for Tamlin to see. He needed to see them, as they would be worn. Adomal pinned the sash over her shoulder, the daffodil-shaped Order heavy at her hip and sparkling magnificently with every movement, and Tamlin stood to carefully secure the Order of Tamas Lin in its proper place at her left shoulder. He stepped back, frowning at the two jewels and the vibrant sash.
"Ah, they look very handsome together," said Adomal, nodding fervently. "You were right about the teal-blue, my lady: it does indeed lead the eye to the jewel."
"Will every member of the current Triumvar be inducted into the Order of Tamas Lin?" Nesta asked curiously, and Tamlin nodded, still frowning sternly, thinking.
"Yes, though I reserve the right to strip them of the Order at my pleasure," he said. "Or rather, at my displeasure."
"And the Order of the Triumvirate?" she asked.
"Yes. I have created the Order to honour those who provided a great service to the Spring Court and all its people. But the designation as 'Protector of the Realm' will be bestowed only on the Fae who served in the Triumvar during Amarantha's reign, to set them apart from all those members who will come after."
"It sets a precedent, though," Nesta mused, "that future High Lords and Ladies may bestow the honour of 'Protector of the Realm' if they feel it has been earned."
"The Triumvar went above and beyond what I could ever have asked or hoped from them," Tamlin said quietly. He reached out and touched the Order of the Triumvirate resting at her hip. "I hope there is never a time when I must put them in such a position again."
"They would do it again," Nesta said, gazing back at Tamlin, "without you ever having to ask. Those are the type of Fae your people have voted to represent them. People who devote their lives to others without asking anything in return. They will be humbled by this."
"Not nearly as humbled as I am by them," Tamlin said quietly.
While Tamlin discussed the fine details of the designs – and settled the delicate matter of cost – with Adomal, Nesta wandered around the shop, admiring the jewels. Diamond tiaras glittered dazzlingly and her heart sank into her stomach, the mesmerising glitter reminding her of her mother. She was quiet as they left the shop: it had been a long time since she allowed herself to indulge in thinking of her mother. Because thinking about her hurt and no-one cared to let her have a moment to herself to miss her: there was always something else that she had to do, for Feyre, for Father, for Elain.
"What's next on your list?" Nesta murmured, as they wandered the polished silver streets of the Atelier.
"I've an appointment with the tailor," Tamlin grumbled. Twenty minutes later, Nesta understood why he grimaced with discomfort. And she appreciated just how quickly Tamlin's patience wore thin when he was in a position where he felt uncomfortable. Standing in fussy formal attire while a half-dozen tailors pinned and prodded, measured and poked, Nesta watched Tamlin's body-language, the way he clenched his hands and closed his eyes, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he ground his teeth, the way his chest rose and felt shallowly and how he seemed to be trying to stifle flinches every time someone touched him.
It was a stark contrast to how he was with her: he sought out her touch, was soothed by it. Bedecked in ornate finery that looked absolutely absurd on him, tailors swarming around him, Tamlin was far from calm.
Nesta frowned from her perch on a dainty little chaise, set down the refreshment she had been supplied with and stood up. In a clear, stern voice, she said, "Please leave us." The tailors glanced at her but not one of them protested. It was the voice she used with the children she used to teach, with servants who bickered amongst themselves, with Rhysand's favourites who thought they could walk all over her. It was the tone of voice no-one dared argue with. Left alone in the airy, private chamber lined with mirrors, Tamlin let out a long breath. She watched the tension slowly drift from his body as she approached him.
"Thank you," he muttered. He peeked his eyes open and Nesta saw the stark gleam in them, the thinly-veiled panic that had been rising since the moment the tailors appeared. She realised that while he was soothed by her touch, Tamlin was on edge, panicking, as the tailors fussed over him. She realised that it was because they were male.
To put him at ease, she sighed, shaking her head, and swept her eyes over the overly ornate surcoat they had trussed him up in, velvet heavily embroidered with gold and intricate beading that glimmered with light and lace, braided cord and elaborate clasps that were impossibly fiddly to undo. She caught his eye and said plainly, "You look ridiculous."
Tamlin's eyes closed but his fangs flashed in the light as he laughed. The tension in his shoulders disappeared as he laughed, the crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes, and Nesta smiled, satisfied that he was no longer on the edge. She sighed, though, gazing at the surcoat he was wearing.
"Is this court dress?" she asked.
"It's the fashion," Tamlin told her gloomily. She crinkled her nose.
"Fashions change. Style is eternal," she told him. She sighed, shaking her head. "Why do you suffer to wear these clothes? You're so uncomfortable in them it hurts to look at you."
"Thousands of hours of work go into these garments," Tamlin said awkwardly.
"They are works of art," Nesta acknowledged, "but they are utterly wasted on you if you do not enjoy them."
"If I –"
"What is it?" Nesta prompted quietly.
"Everything I do has consequences, even if it is seemingly a small thing," Tamlin said regretfully. "If I appear at court wearing something different, it has a detrimental effect on the textile industry, on people's lives."
"That is true," Nesta said. "Whatever you do, Tamlin, some people will dislike your decisions and some will be adversely affected by them. I think you're painfully aware of that fact – but you're allowing it to dictate your decisions. Challenge is how we grow: how quickly we learn to adapt is how we survive."
"Creative ways to endure," Tamlin murmured to himself, and Nesta smiled. He remembered what she had said when they first arrived.
"You can't survive this way," Nesta told him gently. He raised those haunted emerald eyes to hers, his shoulders drooping slightly. She raised a hand and rested it on his chest, feeling it rise and fall with his calming breaths. He closed his eyes, grounded and soothed by her touch. She reached up, touching his cheek, and went to the door. The owner of the shop, the head designer, waited beyond it, visibly fretful.
"We will require one female tailor to remove the garments from Lord Tamlin," she said sternly. "Please bring a sketchbook and your finest silks, wool, leather and suede: I shall dictate the design of the garments you shall create to best suit Lord Tamlin."
"Yes, my lady," the owner bowed, startled, and within twenty minutes, Tamlin was free of the monstrous surcoat and Nesta sat with the head designer. Tamlin sat beside Nesta, his thigh pressed against hers, loosely holding her hand as he watched a talented female tailor cut muslin mock-ups to pin to mannequins. They were surrounded by swatches of fabrics but Nesta's presence had emboldened Tamlin to reject most, in favour of the colours and textures he preferred. Nesta had helped him and the designer come to a middle-ground between the flamboyance expected of formal court-dress and Tamlin's personal, sensible style, mostly through the use of luxurious fabrics like silk, leather and suede and custom-designed embellishments that were as practical as they were intricate. The court-dress that had been in fashion for centuries was stripped back to the basic shapes and tailored to Tamlin's practical tastes.
The female tailor – a six-armed Fae with indigo skin and fluttering iridescent wings – approached Tamlin with the first handful of formals outfit Nesta had designed, claiming it ready to be fitted. Nesta blinked, and recalled that she was dealing with the Fae. What took humans weeks could be accomplished in a heartbeat with the aid of magic.
"Nesta…while I'm being fitted, I'd like you to go to a couturier," Tamlin said quietly, and Nesta glanced at him. "I'd…like you to commission a dress."
"I don't need a new dress, Tamlin," Nesta said. She recalled the small pile of sovereigns and silvers in her new bank vault and felt suddenly flustered. "At least not the kind I'd buy in the Atelier."
"I would like to gift it to you," Tamlin said gently. He looked slightly flushed, as if he was uncomfortable. "There shall be formal dinners coming up… I would like you to join me."
Nesta tensed. "I don't think that would be appropriate."
"Do you worry your presence here will be betrayed to the Night Court?" he murmured, frowning.
"No," Nesta said honestly, realising, "I couldn't care less whether they know where I am or not. I no longer concern myself with them."
"Then why your hesitation?" Tamlin asked, frowning gently.
"I am acutely aware of what happened the last time an Archeron sister was here in the Spring Court," Nesta said crisply, and Tamlin's expression softened to a smile.
"Nesta… If my people know anything, they know a self-absorbed child was used to our advantage when she had the arrogance to believe she could overturn our Court," Tamlin said. He winced uncomfortably. "Your presence will not provoke people to anger. If anything, they will be embarrassed on your behalf, that your sister was so easily manipulated."
"Well, that makes me feel better," Nesta huffed, scowling to hide her mortification. Tamlin grimaced apologetically.
"Nesta… I would like you to join me at these dinners," he said quietly. "And I would like to gift you some new gowns. I know you – "
"What?" she frowned.
"I know how much you value your independence, being self-sufficient," Tamlin said carefully. "Please understand that when I offer you something, I do not expect anything from you in return."
"Except to join you at dinner."
"If you do not wish to join us, I will force you to," Tamlin said. "All the same, I would like to make a gift of new gowns."
"Thamdael told you spend money, didn't he?" Nesta said shrewdly, her eyes narrowing. Tamlin glanced quickly at her, a whisper of a guilty smile on his lips.
"I'm the wealthiest person in the Spring Court but I am not allowed to funnel my money into the economy or risk hyperinflation," Tamlin grumbled. "I am neither permitted to give my money away nor can I spend it fast enough to make any discernible difference." He glanced at Nesta, his frustration simmering down. "But that has nothing to do with me gifting you new gowns, Nesta."
"Oh no?" she prompted.
"I just wanted…"
"What?"
Tamlin sighed, his broad shoulders slumping. "I just wanted to do something nice for you, that's all."
Nesta stared at him, something softening inside. "I appreciate the gesture, Tamlin. I really do. But I have no need for couture gowns."
"Then what would you like?" Tamlin asked, his face open and earnest.
"I don't need anything," Nesta said.
"That's not what I asked," Tamlin said gently, and Nesta bristled when he asked, "When was the last time you indulged in something purely because you wanted it?"
She flushed, her hands twisting in her lap, because…she couldn't remember. And she was embarrassed. Had he not provided the wealth that had changed their lives, taken them from the village, had ensured that their lives were filled with ease?
"I… I don't know," she snapped eventually, flushing hotly. "I…" She gulped and glanced at Tamlin, who waited patiently. "I spent years – years…prioritising what we needed over what I wanted so that my family could survive. I knew – I knew – that it could all be taken away in a heartbeat. All of it. But my sisters…they had to be indulged, every now and then, or they never would have… I always thought it should have been me who found it harder to go without, as I was older, I was accustomed to certain things… They missed the things but I – "
She broke off, her throat burning, closed off with emotion. It wasn't the things she had yearned for.
"You miss your mother," Tamlin said softly, gazing at her.
Nesta sniffed harshly, back ramrod straight, and shoved her fingers over her eyes. "It certainly does no-one any good to weep over the dead – least of all me. We've too much to get done."
"There's time," Tamlin said quietly, gazing at her.
"I do not have the luxury of time to put myself back together were I to fall apart," she told him hoarsely, then bristled, realising. Had she not broken under the weight of all she had been carrying, all these years, compounded by the mistreatment of Feyre's favourites, the toll of the war and her part in it? She had shattered.
She hadn't realised that she was still trying to put herself back together.
"It doesn't matter," Nesta said, almost beseeching, desperate to distract Tamlin, distract herself, from the truth. "My father… My father never talked about her and my sisters – my sisters couldn't even remember her. Even as she wasted away before our eyes…Elain had her flowers and her embroidery. Feyre…she didn't care about anything except getting her way, no matter what it was. She was so wild… She was wilful and horrible and Mama couldn't…she was so ill…" Nesta bristled. She blinked through hazy eyes at Tamlin and her heart sank, understanding sweeping through her. He wished to do something kind.
She sagged under the weight of that realisation. Devastated by her own behaviour, Nesta murmured, "I am sorry that I have been rude, Tamlin. It…it is a kind gesture. I will take it in the spirit that it is intended." Miserable, she leaned in and gave him a tender kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for the dress."
Tamlin seemed to sense how fragile Nesta felt, how raw. She had revealed more than she ever had to anyone, more than she would ever wish to – she wasn't sure why. But something about their conversation had brought to light the simple truth: Nesta had never struggled to adapt to financial poverty. But she had been denied the right to mourn her mother as long as she put her family's survival and their emotional wellbeing above her own needs.
What she had missed most of all had never been wealth. How often had she gone without so that Feyre or Elain could buy something they wanted, something Nesta knew they needed to cope emotionally with the toll of their poverty? Paints for Feyre so their home could be filled with the colour she had so craved – the grandeur that had been stripped from their lives – and a bow to provide her with the sense of purpose Nesta knew she needed in order to thrive. Elain's expensive flowering plants and the silk embroidery-thread she needed, the last remnant of dainty, pretty things Father used to spoil her with. What about the toll it had taken, denying Father stronger and stronger doses of his medicine, even when he begged for it? Even when her sisters begged for it. She had denied him relief to keep him alive.
What she had missed most of all, yearned for with every waking moment, was her mother. For the beautiful life she had once taken such care to create for her.
Mama would have gently scolded Nesta for throwing Tamlin's generosity in his face.
But then she had also never lived with the same dread Nesta had become accustomed to: that indulgence was fatal.
"There are lots of couturiers you can go to," Tamlin said gently, "but – wait, Nesta…sit with me for a moment. You're…very pale."
If he could hear her heartbeat thrumming like a hummingbird's, he did not let on. She clenched her hands as they shook and focused on her breathing rather than the sudden, intolerable wash of sensation – of too-bright lights and vivid colours, of the tailors' perfume, of the sound of customers beyond the tailor's milling about, chatting and laughing and clueless to Nesta in a dressing-room struggling to catch her breath, flinching at the onslaught and battling the overwhelming urge to break down sobbing at the thought of her mother, of how ungrateful her sisters had grown up to be, of her own desperate loneliness… Tamlin's hand was warm and heavy as he rubbed her back, heavy and grounding, soothing. She peeked at him through her lashes, found herself focusing on his chest, willing herself to match his slow, calm breaths. She had soothed him when he was on the edge: now, he coaxed her away from the precipice.
"Thank you," she whispered, as the world around her gentled.
"Do you need me to take you home?" Tamlin asked softly. Nesta pondered the question for a long time. She hadn't had one of her funny turns in a while yet she knew it was not the city itself that had set her off. It was…Nesta herself. Her memories. And she had decided over that deliciously rich, savoury dish of ragu and tagliatelle that she would not let her memories dictate her life.
"No," she said hoarsely.
"Let's go and have something to eat," Tamlin said concernedly.
"No," Nesta said firmly, aware that her hand shook as she reached for his. She shook her head. "You'll only have to return at another time. Get it over with now… I'll explore the Atelier and find a couturier to design me a gown."
Tamlin sighed. "Fine," he allowed, though he still looked concerned, frowning deeply at her. "I'll come and find you, and we can go to a café after."
"I'd like that," Nesta said honestly. Still shaky, she left Tamlin in the tailor's dressing-room, with the female tailor already pinning waistcoats and breeches. He was calmer with just the one tailor, who worked diligently and assessed with her eyes before touching him, so that the only time she touched him was when absolutely necessary.
Nesta wandered the silver streets of the Atelier, awed by bookbinders, mesmerised by the scents pouring out of a perfumery, entranced by an exquisite display of high-heeled shoes that eclipsed the displays of any couturier's she had yet seen. Yet even the shoemaker's display could not entice her the way the Dyers' Guild did. From the polished floors to the soaring double-high ceilings, the walls of the emporium were packed with yarn. Every fibre in existence, every colour beyond her imagining. The grand emporium was sectioned off with different dyers' products but each area flowed into the next and polished counters were dotted about amidst displays and sitting-areas. The floors were stocked with displays and samples, with books and kits and bags and everything anyone could ever need to enjoy creating things with yarn. She sighed and made her way slowly along each wall, yearning to take down hank after hank. She couldn't stop herself from reaching out to touch everything, drawn to the colours, yearning for the softness, her fingers aching to create. An entire section of the emporium was dedicated solely to knitting-needles and crochet-hooks – of every size, catering to every kind of Fae, in every material she could dream of, and some she couldn't.
When was the last time you indulged in something purely because you wanted it? Tamlin had asked her. She honestly could not recall any time when she had indulged for herself, for the sake of it.
She had a wage now. Tamlin had used magic to send her banking box to the palace, so she wouldn't be encumbered by it as they explored the city. She didn't trust that she had the skill to send it to the palace without destroying it on the journey. Yet she knew how much money was in her vault, to the last seed. She could directly transfer funds with only her thumbprint.
And she gave herself permission to buy something for herself.
It felt…wrong. Knowing that she was living in Tamlin's home without paying rent of any kind, living off the fruits of his lands, it felt wrong even to consider purchasing yarn and a crochet-hook for herself because she wanted them, for no other reason than that they were beautiful.
You need mittens and you wanted to make something for Antares, she reminded herself. She could justify purchasing the crochet-hook for herself – just the one, as she could find none in the various sewing-boxes in the palace – but if she was to make something for another person, she didn't need to excuse purchasing the yarn. Didn't have to feel guilty about poring over the yarns, searching for the warmest fibre she could find.
"Can I help you find something special?" someone asked kindly. Flustered, Nesta glanced around. Her breath caught in her lungs. She still wasn't used to the stranger Fae. She froze but hid her initial alarm as an arachnoid Fae smiled back at her, eight black eyes and fangs gleaming in the light. She was proud of herself for not physically recoiling and flinging herself back into the cases filled with hanks of yarn to get as far away from the Fae as possible, though every instinct in her told her to be wary.
Nesta blinked quickly and pulled herself together. She scolded herself silently, Spiders never bothered you! But those eyes and those long, sinuous legs took some getting used to. "I – I apologise," she said, realising she had been staring. "I… I would like to purchase a crochet-hook and some yarn but I…" She had conditioned herself never to indulge, never to spend money except on what her family needed to survive. She never spent money on herself for the sake of it: anything she bought for herself, she knew would eventually pass to her sisters. Even her dresses, she had thought of what Elain or Feyre would need out of them after she had passed them on. Everything had been made of durable fabrics, modest in cut so they could be altered and in neutral colours that neither of her sisters could object to. The Fae smiled gently and waited. "I cannot spend much money on the yarn."
She could not stomach the idea of spending money on expensive yarn for the sake of her enjoyment in crocheting with it. No matter how much she yearned to explore all those beautiful hanks of yarn.
The arachnoid Fae smiled indulgently. "We have some very beautiful, very affordable yarns, of course," she said, in a soothing and melodic voice that calmed Nesta down almost instantly. "These yarns are our pride and joy, of course, hand-dyed and made of the most sumptuous fibres we can find. They make for the most vibrant displays and coax our customers in, as they did you. But we keep yarn suited to the everyday needs of our clients here." Nesta focused not on the Fae's eight legs but on the yarns by her side as she was led further into the emporium, to a large and airy section filled with yarns of every colour and variation, with displays of pattern books and garments and all sorts of little bits and bobs. She stifled a shiver as another of the arachnoid Fae climbed the wall with ease to retrieve hanks of a particular yarn for a customer waiting far below, sending the hanks down on an almost invisible thread. She retrieved the rejected hanks on the same thread, returning them to their proper places as the customer pointed to another cubby of hanks. "Here we are. Our most affordable yarns: we are proud to offer the same range of colours and fibres as our more expensive lines," the Fae smiled, gesturing around with one of her long legs. "If you need anything else, please don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you," Nesta said, only slightly disappointed to be turning her back on the luxurious hand-dyed yarns arranged so beguilingly at the front of the emporium. One day, she thought. One day, when she had saved up enough money… To do what, she didn't know. She explored the vast array of yarns, finding herself overwhelmed. Eventually, she called Rachniz back to help her: because she was unfamiliar with some of the fibres, and what would be warm for some Fae would do nothing for her. Rachniz helped refine her choice of fibres and Nesta had to mentally coach herself to choose a colour she liked. She didn't have to consider Elain or Feyre or whether they would like the colour. She chose a fluffier, warmer yarn in rich topaz to make a pair of mittens out of for herself. Thinking of the practical side of gifting a fledgling that lived in a stable with a blanket, she chose a heavier, soft dove-grey yarn to make a blanket for Antares. Rachniz helped her calculate how many hanks of yarn she would need to make the blanket and took all of the yarn to the polished counter so that Nesta could continue exploring the emporium. She was intrigued by the pattern-books dotted about on displays. She knew she lacked the cultural capital to appreciate the significance of the designs – even the choice of motifs for stitch-markers or why certain patterns were popular.
She could have spent hours there, exploring the yarns, the books. She could have spent ages vacillating over which crochet-hook to purchase – there were so many, each of them exquisite pieces of art in themselves. She sighed, yearning for a set of beautiful hooks the colour of palest whipped honey that seemed to emit their own soft golden light.
"They were created to facilitate bedtime crocheting," Rachniz said, smiling warmly. "So many of our customers told us their partners complained about being kept awake by the Faelights while they crocheted in bed that we commissioned someone to design these for us."
"They're beautiful," Nesta said mournfully. She turned away from the display with a single, plain crochet hook of hand-turned teak.
Perhaps it was denying herself the honey-coloured hooks. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she could do what she liked with the wages she had been paid, with no-one else relying on her income. Perhaps it was neither of those things, but on her way to the polished counter to pay for her hook and yarn, Nesta diverted to one of the displays that had drawn her eye almost immediately upon entering the shop. An exquisite shawl had been worked up with floaty gossamer yarn that had been disproportionately warm to its weight when she had touched it. The shawl was a beautiful pattern, with tiny beads shimmering on an exquisite border, and in the back of her mind she thought how delicious it would be, to not only work with that exquisite yarn but to be able to wear the finished shawl, to keep the chill at bay when she was away from the ovens or the hearth in the library.
On impulse, Nesta bought the expensive yarn.
She stood at the polished counter, stroking one of the hank of palest verdigris yarn and trying not to feel queasy at the money she had just spent, when she noticed the signs and leaflets arranged on the countertop.
"What are these?" she asked.
"Ah," Rachniz smiled. "This is our schedule of workshops, classes and drop-in evenings."
"Drop-in evenings?"
"Oh, they're very popular," Rachniz smiled. "For one evening every week, we keep the emporium open late. We provide beverages and one of the neighbouring cafés provides us with treats. People from all over the city come with their crafts, to work on projects or be inspired, or have help with tricky patterns."
"And all of these?"
"These are various crochet-along projects, knitting kits and monthly subscription services that deliver yarn every month – on a theme, with patterns and all sorts," Rachniz said, smiling.
"What sort of themes?" Nesta asked curiously. Rachniz told her and seemed to understand that they meant absolutely nothing to Nesta, whose heart sank at how little she knew of Fae culture – even and especially the everyday things Fae took for granted, that were ingrained in their culture.
"And that?" Nesta asked, pointing delicately to a small sign. "Are you looking for pattern testers?"
"Always," Rachniz said. "The Arachnaie are fabulous spinners by nature but unfortunately we fall short when it comes to such crafts as crochet and knitting." She raised one of her long legs and Nesta realised that she had no fingers – only paw-like pads covered in fine hair and a single sharp claw. "The Guild commissions designers to create patterns for us: in turn, we send out their patterns to be tested before we sell them to the public. Of course, we also work with independent designers and encourage them to contribute to the library of pattern-books."
"What are the criteria for becoming a pattern-tester?" Nesta asked.
"There are very few," Rachniz said. "You must be able to commit to completing a pattern by a strict deadline and be able to provide detailed written notes about the process. We provide the necessary yarn and pay our pattern-testers for each completed project, which you also get to keep."
"I suppose you would need more than just one hook," Nesta sighed.
"Not necessarily," Rachniz said thoughtfully. "Not everyone's finances can allow for the luxury of entire collections of hooks. It would make a good exercise, in fact, to see just how many patterns may be completed using only one hook size – or how easily adapted patterns may be… Are you interested in becoming a pattern-tester?"
"To be paid to crochet and provide my honest critiques?" Nesta said, raising an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't I play to my strengths?" Rachniz laughed, and it was a soft, lovely sound. Rachniz signed Nesta up as a pattern-tester, making special note that only patterns using a certain hook-size should be sent to her. The more time Nesta spent with Rachniz, the less unnerved she was by her appearance: she noticed less the eight eyes and wiry legs and more the warmth in Rachniz's voice and how gentle she was. In fact, Nesta felt at ease in her company despite her appearance. It made her curious about the drop-in evenings held here at the emporium, and what kind of warm, welcoming atmosphere it must have if Rachniz was involved. The idea of an evening spent crocheting and drinking tea with other people who enjoyed some of the same things as she did sounded lovely.
Armed with her shopping-bags, Nesta left the emporium, only stopping a half-dozen times to admire something new she hadn't spotted her first time around the displays. Rather than risk attempting to send her yarn to the palace by magic, Nesta held on to her purchases. She felt far less guilty about purchasing the exquisite yarn for the shawl now that she had signed on as a commissioned pattern-tester for the emporium. Even if Tamlin stopped paying her a wage, she had something else she could turn to.
That thought alone filled her with a sense of calm.
She had told Tamlin that she would go to a couturier and commission a dress. The female tailor had given Nesta the names of several couturiers and she visited a few of them, frowning at the displays. She was about to enter one couturier, situated between a bakery and a tea-shop, when her nose twitched, all her senses honed on one particular scent amidst thousands of others. She might have missed it, didn't know how she had picked it out amidst all the other scents – or why the scent filled her with deep suspicion and an irrational anger.
On an impulse, driven by curiosity – why did she feel so suspicious, so furious? – she followed the scent. She let it into her lungs, let it suffuse her body, and followed it like a bloodhound through the Atelier to a sophisticated shopfront. She didn't even look at the display before striding into the shop.
Inside, an elegant female swept her long sheet of chestnut hair back as she reached up to neaten a display of bottles. At the soft chime of a bell, the female glanced around. A smile alighted her beautiful face.
"Good afternoon," she said softly. An aura of warmth and tranquillity drifted from her but Nesta stopped short. The scent was stronger now and coming directly from her. She didn't know why she had such a fierce reaction to it – she had never seen this female before, didn't believe she had ever even scented her before. But she had scented something similar – and had no idea where. Then she realised what the female was wearing – billowing silk trousers high on the waist, gathered at the ankle and a glittering, form-fitting top that left her toned midriff and arms bare, with a gauzy, glittering shawl draped around her. It reminded Nesta all too vividly of the Hewn City females' preferred fashions. This Fae was fair-skinned, slender and elegant, with the elegantly pointed ears of the Fae but mesmerising hazel eyes that had the most peculiar pupils. If Rachniz's eyes had been wholly black like a spider, this female's pupils were ever so subtly slitted, like a cat's. "May I help you?"
"What are you?" Nesta demanded fiercely. She blinked, stunned at the rage boiling her blood, as the other female arched a neatly-groomed eyebrow. Nesta gasped, "I apologise. That was incredibly rude of me. I – I caught your scent and believed I recognised it. I was mistaken. I apologise."
The female looked surprised. She tilted her head thoughtfully, unperturbed. "How curious. I make an effort to mask my scent: it creates more problems than I care to deal with. I am intrigued how you could pick it out amidst the chaos of the Atelier."
"A fluke, I assure you," Nesta said. "I cannot control my senses. I do not know this body…" She flushed hotly, cringing with shame – yet it was true. The female stared at Nesta for a moment.
"My name is Galit," she said, her voice rich and spicy like hot chocolate spiked with whisky. "This is my establishment. Would you care for some tea?"
"I – " Nesta blinked, taken aback. Galit smiled coaxingly.
"I could see that you were flustered when you entered here," Galit said gently. "Your scent was chaotic."
Frowning, Nesta paused. She didn't know what Galit meant. To give herself time to respond, she gazed around. Wished she hadn't, as her cheeks flushed, her heart hammering in her chest. Beautifully panelled with polished pale-gold wood, one of the walls was covered with shelves laden with bottles of every size and shape and containing liquids of every colour. There were bars of what looked like soap, bottles of oils and jars of shimmering beads, incense-sticks and bars of chocolate, many-sided die and… She flushed and averted her eyes to the opposing wall, which was dominated by bookcases. In between the bookcases, small, intricate paintings had been rendered in soft, neutral hues that did absolutely nothing to stop the flush in Nesta's cheeks. Because they were paintings of different sexual positions – all of them creative, all of which made her think irrationally of Cassian.
He would have tormented her about this for years.
What had she just walked into?
"My neighbours are some of the most gifted crafts-people in the world," Galit said gently, smiling as Nesta fought to hide her shocked expression. "My art-form is…rather different."
"I didn't realise sex was an art-form," Nesta said bluntly, her cheeks flushed despite herself. Galit chuckled.
"Pleasure can be an art-form in and of itself," Galit said calmly. "How our bodies derive it is a skill we sometimes need help to explore if we are to learn. On the shelves, you see a vast array of stimulating potions and lubricants, massage oils and contraceptives. Every Fae can find what they need here to prevent a sudden change in their chosen lifestyle. The bookcases are filled with a library of erotic texts that are highly popular, again, catering to all species of Fae. In the next room are the pleasure-aids… But these are just the practical things that enable me to pay the rent on this property. What I am truly passionate about is promoting emotional health through physical wellness."
She eyed Nesta thoughtfully as she set about making tea at a small table set with two pretty armchairs by a small hearth. The fire was not lit but faelights twinkled on the mantelpiece, which featured several oval erotic paintings and a vase of intoxicating flowers.
"What do you mean?" Nesta asked, rather more sharply and suspiciously than she meant to sound. She was unnerved by the paintings, by the sudden reminder of Cassian, by the scent she could not place.
Galit smiled graciously. "Upstairs, I have a spa. I offer the usual things – beauty treatments, massage, sauna and such. I have just finished renovating new luxurious sensory rooms, which are massively popular. But I also lead workshops in exercise, dance and massage – some erotic but most not."
Unsure what to say, Nesta said honestly, "I didn't know scents could be chaotic."
Galit sat at the hearth and poured the tea – into two cups, though she did not ask Nesta to join her: she waited for Nesta to choose to. The cup of tea was the invitation: Nesta was under no obligation to take it, she understood.
"Our scents translate everything, whether we wish it or not," Galit told her, with a rueful smile. "Rage, fear, desire… I could scent your anger, your confusion."
Still embarrassed by her own rudeness, Nesta said apologetically, "I thought I scented something…"
"I don't mean your anger and confusion about me," Galit said gently. She frowned at Galit, wondering what she meant. "You told me that you do not know this body… How long have you felt like a stranger in your own skin?"
Nesta gulped, her shoulder muscles tightening, her breaths becoming shallower. She didn't need to ask what Galit meant: the Fae was aware something had happened to Nesta that made her feel…how she felt. Often, Nesta didn't know how she felt – beyond rage that this had been done to her.
Galit's eyes flickered and Nesta said, "It has been almost two years."
Galit nodded slowly. Nesta found herself drawn to the second, empty chair and set her bags down with a soft rustle. She tucked her skirts beneath her and sat down, reaching for the tea that sat steaming in a beautiful jade cup for her.
"I had heard that something new and strange had come into the world," Galit said quietly, and Nesta glanced sharply at her. "When I scented you, I knew it was true."
"I… This body is High Fae, like yours," Nesta said, and Galit gazed at her assessingly.
"Your body is High Fae," she said, nodding slowly, "but you were not born to it, as I was mine." Nesta sipped her tea, glad for the scalding sensation that chased away the shallowness of her breathing. The tea soothed as it went down, scalding and invigorating. Galit said gently, "I know my body. I know it intimately: there is nothing I am more comfortable in than my own skin."
Nesta clenched her teeth to stop herself from sniping something rude. Galit smiled, as if she knew it. The smile faded, though. "I do not understand my body."
Galit sipped her tea, gazing thoughtfully at Nesta all the while. She set her teacup down and asked gently, "Do you pleasure yourself?" Nesta flushed, shocked. Galit smiled softly. "You are safe to speak freely here. There is nothing you can say that I will ever judge."
Curtly, Nesta answered, "No."
Galit tilted her head thoughtfully. "What is it that discourages you?"
"I never have," Nesta admitted. Galit waited, and, uncertain why, Nesta started to speak. She told Galit that she had come into adolescence just as her mother died, and that her family's loss of fortune meant she had to share a bed with two younger sisters. After, there had been few opportunities for her to explore her sexuality. And once she was able, once she had her own bedchamber, she found herself always on edge, afraid someone would come barging in, or that she would be heard – and because she…she didn't know what to do.
Galit drank her tea and sighed thoughtfully.
"I work with many people who have experienced different kinds of physical trauma," she said softly. "I wonder if coaxing physical pleasure from your body may be the first step to you embracing this body of yours."
"Why would you think that?" Nesta asked. Galit held her gaze unflinchingly.
"Because thus far, all you have to associate it with is humiliation, pain and loss," she said. Her words were blunt but her tone was gentle. Nesta flushed, not because of what she had said but because of the implication – that Galit knew exactly what Nesta had endured. Because she likely did.
Everyone in Prythian knew what had been done to her.
They were awed by her, terrified of her potential. They never stopped to think of the effect it had had on her.
"I wonder if you'd consider one of my exercise workshops," Galit said thoughtfully. "I developed it specifically to cater to the needs of those who have survived physical trauma, as a means of reclaiming your body and your confidence in a safe space."
"I have no desire to train with weapons," Nesta said sharply, her fingers curling into fists. She could still feel the slickness on her skin, the coppery reek that overwhelmed her senses…
"There are no weapons permitted in my establishment," Galit said calmly. "Anyone who wishes to join my classes must respect that."
"How does that work when some Fae are born armed with weapons?" Nesta asked, genuinely curious. She had been wondering that for ages.
Galit smiled. "There is a code amongst the Fae," she said softly. "Unless you threaten someone's partner or their offspring, or aggress another's territory, we do our best to live and let live. That does not mean, though, that we are unprepared to defend ourselves."
"Is that universal, or only in the Spring Court?"
"It is not unique to the Spring Court but it is certainly not universal," Galit said sadly. "You do not mean to tell me the humans live in perpetual peace?" Nesta scoffed. She didn't know the half of it. Galit's comment reinforced what Nesta had suspected: that Galit knew exactly who she was.
A soft bell chimed and a long-haired, feline male stumped heavily into the shop, grunting a soft greeting. He had rippling arm-muscles bisected by shining gold bands – and even shinier scars. He wore a sword at his hip and Galit clicked her tongue disapprovingly. He paused, rolled his eyes with slight impatience but unbelted his sword, leaving the scabbard in what Nesta had taken for an umbrella-stand just inside the door.
Galit glanced at Nesta and smiled. "If you will excuse me a moment." She greeted the new customer with a kiss on each cheek, murmuring under her breath, "Head on upstairs and get comfortable: I will join you."
Nesta reached for her shopping-bags and stood to leave but Galit returned to her, smiling warmly.
"I do hope you will choose to join us for our workshops," she said earnestly. "Before you go, I have something that I think may help you, if you choose to let it." Nesta waited apprehensively as Galit strolled idly to a shelf across the room. Nesta had rarely seen anyone move so calmly, so elegantly – self-assuredness drifted from her like warmth from candlelight. Galit picked a small bottle off of one shelf and a square tin from another. She went to the polished counter, where she wrapped them both in inconspicuous brown paper and an elegant label, pushing them toward Nesta.
"What are they?" Nesta asked uncertainly.
"The tea is to help you relax," Galit said, smiling warmly. "There is little special in it except that it helps to facilitate restful thoughts. And the potion is a massage oil designed to…guide you to what you need." Galit smiled warmly. "They are my gift to you. If I can do nothing else to help you, I hope they help you on your journey to healing."
Touched by the generosity, even if she was flushed by the implications of what the massage-oil was for, Nesta took the two items and tucked them into one of her shopping-bags. Another Fae appeared to look after the shop while Galit slipped soundlessly up a staircase Nesta hadn't noticed.
She left the shop, a little bewildered, and remembered why she had come out into the Atelier at all. Not for yarn, not to confess to a stranger that she did not know how to pleasure herself, but to order a gown. She returned to her hunt for a couturier whose display did not make her want to gag at the excess, and finally found one with designs slightly less fussy than the others she had seen, though she could tell by the trimmings and by the exquisite stitching itself that the designer was of higher quality – and cost – than many of the others. Even the least of the couturiers in the Atelier put human fashion houses to shame.
Nesta entered the shop, her eyes gliding over the elegantly-dressed customers sipping sparkling wine as they were waited on by pretty High Fae females. Her nose twitched at the scent of their mingled perfumes and she meandered about the airy space, examining each of the one-of-a-kind gowns on display. They were examples of the designers' style, their technique and a display of the quality of textiles and trimmings they had access to. It was nothing Nesta had not seen in fashion houses after they had regained wealth and she had been able to design her wardrobe for others to make. But she found the Fae styles too fussy, too overly decorated. She preferred simple ornamentation and clean silhouettes that drew attention to exquisite fabrics and the tailoring. Nothing about the Fae fashions she had seen in the Atelier suggested the High Fae knew anything about restraint when it came to matters of fashion.
"Do you need directions?" Nesta's shoulders knotted at the tone of the high female voice. Icy. She turned and saw a well-dressed High Fae female staring coolly at her: beside her were two other High Fae females. One was unable to hide her sneer: the other looked wary. Not of Nesta, she realised, but of the female reluctantly approaching Nesta as if she was drakosha dung.
Nesta narrowed her eyes and drew her shoulders back, instantly assessing. There were several ways she could play this. She chose to bait a trap.
"My…friend has generously offered to gift me a new gown," she said lightly, casting her eyes over a froth of rose-pink organza.
"A kind gesture. But I am afraid you are in the wrong place."
"Is this not a couturier?" Nesta asked coolly.
"This workshop is renowned across the world for its couture," said the Fae waspishly, sneering at Nesta. "I am afraid that we have nothing here that could suit you. I would suggest you look somewhere closer to the waterfront."
Nesta narrowed her eyes at the Fae. She may not know Fae culture or the intricacies of Fioren-Daara's geography, but even she understood the tone with which the female had spoken: that being close to the waterfront implied lower quality. Implied cheapness – implied that Nesta, in her homemade woollen kirtle, was poor.
She thought of Rachniz, unnerving to behold but gentle and accommodating by nature, and thought this female could learn a few things from Nesta about looking beyond appearances.
"Nesta?" The soft, low voice made a smirk twitch to her lips. What timing! The Fae female's entire demeanour shifted instantaneously, shock radiating from her. Beyond her, the wary-looking female gaped openly. Tamlin looked as if he had been following his nose, scenting her, and smiled with relief when he finally laid eyes on her.
"Are you all finished?" Nesta asked Tamlin, who nodded with relief.
"Thankfully," he answered, sidling up to her. Around them, the customers seemed to have realised who stood amongst them: whispers and gasps filled the air, a stillness and a tension that should not have tasted quite so delicious to Nesta. "Have you ordered your gown?"
Nesta raised her chin and levelled a look at the other female, a smirk full of chilling triumph. Absolute horror seemed to be dawning on her, realising just how grave an error she had made in being so utterly rude to Nesta. "Unfortunately, this couturier claims to have nothing here that could suit me. Helpfully, I've been advised to search along the waterfront for an alternative."
The female gasped as if she had just been struck. Tamlin went still, lethal as any predator, but his eyes rested on Nesta's face. Assessing whether or not she was upset.
"That's a shame," he said quietly.
"Yes, I thought so," Nesta said lightly. She brushed off the insulting behaviour of the Fae female and turned to Tamlin, ignoring the couturiers and their patrons completely. "Shall we find that gooseberry tart you mentioned?"
They left the shop. Nesta did not look back.
Sat at a little table in a bright, airy café, a faerie brought over two plates with dreamy pastries as a teapot poured its contents into two elegant teacups.
"Are you sure you're not upset?" Tamlin asked again.
Nesta shrugged it off. "It is always good to know how people treat you when they believe you have nothing to offer them," she said. She sighed, shaking her head. "I was raised to treat the porters and scullery-maids with the same respect as I would any lord or princess."
"Lady Farilla is regretting that she wasn't," Tamlin muttered darkly. His lips twitched in a hint of a smirk.
"She's a lady?" Nesta asked, as the faerie set a plate before her and one before Tamlin. He had chosen a caramelised gooseberry custard tart: she had ordered a slice of semolina cake baked with a creamy filling and decorated with chopped pistachios and dried rose-petals.
"Lesser nobility," Tamlin shrugged, "but her designs are popular at court. Were popular."
"You needn't punish her for my sake," Nesta said coolly, though secretly hoping he would.
"It occurred to me while I was being fitted that there are many in the Atelier who have benefited from complacency," Tamlin said thoughtfully. "I don't challenge the way things are, at least not things like fashion."
"You're a soldier," Nesta said, smiling. "Why would you ever think of such things?"
"But I need to," Tamlin said with quiet urgency, frowning to himself. "My courtiers pour money into the Atelier, into the pockets of people who take it for granted that they have wealthy patrons. That in itself creates problems: how are new talents to emerge? How are we to evolve without challenge?" Nesta smiled to herself as she picked up a forkful of cake. It was light and delicately flavoured, and the creamy filling had a delicious tang. She had left Tamlin at his tailor's, not thinking he had been ruminating the entire time about what she had said to him about challenging the way things were – that adaptation was the key to survival.
"Well, that still leaves us with a problem," Nesta sighed, and Tamlin frowned. "I still don't have a dress."
"Did you look at any of the other couturiers?" Tamlin asked.
"They were all so fussy," Nesta said, crinkling her nose. She glanced thoughtfully at Tamlin. "I'd rather prefer going to the waterfront – "
"You know she was insulting you –"
"Still," Nesta said, "I'd rather find a talent on the waterfront and provide them an opportunity than line the pockets of designers like Lady Farilla."
Tamlin shrugged. He glanced under the table at the paper bags he had carried for her. "What did you buy?"
"A crochet-hook," Nesta told him, "and some yarn." He reached into the bags and examined the twisted hanks of yarn.
"What are these?" he asked, and Nesta went still as he lifted out the bottle Galit had wrapped and gifted her. He read the label on the bottle. His eyes glinted like emerald embers. "I see… You found something to tickle your fancy."
"Tamlin."
A.N.: A loooong chapter, I know. I didn't want to break it up, though. I wanted to introduce Galit, as she'll continue to be important, and Rachniz sort of just happened as I was writing. I also wanted Nesta to have her own Pretty Woman "Big mistake – huge!" moment.