"We'll see," Eamon grunts. "Now, about that five crowns you owe me."
"The card game in '42," Jellema nods. "I remember."
"Take the bottle," Jellema says, pushing the rest of the brandy toward him. "It's worth ten. Consider the debt paid."
"Accepted."
Eamon sinks deeper into the chair. The energy from the brandy is fading, replaced by the heavy, irresistible pull of the final sleep.
"Hedde?"
"I'm here."
"The northern pass," Eamon whispers, his eyes closing. "Tell Kenric... the deep tunnels under the Silver Peak. They aren't empty. We closed them fifty years ago because the miners heard things. Scratching. Deep down."
Jellema leans forward, his face serious. "What kind of things?"
"The kind that don't like iron," Eamon murmurs. "Tell him to keep the seals tight. And tell him... tell him the girls like lemon cakes."
"I will tell him."
Eamon breathes out. It is a long, slow exhale. His hand relaxes on the armrest.
"Go on, you old fat spider," Eamon mumbles, a ghost of a grin on his face. "Let a man die in peace. And try not to ruin the kingdom before I get cold."
Jellema stands up. He looks at his friend, the last of the old guard. The last man who remembered the world before Oskar ruined it.
"Goodbye, Eamon," Jellema whispers.
He takes the bottle. He extinguishes the candle on the table, leaving only the dying fire to light the room.
He walks out, closing the door softly on an era that has just ended.
Inside the carriage, I open my eyes.
"Víl??" Kenric asks, his hand on my knee. "Are you alright?"
"He is gone," I say softly. "Or he will be, in a moment. He is sleeping."
Kenric looks out the window at the Dower House, retreating into the distance.
"Did he say anything else?"
"He said you should keep the seals tight on the deep tunnels under Silver Peak," I relay. "And that your new daughters like lemon cakes."
Kenric lets out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-sob.
"Lemon cakes and deep tunnels," Kenric shakes his head. "The life of an Earl."
I lean my head on his shoulder. "We will buy all the lemons in Varpua, husband. And as for the tunnels... I have Lantecari. If anything scratches at the door, we will scratch back."
Kenric sighs and settles into the cushions.
"I must take them to Jagger. They are your daughters, now. They cannot arrive at the palace looking like we've dressed them from the charity shop." I inform Kenric.
I watch them from the opposite bench. Sarah is clutching her children as if she expects the carriage floor to open up and swallow them. Elin is staring at her frayed cuffs, trying to hide them inside her sleeves. And Rho… Rho is stroking the velvet of the squabs, humming a low, repetitive note, lost in the fabric's sensation.
They look like what they are: refugees. Poor relations. Victims.
If we ride into Varpua like this, the vultures will circle. They will see Kenric’s "charity cases." They will see weakness.
I tap on the roof.
"Change of plans," I call out to the driver. "Take us to the Merchant Quarter. To Jagger Embla’s."
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Kenric looks at me, surprised. "Víl?, they are exhausted. They need food and rest."
"They do, but even more than that, they need armor, Kenric," I correct him gently, looking at Sarah’s terrified eyes. "Right now, they feel like mice in a world of cats. I cannot turn them into lions overnight, but I can dress them well enough that the cats think twice before scratching."
Jagger Embla is currently pinning a hem on a merchant’s wife who looks like she has eaten too many cream cakes. When the bell rings and our entourage enters, muddy, threadbare, and smelling of the sickroom, he looks up with a sneer that vanishes the instant he sees me.
"Your Highness!" Jagger pushes the merchant’s wife aside, leaving a pin sticking out of her bustle, and rushes forward. "And Lord Kenric. To what do I owe the pleasure? A fashion emergency?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes. A transformation would be more precise, Jagger," I say, stepping aside to reveal the cowering women.
Jagger looks at them. He takes in the darned wool, the grey complexions, the slumped shoulders. He does not recoil. He is an artist, and he sees a blank canvas.
"I see," Jagger murmurs, tapping his lip. "We are doing a 'Cinderella' production?"
"We are doing a coronation," I correct. "These are the nieces of the Earl of Padma. They are Finstaads now. And I want them to look like they own the very air they breathe."
I walk over to a bolt of midnight-blue velvet.
"No pastels, Jagger. No soft pinks or weak yellows. I want deep colors. Jewel tones. Garnet. Sapphire. Emerald. Heavy fabrics that hold their shape."
I look at Sarah.
"She is a widow and a mother. Dress her in iron-grey silk with silver embroidery. Make her look like a fortress that cannot be breached."
I point to Elin.
"She is young, but she is not prey. Put her in deep forest green. High collars. Long sleeves. I want her to look elegant, but dangerous. Like a poisonous flower."
"And the... little one?" Jagger asks, looking at Rho, who is currently rubbing her cheek against a bolt of cashmere.
I walk over to Rho. I touch her shoulder, and she flinches, then relaxes when she sees it's me.
"Do you like that, Rho?" I ask.
"Soft," Rho whispers. "Not scratchy. Uncle Stephen gave me scratchy wool."
My blood boils, but I keep my voice calm.
"Jagger," I say, turning my eyes on him. "For her... nothing with seams that rub. Nothing that itches. Cashmere. Silk. Fur lining. I want her wrapped in a cloud. But make it look regal. Royal blue."
Jagger is sketching furiously. "It will be expensive, Highness. Rush fees... materials..."
"Kenric," I say, not looking back.
Kenric sighs, but I hear the heavy thud of a purse hitting the counter.
"Just do it, Jagger," Kenric says. "And burn the clothes they are wearing."
Two hours later, we sit in the back of Jagger's shop. The back room of the shop is a whirlwind of activity. Jagger has pulled every assistant he has. They are measuring, draping, and pinning.
I sit on a velvet stool, drinking tea, supervising.
"Chin up, Elin," I command gently. "You are the niece of an Earl. You do not look at your shoes. You look at the horizon."
Elin straightens. Jagger drapes a swath of green velvet over her shoulder. She catches her reflection in the mirror. For the first time, she doesn't look like a poor spinster. She seems like a noblewoman. A spark lights in her eyes.
"Is this... really for me?" Elin whispers.
"It is armor," I tell her. "When you wear this, you stand straighter. When you stand straighter, people step out of your way."
Across the room, Sarah is weeping silently as Jagger fits a structured bodice of slate-grey silk. It hides her thinness, giving her a silhouette of strength.
"I haven't worn silk since before my husband died," Sarah chokes out.
"You will wear it every day now," I promise. "The time for mourning is done, Sarah. Now is the time for living."
But the true transformation is Rho.
Jagger has found a ready-made traveling cloak of softest blue wool, lined with white rabbit fur. He wraps it around her.
Rho pulls it tight. She buries her face in the fur. She starts to rock, but it is a happy rocking.
"I look like a princess," Rho says, looking at me. "Like you."
"Better than me," I smile. "You look like a Finstaad."
I stand up.
"Pack everything else," I order Jagger. "Wardrobes for all of them. Nightgowns, day dresses, riding habits. Send the bill to the Fey Bank."
"And the shoes?" Jagger asks, holding up a pair of muddy, cracked boots Elin had kicked off.
"Burn them," I say. "New leather for everyone. Soft soles for Rho."
I turn to the women. They are standing there, pinned and draped, but already they look different. The fear is receding, replaced by the armor of dignity.
"When we walk out that door," I tell them, my voice low and fierce, "you do not cower. You are under my protection. You are the family of the Earl of Padma. If anyone looks at you with anything less than total respect... You tell me."
Sarah lifts her chin. She wipes her eyes. She looks like a woman who is ready to fight for her children.
"We are ready, Víl?," Sarah says.
I open the door to the main shop.
Kenric is waiting. He looks up.
He sees Sarah in her grey silk, standing tall. He sees Elin, looking striking in green. And he sees Rho, wrapped in blue wool and fur, smiling a genuine, unburdened smile.
Kenric’s eyes shine. He looks at me.
"You didn't just buy them dresses," he whispers as I take his arm.
"No," I agree, watching Rho spin in a circle, laughing as the fur tickles her chin. "I bought them their pride."
I look at Jagger."We will take the cloaks now. Deliver the rest to the palace."
"It will be my pleasure, Highness," Jagger bows low.
We walk out of the shop. The women do not scurry to the carriage. They walk.
And when a merchant on the street stops to stare, Sarah does not look down. She stares right back until he tips his hat.
"It works," Kenric murmurs.
"Armor," I say, settling back into the carriage seat. "It always works."
This is perhaps one of the most important lessons I have learned from Duchess Ina.
The air in Dobile smells of damp stone, expensive perfume, and the desperate, cloying scent of people trying too hard to be important. It is a sharp contrast to the crisp, metallic tang of the Fey Court or the honest sweat of Varpua’s docks.
Today's notes brought to you by the infamous Fey bard, Ashenleaf Brightnote, Chronicler of Courtly Catastrophes.
Oh ho HO, my dear readers, Chapter 142 did not come to play — it came to slap, strut, and silk?embroider its way into your soul.
Let’s review:
Going out exactly the way a stubborn old wolf should:
- Dropping lore
- Spitting truth
- Throwing shade
- And making sure everyone knows Oskar absolutely ruined the world at least once (accurate)
Honestly, Eamon is the only human in this kingdom who can look death in the eye and say,
"Listen, I’m busy, come back in a minute."
Our noble, honorable, charming man is trying so hard to hold it all together.
Would Oskar be able to do this?
No. Oskar would:
- Forget the nieces' names
- Ask if “deep tunnels” were a kind of dessert
- Accidentally adopt a cave gremlin as a pet
Kenric, meanwhile, is carrying the emotional weight of seven kingdoms and still remembering that Rho likes lemon cakes.
Nothing — NOTHING — hits like the power of Fey-Assisted Confidence.
In one chapter, these women went from:
“Please don’t look at us.” → “Look at us wrong and we’ll end your bloodline.”
Chef’s kiss. Peak transformation arc.
A king among tailors.
A tyrant among fabrics.
The moment he saw them, he said:
"Ah, yes, trauma chic — I can fix that."
This wasn’t just fashion.
This was political armor wrapped in cashmere, velvet, silk, and Fey?infused menace.
Oskar, if he attempted a similar transformation, would return with:
- Two mismatched socks
- A shirt inside out
- And a bill for three cabbages
- Eamon exits the world like a legend
- Deep tunnel lore drops (ominous!)
- The nieces get their dignity reborn in velvet
- Rho becomes a tiny royal stormcloud of softness
- And our Fey Princess buys pride the way other people buy bread
Perfection.
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