Nora Nilsdotter had a storybook life to begin with. Only it was the sort of storybook where she had to make her fortune as a penniless orphan, pricking her fingers on needles all day and never getting a moment to sleep. Even as she donned her finished creation—a beautiful burgundy ballgown with golden trim—the silk overdress hung off her shoulders in undignified bunches and exposed too much of her white shift. Once again, Nora was too thin. She had worked hard to change her station in life, her fingers still raw from embroidering the golden flourishes into the cuffs and fine sleeves of countless ballgowns, but none of the dresses she made ever fit her.
Luckily, she still had full use of her imagination. Staring deeply into the full-length mirror, Nora pictured what the gown would look like tailored to her size. Her amber hair hanging loose and a very specific pair of ruby dancing slippers to match. She’d walk the grand ballroom, her head held high. Then, perhaps a wealthy gentleman would ask her for a dance. Perhaps more than one, and she would modestly dither while they argued over her scarred and calloused hand.
Wouldn’t that be grand?
She giggled and spun again, the long skirts swishing around her ankles. She savored the feeling for another moment before . . . the door to the private sitting room sprung open.
She let out an involuntary gasp and took a small jump to hide herself behind the settee, though she knew it was useless.
She knew she was caught.
A broad-shouldered young man wearing a guardsman uniform marched in, but Nora didn’t recognize him. He must be new. After all, she made it a habit of remembering the younger, more attractive guards—the kind who might make even the most determined rule-follower glad to be detained and even lightly scolded if only to have a bit of their attention.
He blinked at her, and she waited for condemnation to fill his soft brown eyes. Would he think she was in here without permission? Would he think she was wasting time, along with dressing above her station? Instead, he grinned, a dimple transforming his chiseled face to something more familiar. “Nora?”
Nora gave the guard another startled look, and a burst of joy filled her chest. “Jarl? When did you join the guard?” she asked, forgetting to be embarrassed as she took a step forward into the settee. She hadn’t seen the washwoman’s son in over four years, not since she left home. He was taller, broader in the shoulders, and even his hair had darkened—like throwing a waterpot over a pile of brown sand. Her own too-thin figure hadn’t ripened half so well.
At once, it seemed all the years and even the voluminous fabric around her had melted away. She ran in for a hug, which he quickly returned, allowing her to fully appreciate how much his arms had grown. He lifted her from the floor for a moment, and then he straightened up, showing off the cut of his leather jerkin. He bore the royal crest of the swan near his breast.
“I just finished my training last month.”
“That’s wonderful!” Nora cried in response, unable to help her enthusiasm. She and Jarl had attended the same old abbey closest to their village to learn their letters together, and sometimes they’d made a game of hunting the streets for discarded thread or scraps of fabric to support their parents’ work. They’d also talked about their futures; she remembered how much her friend had admired the royal guard, and the salary would be more than enough to support his mother in her old age.
And now he was here in the castle with Nora. This was just as perfect as perfect could be.
She laughed. “I guess all those weekends stick pulling and lifting hay barrels with the other village boys finally paid off.”
He ducked his head in a boyish way that belied his matured figure. “Well, there wasn’t much else to do . . . What, after my best friend in all the kingdoms left me without a word.”
Nora faltered back a step, and her cheeks burned. “I’m sorry,” she said, though she had trouble forming words out of all the emotions warring inside her chest.
Nora had left their village as a girl of fourteen—telling everyone at the castle that she was fifteen so that she could be hired as a stitch-girl without her stepmother’s consent. She had been so upset after her father died, so angry with her stepmother, she barely spared a moment to think of Jarl at all before leaving, and it really was a shame. He had been a good friend to her as a child, and his growth into manhood was nothing short of miraculous.
Then came another niggling thought—that a castle guard could not only afford to send a penny home to his mother but perhaps grow to support a wife and children as well.
But that was just ridiculous. She hadn’t seen Jarl in years; his heart could already belong to someone else, and she still hadn’t explained why she had left their village behind.
She still didn’t know how to explain.
He shrugged. “Well, I knew you wouldn’t stay in our old village forever. You never followed anyone else’s pattern but your own and had a story much grander than the rest of us.”
Nora took a breath. She loved reading the old matron tales and planning her own fanciful adventures when she was young, but it had been so long since anyone had said such a grand thing about her—not since her father had died.
“So, what brings you to the castle?” Jarl asked in her silence. He consulted a checklist he had pulled from his pocket as if to remind himself of his original purpose in coming into the room. “They sent me up here to gather all the young maids and stitch-girls for Lady Eva to see, but you can’t be one of them, dressed up like that.”
Couldn’t she?
Nora looked down at the much-too-large dress nearly falling off her shoulders with all of her sudden movements. Had he really not noticed how poorly it fit her? Men. They never noticed the most important things. Now she would have to correct the mistake.
Though she really didn’t want to. Here was her friend, a guard. He had achieved his dream, and she wanted so desperately to say she had achieved hers as well.
“I do . . . business with the castle,” she said. “And this dress is my own work.” Or at least she had worked on it more than anyone else, using the designer’s pattern as instructed but also adding more details to the seams—more to entertain herself as such details were rarely so closely examined.
He smiled. “You’re a seamstress? Or a designer? I knew it.”
Nora kept her mouth tight. She hadn’t lied. She really hadn’t. And as long as she kept her mouth shut, it might stay that way for another few moments.
“I’m proud of you, Nora,” Jarl said, putting his list away. “You’re a real lady now. I’d love to spend some time catching up more . . .” He looked behind him like they might be discovered. “I have to get back to my duties, but maybe I’ll see you later?” He bobbed his head and walked into the hall before she could form a real answer.
Nora’s shoulders drooped. The overdress fell farther down her arms, the skirts gathering at her ankles. Someday, she would have to tell him the truth. If he worked at the castle, there would be no way to avoid it. But it had been so nice to be “Lady Nora” in his presence, if only for a moment. Far better than pretending with the mirror alone.
Now the moment was gone.
She took off the ill-fitting ballgown so she could find her proper uniform, folding up the finished garment for Lady Eva to find in her bedchamber later. As Jarl had said, her mistress had summoned all her young maids and stitch-girls, and Nora would have to lay off dreaming and answer her call.
Comments