THE FOLLOWING DAY, A luncheon was being held in honor of Charlotte Gong’s engagement. Rune had agreed to attend long before Gideon’s telegram arrived, and therefore needed to make an appearance. The luncheon wasn’t until noon, though, leaving her free to meet Gideon beforehand.
So, early that morning, Rune rode for the capital and told no one where she was going.
After stabling Lady in one of the Old Town stables—garnering several startled looks from the stable hands, who weren’t accustomed to fancy show horses in their stalls—she set out for Prudence Street.
It was shortly after ten o’clock when she found it, and the street was bustling. Smoke plumed from chimneys and the smell of the factory coal fires hung in the air, clashing with the sounds of haggling food sellers. Passing workmen threw curious glances at Rune as she tried her best to stay out of the way. She stared up at the tired-looking tenement buildings, noticing the cracks running through the brown bricks and the facades in need of fresh paint.
The Good Commander had given Thornwood Hall, Cressida’s summer home, to Alex as compensation for killing the youngest Roseblood sister. But Gideon had done far more than Alex in service of the New Republic— leading the revolutionaries into the palace, disposing of Cressida’s two older sisters, devoting his life to hunting down witches. Surely the Commander had offered his Blood Guard captain whatever he wanted, in gratitude. So why did Gideon still live here, of all places?
Rune spotted the number 113 on a street-level door next to a boarded-up shop window. As she approached, raising her fist to knock, the faded letters of the marquee overhead caught her eye.
THE SHARPE DUET: TAILORING AND DRESSMAKING.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Suddenly, the door swung in. Gideon stood in the frame, towering over
her.
Were you born massive? she wondered, staring up at him. Or were you
once as small and fragile as the rest of us?
He wore plain trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Over his shoulders hung a long strip of measuring tape. “You’re late.”
Fashionably late, she thought as he stepped aside, inviting her in.
Instead of leading her up the steps to the apartment above, Gideon led her through a door to the left and into the darkened tailor shop that once belonged to two of the most famous designers in fashion history. Her entire body hummed with anticipation.
Despite her friendship with Alex, she’d never been to the Sharpe’s home before. Nan forbade Rune from ever setting foot in the outer wards. They’re dangerous, dirty, and full of criminals, Nan would say whenever Rune protested. Not for the likes of us.
Inside the shop, boards covered every window, letting in thin cracks of sunlight. As her eyes adjusted to the diminished light, she tried not to gape at the fabrics, the sewing kits, the patterns … all of it lying about as if it were no big deal.
Gideon must have inherited it all from his parents.
But why did he keep it?
Clearly, no one had touched any of this in years.
Sun and Levi Sharpe once stood right where I’m standing, thought Rune, imagining the seamstress and the tailor hunched over the long worktable, sketching ideas late into the night, stitching fabrics until their tired eyes wouldn’t open anymore and they blew out their candles and went to bed.
“This,” said Gideon, standing at a worktable, “is my solution to your problem.”
She stepped up beside him, glancing down at the notebook lying open on the table. An oil lamp burned beside it, illuminating the pages. Her eyes widened, and she leaned in closer.
Someone had drawn her—Rune Winters—on the paper, clothing her in the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen. Tapered lace sleeves. Elegant scooping neckline. Fitted bodice with a subtle, embroidered pattern she couldn’t make out. An A-line skirt trailed several inches behind her.
Rune’s mouth opened. Then closed. Gideon reached down and turned the page, showing her more detailed sketches of each part: sleeves, bodice, lace-up back, even matching silk shoes.
“Is this …”
“What I’m going to make you. For the Luminaries Dinner.” Still, it wouldn’t register.
This was a trick, right?
Her suitors had given her gifts in the past, but they were always flowers or jewelry or carriage rides. Nothing like … this. Not a dress designed for her.
Something fluttered and swooped inside Rune, like a flock of birds taking flight. She tried to bite down on the enormous smile spreading across her face.
“Gideon. Are you sure?” “Entirely. I only need one thing.”
She was prepared to give him anything he wanted for the garment splashed across the pages of that notebook.
“Your measurements.”
“Oh.” Her smile faltered. “Right. Of course.”
The only person who’d ever taken her measurements was her seamstress.
“If you’re not comfortable—”
“No! So comfortable!” She tried to smile, but it wobbled as she thought about what such a thing would entail: stripping down to her underwear in front of Gideon Sharpe. Rune swallowed, going hot all over. If she wanted
the dress, she would have to allow this ruthless witch hunter to get close enough to see her every flaw; to measure the fleshy curves and dips she normally kept hidden—not because she had scars to hide, but because she was … well, shy.
Wait a minute, thought Rune, her eyes narrowing on the notebook’s pages. That’s what this is.
Not a kind gesture. Not a solution to her problem.
He wants to look for my casting scars.
She felt that dark gaze watching her. As her eyes lifted to his, she remembered who she was dealing with. This was no suitor—not really. And the dress design sitting in his sketchbook solved his problem. Not hers.
Or so he thinks.
A genuine smile replaced her wavering one.
Rune had no casting scars. And if he found no scars, he had no reason to continue suspecting her.
Oozing confidence now—this was a game she knew how to play, after all—Rune undid the buttons of her fitted wool jacket and slid it off her shoulders. “Where should we do this?”
For a moment, he hesitated. As if second-guessing his plan. When Rune met his eye, silently daring him to back down, he seemed to find his resolve. With his notebook in hand, Gideon led her to the back of the shop, where a large, folded mirror displayed her reflection in three panels and a measuring block stood in the center of the space.
Thankful that she’d worn nice underwear, Rune undid the buttons of her blouse.
Gideon started to turn around. “If you need—oh.”
Rune was already undressing. His gaze dropped to her lace bralette and remained there for a beat, before quickly shooting back to her face, his cheeks burning with color.
“This okay?” said Rune, trying not to smirk.
He nodded curtly and turned away. Setting the notebook down on a shelf piled with white tulle, he took a long time opening to a blank page.
Rune unlaced her riding boots and took her time wriggling out of her trousers, relishing Gideon’s sudden bashfulness.
“Did you do this a lot, when you assisted your parents?”
As if he sensed that she now stood in nothing but her underwear, he didn’t turn to look at her. Only cleared his throat. “Do what a lot?”
“Take people’s measurements.”
“I only ever took Cressida’s measurements.” This answer seemed to sober him. He dragged the measuring tape from his shoulders and turned to confront her, keeping his eyes on her face. Not letting them lower even an inch. “Ready?”
“Yep.” Rune bounced on the balls of her feet, trying to stave off the chill in the air.
He stepped closer, bringing the lamp with him. “I’ll start at the top and work my way down.”
She knew what he meant, but the way he said it made her imagine him working his way down her in a … less vertical way. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one. Gideon froze, opened his mouth to clarify what he meant, and coughed instead.
He lowered the lamp down to the measuring block, engulfing her in its warm glow—To better see my scars, thought Rune—and started measuring. His hands made quick work of it, telling Rune how practiced he was.
She couldn’t help comparing those hands to his brother’s. Alex had the hands of a musician: wide palms, slender fingers. Elegant and beautiful as a song.
Gideon’s hands were strong and rough and calloused. Hands that could hold a gun as competently as they could haul a witch into a prison cell—or take a girl’s measurements, evidently.
He never fumbled or brushed her skin. As if he were trying very hard not to touch her more than necessary.
To distract them both while he measured her bust, Rune said, “I wish Alex had told me you were an accomplished tailor. If your finished garments look anything like your sketches, I would have employed you years ago.”
“Cress would never have let me work for you.”
The way he said the young queen’s name—Cress, not Cressida—made Rune feel funny.
“She wouldn’t have let me talk to you.” Gideon retreated to write the number in his notebook. “I did serve you and your friends tea once, though you didn’t notice me.” He returned to Rune, looping the tape around the smallest part of her waist this time. “It was at Thornwood Hall, during one of Cress’s parties.”
Unable to recall it, she glanced up to find Gideon’s face mere inches from hers, his attention fixed on the measuring tape. “If you were her tailor, why were you serving tea at her party?”
The tape went slack, but he didn’t move on to the next measurement.
“I was living at Thornwood Hall by then. Cress moved me there from the palace to … better fulfill her needs. The night of that party, I was being punished.” He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “For neglecting my duties.”
Rune frowned harder, about to ask him what he meant, when he cut her
off.
“Hips are next.”
He didn’t want to elaborate, clearly. While the tape encircled Rune’s
hips, pulling her closer into his warmth, she tried to remember it: a younger version of Gideon Sharpe, refilling her cup while she gossiped with her friends.
But she couldn’t remember him, and the guilt of it twisted in her belly.
But why should I remember him?
Her mind wandered back to that nickname. Cress. Was he the only one who called the queen that?
When Gideon left to write Rune’s hip measurement down, she asked, “I didn’t know Cressida very well. What was she like?”
He stayed bent over that book, not writing or answering for a long time. “She was … beautiful,” he finally said. “And alluring.” He seemed half-lost in a dream. “And powerful.”
Rune suddenly remembered the rumors about Cressida and her lowborn lover. Rumors she’d dismissed as silly gossip. She wondered now if there might be some truth to them.
Gideon had said he’d lived at Cressida’s summer home, and he was certainly easy on the eyes.
If dark, brooding, and brutal are your type, she thought with a scowl.
The way Gideon talked about the youngest Roseblood sister was so informal. Not at all like someone who had served her. More like someone who’d known her well.
Or been intimate with her.
Rune shifted. An uncomfortable feeling snaked through her at the thought of him sharing Cressida’s bed. If he’d been a witch queen’s lover, Rune would need to be much more careful. He would pick up on the smallest of cues.
“Are you familiar with the pitcher plants that grow in the island’s bogs?”
Though he’d turned around to face her, there were several paces between them. Rune stood in the lamp’s glow, still in her lace underwear. Gideon was in the shadows outside it, fully clothed. And yet, in this moment, he seemed to be the vulnerable one.
“Those deep purple flowers that trap and eat bugs?” she asked. He nodded.
“Cress was like that: pretty from a distance, tempting you closer. Like a fool, you were happy to approach.” He was staring at the space over Rune’s shoulder, his expression haunted. “It was only after she’d reeled you in that she revealed her true nature. But by then, it was too late.”
He met Rune’s gaze.
“She was already eating you alive.”
