A Kiss in Time (2 page)

Twenty gowns times twenty-five tailors! Five hundred gowns! I grow giddy.

We had best get started, I tell Lady Brooke.

We begin to walk down the stone hallway. The first rooms are on the floor above us, and as
we climb the stairs, Lady Brooke says, May I ask what you will do with the gowns which do
not meet with your approval?

This is a trick question, I know, like all of Lady Brookes questions, designed to prove
that I am a horrid brat. Why care I what Lady Brooke thinks? But I do, for much as I
loathe her, she is my only companion, the closest thing I have to a friend. So I rack my
brain for an acceptable answer. Give them to her? Surely not. The gowns were made to my
exact measurements, and Lady Brooke, who has not been blessed with the gift of beauty, is
an ungainly half a head taller than I, and stout.

Give them to the poor? I say. When she frowns, I think again. Or, better yet, hold an
auction and give the money collected to the poor. For food.

There! That should satisfy the old bat!

And perhaps it does. At least, she is quiet as we enter the first room. Quiet disapproval
is the best I can expect from Lady Brooke.

Dresses line the walls, covering even the windows. Twenty of them, in different fabrics,
different shapes, but every single one of them blue! Was it not communicated to the tailors that my eyes are green? I ask Lady Brooke in a whisper loud enough for the tailor to hear. I want him
to. Of all the stupidity!

He hears. You want-a green dresses? He has an accent of some sort, and when he moves
closer, I see beads of sweat forming upon his forehead. Ew. I certainly hope that he has
refrained from sweating over his work, which would make the fabric smell.

Not all green, I say. But I would not have expected all blue.

Blue, it is the fashion this year, the sweaty tailor says.

I am a princess. I do not follow fashionsI make them.

I am certain one blue dress would be acceptable. Lady Brooke tries to smooth things over
with this peasant whilst glaring at me. Talia, this man has come all the way from Italy.
His designs are the finest in the world.

What? I say, meaning, what does this have to do with me?

I said . . . oh, never mind. Will you not look at the dresses now? Please?

I look. The dresses are all ugly. Or maybe not ugly but boring, with boring ruffles.
Boring, like everything else in my life. Still, I manage to smile so as not to call out
another lecture from Lady Brooke. Lovely, thank you.

You like? He steps in my way. Would not I have said if I liked? But I tell him, I will think upon it. This is the first room I have visited. This seems to satisfy him. At least,
he gets his sweatiness out of my way, and I am allowed to pass to the next room. This room
and indeed the two after it are little better. I find one dress, a pink one, which might
be acceptable for a lesser event like Fridays picnic, some event at which I would not mind
looking like the dessert, but nothing at all to wear on the Most Important Night of My Life. Talia? Lady Brooke says after the third
room. Per-

haps if you gave more than a cursory glance Perhaps if they were not all so hideous! I am
devas- tated and hurt, and Lady Brooke does not understand. How could she? When she was
young, she could go to shops and choose her own clothing, even make it if she liked. I
will never be normal, but barring that, I would like to be abnor-

mal in a lovely green dress without too many frills. Here is a green one, Lady Brooke says
in the next room. I glower at it. The ruffles would reach my nose. This would suit . . . my grandmother. Could the ruffles be removed? Lady Brooke asks the tailor. Could you create a gown that is not entirely hideous?

I add. Talia . . .

it.

It is naught but the truth. Pardonez moi, the tailor says. The frock, I can fix Non, merci, I say, and flounce from the room.

In the next, I spy a lavender velvet with a heart-shaped neckline. I reach to touch the
soft fabric.

Beautiful, is it not? Lady Brooke asks.

I pull my hand back. I am thoroughly sick of Lady Brooke and dresses and my life. I am
certain she despises me as well and, suddenly, the company of even Malvolia herself seems
preferable to that of the detestable Lady Brooke.

Do you have anything better? Talia, you are being terrible. I am being truthful, and I
would thank you to remem-

ber that you are in my fathers service. I know it. Would that it were not the case, for I
am ashamed to be in your presence when you are behaving like a horrible brat.

She says it with a smile. The tailor, too, smiles stupidly. I stare at him. Are there any
gowns which are less likely to make me want to vomit than this one?

The man continues to smile and nod.

He speaks no English, I say. So what care you what I say to him?

I care because I am forced to listen to you. You have grown more and more insolent in
recent weeks. I am ashamed of you. She nods and smiles.

I feel something like tears springing to my eyes. Lady Brooke hates me, even though she is
required to like me. Probably everyone else hates me, too, and merely pretends because of Father. But I hold the tears back. Princesses do not cry.

Then why not leave me alone? I ask, smiling as I was trained. Why does no one ever leave
me be for one single, solitary instant?

My orders Were your orders to yell at me and call me a brat? I begin to pace back and forth like a
caged animal. I am a caged animal. Tomorrow I shall be sixteen. Peasant girls my age are
married with two and three babes, and yet I am not permitted to walk down a hallway within
my own castle without supervision.

The curse You do not even believe in the curse! And yet it has come true, not the spindle part, but
the death. . . . I am living my death, little by little, each day. And when I am sixteen
and the curse ends, I shall be given over to a husband of someone elses choosing, who will
tell me what to do and say and eat and wear for the rest of my life. I can only pray that
it will be short, pray for the blessed independence of the grave. I will always be under
someones orders. I begin to cry, anyway, to sob. What difference does it make? Can I not
simply walk down a hallway on my own?

Through it all, the tailor smiles and nods.

Lady Brookes expression softens. I suppose it would be all right. After all, the tailors
have been thoroughly searched and the spindle regulations explained to them.

Of course they have. I sigh. Lady Brooke turns to the man and speaks to him in French.

Thank you! I sob. I point to the lavender gown and say, in French, It is beautiful! I
shall take that one, and that one as well. I point to a charming scarlet satin with a
neckline off the shoulders in the style of Queen Mary of England, a gown I had purposely
ignored before, which now looks quite fetching.

Very well. Lady Brooke hands me the map. Just point to what you want, and they will put it
aside.

I nod and take the paper from her. I am freeat least for an hour!

F
ree of the encumbrance that is Lady Brooke, I fairly skip down the stone hallways. I would
swing from the chandeliers, could I reach them, but I content myself with jumping up
toward them. My life is no less horrible than before, but at least there is no dour Lady
Brooke to remark upon its horribleness.

In short time, I have chosen five dresses, none blue, but none special enough for my grand
entrance at my birthday ball. Although one is green, it does not match the exact shade of
my eyes.

It will look lovely on you, says the tailor, who is from England.

Of course he thinks so. I know what he is about. Hav- ing his dress worn by a princess on
an occasion of such import will increase his renown. For the rest of his life, he might call himself Tailor to Talia, Princess of Euphrasia. But his apprentice says,
Indeed. It may not be the same shade as your remarkable eyes, but it will bring them out.
The tailor quickly shushes him, lest the boy disgrace them both by speaking so to a
princess. But I turn toward him and smile. He is my age, no more, perhaps the tailors son.
AndI find it difficult not to noticehe is handsome.

For a commoner. His eyes are the color of cornflowers. Do you think so? He looks down,
blushing. I meant no disrespect, Your Highness. But yes. It will look lovely on you, as any dress would.

I wonder what it would be like to be a common girl, who could flirt with such a handsome
tailors apprentice with impunity. Or, better yet, to be the apprentice himself, to be a
boy, so young, yet traveling far from home. And to learn a trade such as making a dress.
In all my life, I have never created anything, never done anything at all other than silly
paintings of flowers for my art master, Signor Maratti. Father hung them in his
bedchamber, where they would be seen by no one. Is it enough to be a princess, when being
a princess means nothing?

I nod and turn reluctantly to the old tailor. I shall wear it tonight for dinner. Many
noblewomen will be in atten- dance, and if they compliment my gown, I will tell them your
name.

I start for the door. The tailor bows, but the boy does not move. He is staring at me,
entranced by my beauty. I get the shiveriest sensation across my arms. Of course he thinks I am beautiful, but I
like that he sees me. I wonder if this is what it will be like when I meet my prince.
Maybe it will not be so bad.

Five more rooms, then ten, and still the dress I desire has not been found. It seems a
small task, certainly one the best tailors in the world should be able to accomplish. And
yet they have not. I sigh. Perhaps I will wear the English tailors dress to the ball after
all.

I reach the end of the hallway. I have never been in this part of the castle before.
Amazing. These rooms have barely been used, but surely a childa normal childwould explore
every room at some time. But I had not been a normal child.

I spy a staircase in the shadows. This is not one of the stairways I am accustomed to
using to reach the fourth floor, and when I check Lady Brookes map, I see that it was not
included. How odd. I am seized with a sudden urge to run up its steps, even slide down the
banister. But that is silly, and if I do that, I will be delayed. And then Lady Brooke
will come looking for me. I turn back down the hall.

Suddenly, I hear a voice.

It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, And a hey nonny no . . . A lover.

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time . . .

A womans voice, singing. Entranced, almost, I start up the stair.

When birds do sing, Hey ding a ding, ding! Sweet lovers love the spring!

At the top of the stairs, there is an open door. I stop. There is no tailor. I knew there
would not be. But instead, there is an old woman sitting upon a bench. I see not what she
is doing, for she is surrounded by dresses, so many dresses, much more than twenty. But
that is not the remarkable thing.

Each and every dress is exactly the same shade of green as my eyes.

Lovely! The cry comes from me unbidden. I run into the room.

Good afternoon, Your Highness. The old woman attempts to rise from her chair with great
effort. She begins to curtsy.

Oh, please dont! I say. She is, after all, very old.

Ah, but I must. You are a princess, and respect must be accorded certain positions. Those
who do not take heed will pay the price. She is almost to the floor, and I wonder how long it will take her to right herself.
Still, I say, Very well. I wish for a secondbut only a secondthat Lady Brooke were here so
that she might see how I follow her directions about not arguing with my elders.

I step back and study the dresses. It seems there is every style and every fabric: satins,
velvets, brocades of all designs, and a lighter fabric I have never seen before, which
will float behind me like a cloud of butterflies.

Finally, the woman rises. Do you like anything?

I had nearly forgotten she was there, so enchanted was I with the gowns.

I sigh. Yes, I like everything! It is all perfect.

She laughs. I am honored that you believe so. For you see, I am from Euphrasia. I have
seen you all your life, Your Highness, and have flattered myself that I knew bet- ter than
any foreigner the designs that would suit my own princess.

Indeed. I try to recall if I have seen her before, perhaps in the crowds at a parade. But
why would I have noticed an old woman who looks much like any other? Only her eyes are
unusual. They are not glazed over with a film of white, like so many very old peoples are.
Instead, they are lively, black and glittering like a crows.

Have you a special favorite? she asks.

This one. I start toward the lightweight dress. I shall rival the fairies in this!

Tis my favorite, too. Do you mind, Your Highness, if I sit back down? I know it is not the correct way, but I am quite old, and my knees are
not what they once were when I was a young woman like yourself, dancing at festivals.

Of course. I am flooded with gratitude toward this stranger who knows what I want, who
understands me as Mother and Father and wretched Lady Brooke do not. I approach the dress.
The old woman has settled back onto her stool and has begun some sort of needlework. There
is a contraption in her hand, something that looks like a top with which children play. It
is nearly covered in wool that has been dyed a deep rose.

What is that? I ask her.

Oh, tis my sewing. I make my own thread. Do you wish to try?

Sewing? I step closer. The contraption is a wooden spike weighted at one end with a whorl
of darker wood. A hook holds the thread in place, and when the thread is finished, it
winds around the stick below the whorl, to be used for sewing. There is a quantity of
unfinished wool at the top. Oh, I should not.

Of course not. I misspoke. Twould be unfitting for a young lady such as yourself to make
dresses. You were born merely to wear them. Humble souls like myself were meant to create.