Arc 2 – Chapter 4 – The False Prophet / The Bill Comes Due

Chapter 4

The False Prophet / The Bill Comes Due

            The seamstress's shop is only a few streets away, but by the time we reach it, I have been recognized four more times.  Two people simply bow and at first, I think it was to Angus, but then I realized they are looking at me.  One calls me by the proper address and tells me it is an honor to see me, and the fourth mutters ‘Herald' as we pass, openly staring at me.  The last one I pretend not to hear.

            The bell above the shop door rings when Angus opens it for me.

            I step inside and immediately breathe easier.

            The shop smells faintly of lavender and whatever starch they use to keep half the displayed dresses looking as though gravity has politely agreed not to bother them.  Bolts of fabric line one wall.  Several finished gowns occupy dress forms near the windows, while another section contains clothing considerably more practical than anything Mother would willingly allow me to wear to court.

            A tall woman with a warm smile emerges from behind the curtain that leads into the back.

            “Lady Beira!” she says, and her smile widens when she notices Angus.

            “Your Highness.”

            She drops into a brief curtsey.

            “Good morning, Mistress...” I hesitate as Beira.exe stops functioning.

            Her smile doesn't move.

            Oh no.  I know that I know her.  I absolutely know her name, I know I do.

            My mind provides me with an extraordinarily detailed memory of this woman arguing with Mother about the amount of embroidery appropriate for a twelve-year-old girl's winter dress, but no name.

            Fuck, why can’t I remember her name, most of my clothes at the estate have come from here.

            Angus leans in and whispers in my ear.

            “Bourgh.”

            Oh! Right.

            “Mrs. Bourgh,” I finally say, and smile apologetically.

            Her eyes narrow slightly for a fraction of a second, almost too fast to notice, then she clears her throat.

            “Your mother sent word that you would be coming by,” Mrs. Bourgh says.  “She was quite specific.”

            “Of course she was,” I reply.

            Mrs. Bourgh's smile becomes sympathetic.

            “Nothing too troublesome today, My Lady,” she says. “There are three dresses I need you to try on so that I can make the final adjustments, and I need updated measurements for two new dresses that your mother commissioned.”

            “That's it?” I ask, surprised there isn’t more to it.

            “That is it,” she confirms.

            “This is going suspiciously well,” I tell Angus.

            “Would you prefer something go wrong?” he asks with a laugh.

            I shake my head.

            “Then perhaps don't challenge the universe.”

            “That is remarkably good advice coming from you,” I reply.

            Mrs. Bourgh gestures toward the fitting area that is partitioned off with curtains in the back.

            “If you would come with me, My Lady,” she says.

            I release Angus's arm.

            “Stay,” I instruct him.

            “I had planned to,” he says, using that smile that he knows makes my knees weak.

            “G-g-good,” I manage to stammer out as heat rises to my face. 

            He laughs and then asks slyly, “Do you require protection from the seamstress?”

            I nod, afraid my voice would betray me.  One thing that has improved drastically since the night I became one is my stutter.  For the most part it is gone, but that legacy of Michelle still manages to show itself from time to time.

            “I'm afraid His Highness cannot save you from pins,” Mrs. Bourgh says with a laugh.

            “Then what good is he?” I ask.

            “I frequently ask myself the same question,” Angus says dryly.

            I stick my tongue out at him, causing Mrs. Bourgh to stare in scandalous disbelief.

            Mary sighs loudly.

            “Right. Future princess,” I say resuming my dignified act.

            “That was extremely regal,” Angus tells me.

            “I liked you better today before breakfast.”

            “You hadn't seen me before breakfast.”

            “Exactly,” I say with a curt nod and walk through the curtain before he can answer.

***

            The first fitting isn't terrible, but the second is.  Not because anything hurts.  Because standing perfectly still while someone adjusts the waist and hem of a dress is apparently a form of torture designed specifically for people who would rather be doing literally anything else.

            “Arms up, My Lady.”

            I raise my arms and Mrs. Bourgh adjusts something at my side.

            “You've grown nearly an inch,” Mrs. Bourgh says. “And filled out a little.”

            “Yes. I noticed.”

            Mrs. Bourgh moves behind me.

            “It suits you,” she says.

            “Growing?” I ask.

            “Your figure,” she replies.

            “Oh.”

            I am still occasionally caught off guard by conversations like this, not because they make me uncomfortable.  Quite the opposite.  There was a time when hearing someone casually comment on my developing figure would have triggered an emotional crisis for reasons I couldn't explain to anyone.

            Now?

            I look at myself in the mirror and the girl looking back is sixteen.  Not a frightened fifteen-year-old being hunted through a hedge maze.  Not Michael.  Not even Michelle as she appeared in Damian's realm.

            Just Beira, just me.

            I smile softly.

            “Yes,” I say quietly. “I think it does.”

            Mrs. Bourgh meets my eyes through the mirror and smiles.  Then someone shouts outside and my smile vanishes.

            The words are muffled by the glass and I can't make them out. Then comes another voice, a voice that is much louder.

            “False prophet!” the voice booms.

            Apparently, the universe heard me telling Angus the morning was going suspiciously well.

            Mrs. Bourgh's hands stop at my waist where she had been placing pins.

            Mary sticks her head out of the curtain to look toward the front of the shop and for several seconds, nobody says anything.  Then another voice carries through the glass.

            “Damian has no need of a spoiled noble brat!” the rough voice screams.

            I close my eyes, feeling a headache coming on.

            “Can we pretend we didn't hear that?” I say, really not wanting to deal with this today.

            “No,” Mary says.

            “Why not?” I ask.

            “Because His Highness certainly did,” she explains.

            I open my eyes and Mary opens the curtain enough for me to see toward the front of the store.

            Angus is no longer sitting where I left him.

            “Oh, shit,” I say. “That’s not good.”

            “Language, My Lady,” Mary says.

            “Not now, Mary,” I say.

            I gather the front of the dress and Mrs. Bourgh immediately catches my wrist.

            “Absolutely not,” she warns.

            “There is someone outside shouting at my fiancé,” I tell her.

            “There are six pins in this dress.”

            “Take them out.”

            We stare at each other, waiting for the other to cave.

            I win.

            “Quickly,” I command.

            Mrs. Bourgh begins removing pins as another shout comes from outside.  This one is followed by several voices answering at once.

            “What are they saying?” I ask Mary.

            She moves closer to the window.

            “I cannot make it out, My Lady,” she tells me.

            Mrs. Bourgh removes the final pin.

            “Done,” she says.

            I am behind the changing screen before she finishes the word and with Mary's help, I get back into my green dress in what might be a new personal record.  I barely wait for her to finish fastening it before heading for the curtain.

            “My hair,” I say pausing at the curtain.

            “Is fine,” she replies.

            “Good.”

            I step into the front of the shop to find Angus is standing at the window as are two of the guards.

            “You didn't go outside?” I ask.

            He looks over his shoulder at me.

            “Were you expecting me to?”

            “Yes,” I say.

            “Why?”

            “Because someone insulted me, your fiancée,” I point out.

            “I've heard people insult you before,” he says.  “I can keep my temper in check.”

            “That's surprisingly mature of you,” I tell him.

            He turns back toward the window.

            “I was waiting for you,” he explains.

            I walk over and look outside.

            There are perhaps twenty people gathered across the street, maybe more.  Thankfully, most aren't participating, they're just watching.  At the center of it all stands a thin man in a worn brown coat, perhaps somewhere in his forties.  His face is red; whether from anger or the effort of shouting, I can't tell.  Opposite him are three people who appear considerably more offended than I am.  One is an older woman, another is a young man wearing a small golden sun around his neck, and the third…

            Oh, no.

            I recognize her, it’s the woman with the apples.

            “You have no right to speak of her that way!” she shouts.

            “Why? Because some lord's daughter grew fancy hair?” the man yells, throwing his arms wide.

            I instinctively touch the golden half of my hair.

            Rude.  It’s not like I asked for this.

            “The god himself descended for her!” the young man screams.

            “So the nobles say!” the older man replies, spittle flying from his mouth as he yells. “You weren’t there to see it, were you?”

            Okay, that's actually a better argument than I expected.  It’s not a good argument, but better than I expected.

            The young man steps forward, brandishing the golden sun.

            “You blaspheme against Lord Damian,” he cries.

            “I blaspheme against a girl pretending to speak for him!”

            “I don't do that,” I mutter.

            Angus glances at me.

            “I have never once claimed to speak for Damian,” I tell him.

            He simply nods in acknowledgement.

            “Someone should tell him,” I say.

            “I suspect telling him anything at the moment would be difficult,” he points out.

            Outside, the argument gets louder between the two men, then the apple woman points toward the shop and tells them, “She refused even to accept our reverence! She told me herself she had no authority to offer a blessing!”

            The older man stares at her in disbelief, his mouth agape.

            “See?” I say. “She listened.”

            Then the woman continues, “Such humility is proof enough of her divine favor!”

            I fight the urge to find a brick wall to put my head through.

            Outside, the heckler laughs and replies, “Listen to yourself! She denies it and somehow that proves it?”

            “Yes!” the woman answers.

            The man looks momentarily stunned and I actually sympathize with him on this.  The argument might almost be funny if the young man with the sun weren't becoming increasingly angry.  His hands are clenched at his sides and the older woman beside him is shouting something I can't make out.

            “Your Highness, My Lady, I recommend remaining inside until the street clears,” says one of our guards as he steps closer, Jackson was his name, I believe.

            “Agreed,” Angus says.

            I stare at him in betrayal.  I open my mouth to respond but Angus cuts me off before I can speak.

            “No,” he says plainly.

            “You don't even know what I was going to say.”

            “You were going to suggest going outside,” he tells me.

            Nailed it in one.

            “I was going to suggest that we ask them to stop,” I reply.

            “From outside.”

            “Well, duh,” I reply, then realize what exactly I had said with annoyance. 

            “No,” he says again, firmly shaking his head.  Since the merge of my two halves, Earth slang has had a habit of slipping out before I can stop it so Angus has learned most of it by now.

            “They're arguing about me,” I point out, folding my arms.

            “Which is precisely why introducing you into the argument is unlikely to improve matters,” he replies, being far too reasonable.

            Outside, the young man suddenly shoves the older one and my frustration grows.  The heckler stumbles backward and the crowd erupts, expecting a fight.

            Oh, come on.

            The older man suddenly lunges forward, striking the young man with a fist and members of the crowd surge forward from both sides.

            The guards by the door tense, but Angus is already moving.

            “Find the city watch,” he tells one of the guards.

            The man nods and immediately leaves through the rear of the shop.

            Outside, two men have managed to pull the heckler away from the young believer while several other men beyond them are throwing punches at each other.  The woman with the apples is still yelling, but I can no longer make out what she is saying.

            This is ridiculous. All of this because I walked down the street.  No, not even that, all of this because someone saw me.  Maybe I should just lock myself in a tower so the world can calm the fuck down.

            I step away from the window and Angus wraps his arms around me.

            “I hate this,” I mumble into his warm chest.

            “I know.”

            “I didn't ask them to call me anything,” I say.  “And I didn't tell anyone Damian chose me.”

            “I know.”

            “I didn't even know that woman existed ten minutes ago, and now she's ready to start a riot because I picked up her apples,” I say, pointing out the ridiculousness of it all.

            I release Angus and pull away, throwing a worried glance toward the crowds clashing outside the window, then look around the room.

            Mrs. Bourgh has wisely retreated behind her counter, but is still maintaining her professional air through it all.

            “And the worst part is the old man outside isn't completely wrong,” I tell Angus.

            “He called you a false prophet,” he says with a frown.

            “I'm not a prophet,” I agree.  “I’ve never claimed to be one.”

            “Which makes the accusation rather meaningless.”

            “Not to him,” I point out.

            I look back toward the window.  The heckler is still shouting, but there are now several men holding both him and the younger man back from one another.  Beyond them, there are still a few people fighting, but not as many as before.  It seems some cooler heads have prevailed and are trying to prevent the situation from getting worse.

            “He sees people practically worshiping someone who keeps telling them not to, and instead of blaming them, he blames me,” I say.  “And to be fair to him, from his perspective, I am the one to blame.  If I didn’t exist, none of this would be happening.”

            Angus's expression hardens but he doesn’t say anything.

            “And they hear me tell them they're wrong and decide it means they're right.” I look at him and ask, “How am I supposed to win?”

            “You can’t,” he replies simply, then pulls me back into his arms.  “You're treating this as though there is an argument you can make that will cause everyone involved to suddenly become reasonable.”

            “There should be,” I mutter.

            “Why?” he asks and I look up at him.

            “Because that's how arguments work,” I inform him.

            He gives me a look.

            “Have you met Catalina Breegar?” he asks me.

            “That is completely different.”

            “Is it?”

            I nod, then reply, “Mostly.”

            His smile is small and humorless.

            “I just want people to leave me out of it,” I say with a sigh.

            “I know.”

            A whistle sounds outside, then another.  Several uniformed men push their way into the crowd. The effect isn't immediate, but the remaining people who were fighting begin to separate.  Eventually the heckler is escorted in one direction, and the young man with the sun is taken in another.  The apple woman, who has stopped shouting at the first sound of the watches whistle, remains exactly where she is, watching the shop.

            Our eyes meet through the window and her expression changes.  She smiles and bows her head in reverence.

            I step away from the front of the shop.

            “I'm done with windows,” I tell Angus.