Chapter Twenty-Eight

The carriage ride through Bardshire is smooth and sunny. There are tall, colorful shops selling anything imaginable, and the air smells of too many horses. Marigold points out various sites to Lottie and tells her the most salacious stories of the people they pass by.

"That is Lady Covington," she says, pointing to an older woman in a bright orange gown and a very dramatic feathered hat. "She's been married three times, as her husbands kept mysteriously dying."

"She's a killer?"

"We'll never know for sure. But now she's extraordinarily wealthy and enjoying her fourth marriage—this time, with a woman. See?"

Another woman in a bright teal dress comes beside Lady Covington and takes her by the arm. They wear each other proudly as they stroll through the streets.

"They make a beautiful couple. If she is a husband killer, I cannot say I blame her."

Marigold jokingly flicks her fan against Lottie's hand. "Now, Miss Burke. We cannot condone murder."

"But it's so romantic, Miss Claude." She lays the back of her hand against her forehead and pretends to swoon. She exaggerates a breathless voice when she says, "All is fair in love and war. The poets say so."

"I've met enough poets to know that they are all afraid of a real fight." She keeps her eyes peeled for George. He must be around here somewhere, parading his wife.

Shaking her head, she says, "As you can see, this whole place is rife with gossips—"

"Yourself included," Lottie adds.

She giggles and bumps Lottie with her shoulder. "Oh, I haven't gossiped in so long. Allow me to indulge! They make it too easy with their love affairs and gambling debts and the like. But as I was saying, there are many gossips, and word travels fast. We must be careful keeping our tattoos hidden."

"We could bribe the modiste to keep it a secret," Lottie suggests.

"A bribe may only make it more scandalous."

"Well, what do you suggest?"

"I think mine will be easy enough to hide beneath my stay, but for you, we will simply insist that she take your measurements over your dress. She will press us for information, I assure you. Give her nothing."

"What would she do if she saw?" Lottie swallows hard.

"Do not even think of it. She will not see a thing."

The driver stops the carriage and opens the door, helping them descend. The modiste shop is blessedly empty. Madame Genevieve eagerly greets them both at the door.

"Miss Claude, so lovely to see you! My, how long it has been. Where did you run off to?"

"I am here now," she says, dodging her question.

The modiste welcomes them inside. "I have been working on your dress for some time now based on your former measurements. I increased them slightly, per your sister's request, but I am eager to fit it perfectly for you." She turns quickly and pulls the dress out of a pristine protective bag. It is a beautiful shade of dark orange, exactly like that of autumn leaves and peach blossom honey.

"That's lovely." She takes the dress and motions to Lottie. "Madame, this is Miss Burke. She will also require a dress for the wedding, and perhaps another for the evening ahead."

"Splendid! Lovely to meet you, Miss Burke. From where do you hail?"

Lottie looks at Marigold, who gives the slightest shake of her head. "A small town far from here. Most have not heard of it."

Even that is too much information.

"Ah, is that where you met Miss Claude? That is where the two of you are living? A town so small that you will not speak of it?" The modiste smirks, likely thinking of how she will narrativize this tiny tidbit of information to entertain the town. Perhaps something like "The talentless Claude girl has been forced away to a nameless village far away from her family. Oh yes, very sad indeed, but would you not have done the same if you were her parents? The girl never belonged here. They knew that as well as any. I believe they did her a favor."

Lottie stammers as a response. Marigold swoops in and says, "We met some time ago. Pardon me, I must change. Do not speak of anything interesting without me!" she says, a warning to the both of them. In the changing room, she fights to escape her current dress so that she may pull on the new one. It's been so long since she wore anything with such frill. Her favorite dresses now are hardly grander than the chemise she wears underneath. Her gown for the wedding has lace and appliqués and tiny jewels scattered over the whole thing. She cannot reach all the buttons on the back. She emerges and stands on the pedestal in the center of the shop. The gilded oval mirror before her allows her to see every inch of herself, and she is more pleased than she expected. The dress is nearly perfect, with only a small bit of slack in the waist. Madame Genevieve leaves to retrieve her pins while Lottie walks up and starts buttoning the dress, her fingers playfully skimming Marigold's skin.

"What do you think?" she says, looking down at Lottie.

Lottie stares at her all over, her gaze burning. "I think you look perfect." She looks up through her lashes and parts her lips to say something else, but Madame Genevieve returns to her side before Lottie can speak further.

"As for you, Miss Burke," she says as she pins Marigold's dress, "there are limitations as to what I can provide on such short notice. Go and undress quickly so that I may take your measurements and assess what I can offer."

Marigold turns, getting herself poked in the rib with a tiny needle. She yelps before saying, "Shall we save time by simply taking her measurements now with her clothes still on? We are all in quite a rush, are we not?"

"Nonsense. There is always time for proper measurements." Madame Genevieve gestures to the changing room. "Miss Burke, please."

Quickly, Marigold steps off the pedestal and walks to the many dress forms toward the back of the shop. There are a few dresses that should do well to cover Lottie's tattoos—a white one with red appliqué, a solid black one with intricate opaque lace sleeves, and an emerald green gown made of heavy satin.

"Are these complete, Madame? Lottie can choose from these." She motions for Lottie to come to her side and softly explains the details of the gowns.

"She must still be fitted properly," Madame Genevieve calls after a few moments. "I will not have my designs worn incorrectly."

"Of course." She takes Lottie's two choices off the dress forms. The modiste moves swiftly over to help her, ensuring that Marigold does not damage the garments with her lack of delicacy.

Marigold hands the dresses to Lottie. "She may take them into the changing room and try them on, and you can fit them to her form then. Yes?"

Sighing, Madame Genevieve says, "Of course, miss."

The first that Lottie tries on is the emerald green. When she steps out, time stops moving. Her beauty is lethal. She looks to be floating as she moves through the shop and steps up on the pedestal.

She sees herself in the mirror and runs her hand along the fine fabric. Tugging at the sleeves and the collar, she says, "I worry that this is too much."

The modiste hurries over. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's perfect," Marigold interjects before Madame Genevieve gets too defensive. "It hardly requires much alteration. Wear this one to the wedding."

Lottie turns and looks over her shoulder to see the back of the dress in the mirror. "Do you think it will look good next to yours?" She's asking about much more than color coordination. She's asking if she will be left alone at the wedding, or if Marigold will keep her word and stay by her side.

"You will look perfect next to me."

Lottie smiles, relieved. The modiste pins a few places before ushering Lottie back into the changing room to try on the second dress.

"I cannot do much to this dress before the masquerade tonight. If it does not fit, we will have to find a different garment. I have some lovely gowns from the summer season, and they—"

"I am sure that this one will work," Marigold interrupts.

"It is a bit tight," Lottie calls. "I am doing my best."

The modiste turns sharply on her heels and walks toward other gowns, pulling a light blue dress with short puffy sleeves and butterfly appliqués. "Why don't we try this one? It will look perfect with your red hair, Miss Burke."

"That is truly unnecessary," Marigold says, rushing to barricade the entrance to Lottie's changing room. But she is not fast enough. She is a few steps away when Madame Genevieve opens the curtain and reveals Lottie, halfway into the dress, with her chest and shoulders exposed.

Lottie's jaw drops as she wraps her arms around herself.

"Oh, my word!" Madame Genevieve's eyes roam over Lottie's body. Marigold steps in between them and closes the curtain.

"You saw nothing," she says sharply, leaning in close to Madame Genevieve and baring her teeth. "You will alter the dresses and you will say nothing to anyone. Understood?"

Her smirk is devilish. "Oh, but, Miss Claude, I must. I cannot aid in covering a crime."

She steps even closer, puffing up her chest. "Your eyes are playing tricks on you, Madame. It must be your age. You saw nothing but lace decorating her skin."

The modiste narrows her eyes and purses her lips. "I saw a girl with sailor markings whom I have no reason to protect."

Her grimace deepens. "What can we do to change that?"

Madame's smirk widens into a wicked grin. "I do believe I have yet to share with you my amended pricing. The cost of dresses has gone up significantly since you left."

She should have expected no less than blackmail from this woman. "How much?"

"Forty pounds," she says.

Marigold swallows hard. That's twice the amount it should cost for these four dresses.

"Each," she continues.

She gasps. "You are mad."

"That is nothing compared to the fine for such a crime."

She is right, and Marigold is livid with both the modiste and herself. She failed to protect Lottie, and now she must pay the price.

Through gritted teeth, she says, "It seems I have no choice but to accept."

"Excellent. You will pay before you leave, and you may have them picked up in a few hours' time." She extends her open palm. "It has been so lovely doing business with you, Miss Claude."

In any other circumstances, a handmaiden would have been sent to retrieve their dresses. But this time, Marigold goes alone. She walks into the shop silently, holding a slice of fresh honey cake on a small porcelain plate. The honey is peach blossom from her own apiary, along with a few other ingredients that, when combined, create a perfectly vicious spell.

"Miss Claude, I did not expect you. I assure you, you need not worry." She dangles her heavy change purse and drops it onto the counter. "I will respect our arrangement."

"I came to apologize for my behavior earlier," she says. "I brought you a piece of the wedding cake to make amends. It is from the finest patisserie in all of Bardshire."

"Oh, you kind girl. I knew you would come to understand that I was doing you a favor." She takes the cake, and Marigold hands her a small fork.

"Do let me know if you like it. Your opinion is most important."

"Indeed," she says, taking a large bite. She chews for a moment and moans softly. "It is wonderful! And this honey, I have never tasted anything like this! It's so—" Suddenly, she drops the plate and grabs the sides of her head. Her face contorts in pain.

Marigold smiles, feigning innocence. "Are you all right, Madame?"

The modiste groans, stumbling. She braces herself against the counter, where Marigold's dress boxes sit. She looks up slowly. Her eyes are milky white and her expression is dazed.

"Miss Claude…" she says through heavy breathing. "My, I haven't seen you in over a year." The woman blinks rapidly and fans herself. "Forgive me, I seem to be a bit faint. Have you come to be fitted for your sister's wedding?"

Marigold beams. The spell worked perfectly. The woman's memory of the day is destroyed.

"I am here to pick it up, Madame," she says, taking the boxes from the counter. "We spoke of it just now, don't you recall?"

"I…" She looks down at the cake on the floor. "Where did this come from?"

"I am not sure. It was there as I entered. I presumed you had not the time to clean it up."

Confused, the modiste rubs her temples. "My deepest apologies, miss. I must be exhausted from making all these gowns recently."

Madame Genevieve starts toward the back of the shop where a chaise sits against the wall. The woman is truly out of her mind if she cannot manage any prying questions about Marigold's return.

"Not a problem. Now, I must pay you. May I?" she calls, gesturing to the change purse on the counter.

"Oh, yes, it is five pounds," the woman says, lying down on the chaise and resting her hands over her eyes. Her head must be throbbing.

"Perfect," Marigold says, taking back the money that was extorted from her earlier. She is not a thief—she leaves the amount that the dresses should have cost. Everything else is evidence, and she cannot have Madame Genevieve wondering why there is an extra sum in her purse.

"Thank you for your work, Madame. I am off." She steps out the door, poking her head back inside for a moment to say, "Do rest well."